“I’ve got the world in my grip,” she thought, “but the whirl makes me dizzy.”

Silver River was rushing along rather noisily—­there had been a big storm the night before and the water had not yet calmed down; the rocks shone in the last rays of the sun, and just then Joan looked up at The Rock!

There it was—­The Ship!  Sails set and the western light full upon it.

For a moment Joan gazed, trying to remember the old superstition.  Then her face grew tender.

“Whatever happens,” she murmured, “it shall not happen to Nancy.  I’ve spoiled enough of her plays—­she shall not be hurt now.”

The thought held all the essentials of a prayer and it gave an uplift.

Then Joan turned to her toilet.  Recalling Patricia’s theory about the artistic helps to one’s appearance, she worked fervently with her slim little body and delicate face.

A bit of fluffing and the lovely hair rose like an aura about the smiling face.  The eyes did not seem too large when one smiled—­so Joan practised a smile!  The gowns, one by one, were laid out upon the bed and regarded religiously; finally, one was chosen that Patricia had loved.

“My lamb,” Joan recalled the words and look, “a true artist knows her high marks.  This gown is a revealment of my genius.”

It was a pale blue crepe, silver-touched and graceful; a long, heavy, silver cord held it at the waistline, and the loose, lacy sleeves made the slim arms look very lovely.

“If ever I needed bucking, Pat, dear, I need it now!” whispered Joan, and her eyes dimmed.

She heard the pleasant bustle below; the light laughter, the cheery calls.  She heard Raymond’s voice when he greeted Nancy—­it startled her by its familiarity and its strangeness.

“He sounds as if he were in church,” mused Joan.  She felt as the old do as they re-live their youth.

There was candlelight in the dining room when Joan entered.  The family were all assembled, for Doris had sent for Joan only at the last moment.

“Ken, dear, this is Joan.”

Nancy said it as if she were flouting all the foolish things any one had ever felt about Joan.  Pride, deep affection, rang in her voice.  “This is Joan!”

Joan went slowly, smilingly forward.  She saw Raymond’s knuckles grow white and hard as his hands gripped the back of his chair.  His eyes dilated, and for a moment he could not speak.  Finally he managed: 

“So this—­is Joan!” and went forward to greet her.

“I reckon they will all get this shock,” thought Doris; “what they have thought about the child ought to shame them.  Emily Tweksbury was always a snob.”

Martin, from under his shaggy brows, watched the scene curiously.  He, like everyone else, was, unconsciously, on guard where Nancy was concerned.  This frank surprise was gratifying for Joan, but it placed Nancy, for a moment, to one side.