ng!"

Sylvia turned and eyed Joan.

"My pet lamb," she remarked, "you are all right! Make sure that no one
side-tracks you--give them half, but no more. And, Joan, run along now,
child, and get dinner."

A few days later Sylvia broke into Joan's revery by the smouldering
fire. It was a gray, cold day and Joan's spirits were at low tide.

She had not been successful in any venture as yet, and so vivid was her
imagination, so sincere her determination to play fair, that starvation
and early death seemed the most likely objects on her mental horizon.
She had eliminated Doris and Nancy as life-preservers--they figured only
as blessed memories in a past that was not yet regretted but which was
fast fading into a black present.

"Joan, my darling, suppose you come to the rescue. My model has gone
back on me--let me see you dance! My model had sand bags on her feet
yesterday, anyhow, and my beautiful figure looks as if it had the
beginnings of paralysis."

Joan sprang up. Instantly she was aglow and trembling with delight.

"Here, take this balloon," ordered Sylvia, "it is still gassy enough to
float--it's a bubble, you know."

Through the room Joan floated after the elusive ball. Sylvia watched her
with a light breaking over her own face.

"Great, great!" she cried from her corner, "go it, Joan, you're the real
thing!"

Joan was not listening. What her eyes saw were the figures in the
fountain of the sunken room. She was one of them again--the story was
coming true! It was no longer a golden balloon she was touching,
fondling, reaching for, tossing--it was sparkling water, and birds
seemed singing in the big north studio.

At last it was over. On Sylvia's canvas the figure appeared to have
undergone a marvellous change by a few rapid and bewitched strokes. The
sand-bag impression had been removed--the figure was alive!

"Syl, dear, you are wonderful!"

Joan came and stood close. "What have you done to it?"

"Put you in it. Or," here Sylvia tossed her palette aside and caught
Joan by the shoulders, "you've put yourself in me. I've a line on your
opportunity, Joan, it came to me like a flash of inspiration. I hope you
are game."

"I'm game, all right," Joan returned, quietly. She was thinking of her
next visit to the bank.

"Dress your prettiest, my lamb. Look success from head to foot and then
go to the address I'll give you. I have a friend, Elspeth Gordon, who
is opening a tea room. She may not think you