Presently she heard herself speaking as if a third person were in the room: 

“If this means anything it means that it must be met in the spirit with which Sylvia is meeting it.  She has risked all; is willing to pay the price—­are you?”

“Yes, Aunt Dorrie.”

“You know, darling, that it would be easier for me to lavish everything on you?”

“Yes, Aunt Dorrie.”

“You understand that if I leave you free to meet this chance in its only true way—­the hard, struggling way—­it is not because I desire to sicken you of it and so regain you for Nancy and me?”

“Oh! yes, Aunt Dorrie, I do understand that.”

“I’m sure you do, child, or you would not be here.  And so I set you free, little Joan, I wish you luck and success, but if you find the chance is not your chance, my darling, will you come as frankly to me as you have come to-night?”

“Yes—­yes, Aunt Dorrie, and you are—­well—­there is no word for you, but I feel as if you were my mother and I’d just—­found you!  You’ll never seem quite the same, Aunt Dorrie—­though that always seemed good enough.  Why”—­And here Joan slipped to her feet and danced lightly in the sunny room tossing her hair and swaying gracefully—­“why, I’m free to fail even if I must—­fail or succeed—­and you understand and love me and don’t begrudge me my freedom—­you are setting me free and not even disapproving.”

The dance in that sanctuary did not seem incongruous; Doris watched the motion as she might a figment loose in the sunlight.  It was as much a prayer of thanks as any ever uttered in the peaceful place.

CHAPTER X

“Hopes and disappointments, and much need of philosophy.”

A week later Joan started for New York, a closely packed suitcase in her hand, a closely packed trunk in the baggage car ahead, and some hurting memories to bear her company on the way.

Memories of Nancy’s tears.

How Nancy could cry—­once the barriers were down!

And worse than Nancy’s tears were Doris’s smiles.

Joan understood the psychology of smiles—­as she remembered, her proud head was lowered and she was surprised to find that she was shedding tears.

“But it’s all part of the price of freedom!” At last Joan dried her eyes.  “And I’m willing to pay.”

So Joan travelled alone up to town, and it was a wet, slippery night when she raised the knocker on Sylvia Reed’s green-painted door and let it fall.

The door opened at once and disclosed the battle-ground of young genius.  The old room was dim, for Sylvia had been toasting bacon and bread by the open fire and she needed no more light than the coals gave.  Sylvia wore a smock and her hair was down her back.  She looked about twelve until she fixed her eyes upon you, then she looked old; too old for a girl of twenty-four.