“Yes, thank God, and redeems her father.  Wait until you see the sister.  She was a lovely, distracting imp—­but with a queer twist.  I shouldn’t be surprised a bit if she needs a deal of explaining and excusing.”

But when Nancy’s wonderful news reached Joan in the tiny Chicago home it made her very tender and wistful.

“Think, Pat, of dear little Nan—­going to be married.  Married!”

Patricia, who shared all Joan’s letters, lighted a cigarette and puffed for a moment, looking into the glowing grate, then she quoted eloquently: 

    “There was a little woman,
      So I’ve heard tell,
    Who went to market,
      Her eggs for to sell!”

Joan stared.

“My lamb, for this cause came Nancy and her kind into the world.”

“I don’t understand, Pat.”  Joan’s eyes were shining and misty.

“Well, what on earth would you do with Nancy if you didn’t marry her off?  If she were homely she’d have to fill in chinks in other people’s lives, but with her nice little basket of eggs, good looks, money, not too much wit, and a desire to please, she just naturally is put up for sale and off she goes!”

“Pat, you are vulgar!  Nancy is the finest, sweetest of girls.  She would only marry for love.”

“Sure thing, my lamb.  And she could make love out of—­anything.”

Joan was thinking of Nancy’s capacity for making truth.

“Dear, little, sweet Nan,” she whispered.

“Just the right stuff out of which to make successful marriages.  Who is the collector, Joan?”

“Pat, you make me angry!” Joan really was hurt.

“She doesn’t tell me his name.  She says——­” here Joan referred to the letter; “’I am going to try and keep him until you come and see him.  Joan, he is worth a trip from Chicago.’”

“You are—­going?” asked Patricia.

“Pat—­I am.  Only for a visit, but suddenly I find myself crazy hungry for them all.

“I’ll be back in a couple of weeks; I’ll only lose three lessons and surely, Pat, you’ll forgive me if I desert you for that one glimpse of my darling Nan and her man?”

“I suppose so.  But, Joan, don’t stay long.  I know how the reformed drunkard feels when he’s left to his lonesome.  He doubts his reformation.”

“Pat!” Joan felt the tug of responsibility.

The next night Patricia came home with a bedraggled little dog in her arms.

“Where did you find that, Pat?” Joan paused in her task of getting dinner and fondled the absurd creature.

“Oh! he was browsing along like a lost soul, sniffing to find—­not a scent, I wager he never had one of his own, but a possible one.  Out of all the mob, Joan, he chose me!  He came up, nosed around my feet, and then whined delightedly—­the old fraud!  I picked him up and looked in his eyes—­I know the look, Joan.  He might be my never-had-brother, there is a family resemblance.”