f the gentler emotions of her woman's heart. It is only
reasonable to suppose that at some time or other she possessed them.
But now no one was ever permitted beyond the harsh exterior. Perhaps
she owed the world a grudge. Perhaps she hoped, by closing the doors
of her soul, her attitude would be accepted as the rebuff she intended
to convey.

"Is that you, Joan?" she demanded in a sharp, masterful tone.

"It certainly is, auntie," came the gentle, girlish response from the
veranda.

The next moment the door of the little morning-room opened, and a tall
girl stood framed in its white setting.

Joan Stanmore possessed nothing whatever in common with her aunt. She
was of that healthy type of American girl that treats athletics as a
large part of her education. She was tall and fair, with a mass of
red-gold hair tucked away under the mannish hat which was part of her
dark green, tightly-fitting riding habit. Her brow was broad, and her
face, a perfect oval, was open and starred with a pair of fearless
blue eyes of so deep a hue as to be almost violet. Her nose and mouth
were delicately moulded, but her greatest beauty lay in the exquisite
peach-bloom of her soft, fair skin.

Joan Stanmore was probably the handsomest girl in St. Ellis City, in a
suburb of which she and her aunt lived. She was certainly one of the
most popular girls, in spite of the overshadowing threat of an aunt
whom everybody disliked and whom most people feared. Her disposition
was one of serene gentleness, yet as fearless and open as her
beautiful eyes suggested. She was of a strongly independent spirit
too, but, even so, the woman in her was never for a moment jeopardized
by it; she was never anything but a delightful femininity, rejoicing
wholesomely in the companionship of the opposite sex.

She and her aunt had lived for five years in this suburb of St. Ellis.
They had left New York for the southwest because the profession of
the elder woman had gained unpleasant notoriety in that city of
contradictions. The calling of the seer had appealed well enough to
the citizens individually, but a wave of moral rectitude, hurling its
municipal government spluttering upon a broken shore of repentance,
had decided it to expurgate such wickedness from its midst, lest the
local canker become a pestilence which might jeopardize the immortal
soul of the citizen, and, incidentally, hand the civic control over to
the opposition party.

So aunt and orphaned n