all
your grandfathers and grandmothers. She was fore-ordained to carry on,
and so was Ken. They'd be done for on paths without signboards. Aunt
Dorrie----"

"Yes, dear."

"I wonder why it was in me to--to well, not to carry on?"

Doris bent and laid her thin, fair cheek against the short, bright hair
again.

"Your way, little girl," she whispered, "was to fly. You had to try
wings."

"Well, I'm a homing pigeon, I reckon." And Joan tossed her short hair
back.

Just then there was the toot of a horn outside.

"Uncle David!" Joan exclaimed, jumping up; "and by the manner of his
toot I get an impression of exhilaration.

"Hello, Uncle Davey!" For Martin was filling the long window with his
big presence.

He smiled on Joan--he did it very naturally these days. The girl was
becoming strangely dear and companionable; then he looked at Doris as he
always did, eagerly, gratefully.

"Jump into your coat and hat," he said to her with a ring in his voice;
"I've just had a telegram. Bud's coming!"

"Oh! David," Doris's face flushed rosily. "And you want me to go with
you to meet him. I _am_ glad."

"Yes," Martin replied. Doris was already on her way from the room. Joan
dropped to the hearth and resumed her rubbing.

So the inevitable was upon her! She must not flinch! She wondered if
this was the last dropped stitch she must take up?

"Want me to go, too, Uncle David?" she asked, keeping her back rigid.

"No," Martin was regarding the straight set shoulders and the pretty
cropped hair. "No! You have too shocking an effect upon young men. They
look as if they had seen you before! They must take you gradually."
Martin laughed and lighted a cigar. He was recalling Raymond's face the
night Joan had first appeared before him.

Joan struggled to keep control of the situation--she suddenly smeared
her face with her sooty fingers and turned with a grimace.

"Am I discovered even in this disguise?" she said. Then:

"Uncle Davey, I believe you have your private opinion of me still."

"I have. I'll tell you now what it is--your face needs washing."

"I mean--really!" the smudges acted as a mask and diverted attention.
"I wager you think girls like me--the me that _was_, the working
girls--are, generally speaking, hounding young men on the matrimonial
trail."

"Not necessarily _that_ trail," Martin was teasing.

"You're all wrong, Uncle Davey, as far as most of them are concerned.
They're young and love a good time