Flossie ’phoned her from Paddington Station, the second day, and by luck she happened to be in. Flossie had just come up from Devonshire. Sam had “got through,” and she was on her way to meet him at Hull. She had heard of Joan’s arrival in London from one of Carleton’s illustrated dailies. She brought the paper with her. They had used the old photograph that once had adorned each week the Sunday Post. Joan hardly recognized herself in the serene, self-confident young woman who seemed to be looking down upon a world at her feet. The world was strong and cruel, she had discovered; and Joans but small and weak. One had to pretend that one was not afraid of it. “Oh, you know,” explained Flossie. “Like a volcano compressed into a steam engine.”!

“Of course,” answered Joan, “when I’m better. I’m not very well just now. It’s the weather, I suppose.” “He will be pleased to find you here, waiting for him,” he said with a smile, handing her the letter. “He will be here some time to-morrow.”

“Why, that’s a sign of breeding, that is, Missie,” the man had explained. “It’s the classy ones that are always the worst.” “You know things when you love anybody,” explained the child. “You feel them. You will come again, soon?” “It only came an hour or two ago,” her father explained. “If he wrote to you by the same post, you may have left before it arrived.”