“Wasting my time and money hanging about newspaper offices, listening to silly talk from old fossils,” she told him. “Yes,” answered Joan. “I’m a journalist.”!

“Curious,” said the girl, “so am I. My father’s a mill manager near Bolton. You weren’t educated there?” “Oh, well, one can’t help one’s thoughts,” explained Flossie. “It would be a blessing all round.”

It seemed to just fit in. She would run down and spend a few quiet days at Liverpool. In her old familiar room where the moon peeped in over the tops of the tall pines she would be able to reason things out. Perhaps her father would be able to help her. She had lost her childish conception of him as of someone prim and proper, with cut and dried formulas for all occasions. That glimpse he had shown her of himself had established a fellowship between them. He, too, had wrestled with life’s riddles, not sure of his own answers. She found him suffering from his old heart trouble, but more cheerful than she had known him for years. Arthur seemed to be doing wonders with the men. They were coming to trust him. “I shall hope for the best,” answered Flossie. “Poor old soul, she’s had a good time. Don’t send me a present; and then I needn’t send you one—when your time comes. It’s a silly custom. Besides, I’ve nowhere to put it. Shall be in a ship for the next six months. Will let you know when we’re back.” She examined Joan awhile in silence. “Are you on the stage?” she asked.