Martin was watching Doris closely.  She had had no return of her March illness; she never spoke of it, nor did he, but for that very reason Martin kept a more rigid guard upon any excitement.  There was that in Doris’s face which, to his trained eye, was significant.  It was as if she had been touched by a passing frost.  She had not withered, but she was changed.  The time of blight might be soon or distant, but the frost had fallen on the woman’s life.

It was when Joan had finished her song that Martin took Doris from the hall.

It happened this way: 

The flower-banked platform was empty until the accompanist—­it was a young professor, this time, not Nancy—­came on.

The audience waited politely; the rows of girlish faces were turned expectantly, and then Joan entered!

Without a trace of self-consciousness she looked at her friends—­they were all her friends—­with that sweet confidence and understanding of the true artist.  The dainty loose gown covered any angle that might have proved unlovely, and Joan was at one of her rarely beautiful moments.

She stood at ease while the first notes were played—­she appeared suddenly detached, and then she sang.

It was an old English ballad, quaint and rollicking: 

      “I’ll sail upon the Dog-star,
    I’ll sail upon the Dog-star,
      And then pursue the morning
    And then pursue, and then pursue the morning.

      “I’ll chase the moon, till it be noon,
    I’ll chase the moon, till it be noon,
      But I’ll make her leave her horning.

      “I’ll climb the frosty mountain,
    I’ll climb the frosty mountain,
      And there I’ll coin the weather.

    “I’ll tear the rainbow from the sky
      And tie both ends together.”

The ringing girlish voice rose high and true and clear.

“Bravo!” cried a man’s voice and then: 

“And she’ll do it, too!”

It was at this point that Martin took Doris from the room.

In the quiet of the deserted piazza Doris looked up at Martin through tears.

“Joan is feeling her oats.”  Martin walked to and fro; he had been more moved by the song than he cared to confess.

“The darling!” Doris whispered.  Then:  “Can’t you see what Miss Phillips meant, Davey?  The child is talented—­she shall never be held back.  Wealth can be as cruel and crippling as poverty.  Be prepared, David, I mean to let Joan—­free.”

Martin came close and sat down.

“Go easy, Doris,” he cautioned, then asked:  “And how about Nancy?”

“David, I’m going to tell Nancy, after we come home from Europe—­not all, of course, but enough to make her understand—­about me!  I cannot quite explain, but I am sure I am right in my decision.  Nancy, indeed all of us, will, sooner or later, have to let Joan go!  I saw that clearly as she sang.  I must fill Nancy’s life and she must make up to me what I am about to lose.  David, is this what mothers feel?”