glad that
Gaston had saved her from her evil fate; then she would have known that
such people as Gaston and Drew would understand and think no evil. But
the effect of Gaston's training and influence had sunk deep. Joyce had
risen above the vile thing Jude and St. Ange had tried to make her. She
was, for all the wide difference between her and Gaston, a woman! A
woman beautiful and alive to the highest degree. She dared not any
longer ignore that. For Gaston's sake she must face the blinding truth.

Crouching beside the boxes of finery that he had thought she could not
understand, Joyce clenched her hands in an agony of consecration and
renunciation. Then despair seized her, and for a wild moment she was
tempted to use Gaston's own weapon against him.

Heretofore she had accepted his gifts with a child's delight--what a
fool she had been! Suppose now she should--well, take what she could get
from life in spite--yes, in spite of Gaston himself?

Dare she? Could she? Would she be able to do anything when she faced
him, but fall at his feet, beg for mercy, and implore him to tell her
what her awakened conscience demanded?

She would try.

The colour rose and fell in the lovely face. She was beautiful, and she
loved him. She had never let him see how much; or how. He should see
now! She would try her meanest and basest weapon--and if--if--it
conquered, she would make--terms. She, poor, dependent Joyce of the
backwoods. Old Jared's girl. Jude Lauzoon's discarded wife. If she won a
victory, _what_ a victory it would be!

It would prove to Drew--she rose defiantly, and snatched the finery from
the boxes. Her eyes were blazing and her blood ran hotly. Before her
little mirror she let the garments of her past life fall from her. She
unpinned her glorious hair, and thrilled as its convincing beauty gave
added power to her plans.

Slowly, carefully, with a pictured ideal in her memory, she fashioned
the wonderful tresses into form. High upon her head the glistening mass
was fastened, then cunningly the little curls were pulled loose, and
were permitted to go free about the smooth brow and white neck.

Then with an instinct that did not play her false, she donned the
marvellous garments.

She was finished at last. The new, palpitating woman. All that belonged
to the old Joyce seemed to have fallen, with the discarded garments, to
the floor.

She did not doubt her power now. She was not afraid. Something was going
to ha