Her short
service in reality had already sobered her. It was one thing for the
gifted young girl of a fashionable school to watch the impression she
made by her wits upon people who were paying high for just such
exhibitions, and quite another to convince buyers of goods that they
were what you believed them to be.

"The public is a tightwad," was what she muttered presently, "unless
you're willing to compromise or--prove it to them."

"I--I don't know what you mean," Joan replied. She was groping after the
thing that had made Sylvia's eyes grow old.

"Well, all you need to know, Joan, my lamb, is to prove it to
them--never compromise!" Sylvia was herself again. Too well she knew
the value of starting out with one's shield bright and shining even if
one had to come home _on_ it, all rusted with one's life blood.

Things were not yet very tragic for Sylvia, and her shield was in good
condition, but she had an imagination and a keen sense of
self-protection.

"We're going to be the happiest pair in town," she whispered to Joan
later that night as she bent over the tired girl; "and was there ever
such a spot to live in? See, I'm going to raise your shade high, for the
night is splendid and--the stars! Go to sleep with the stars watching
you, old girl, and you're all right."

Joan slept heavily, dreamlessly, and awoke to--more bacon and eggs with
hot rolls and coffee added.

"I'm going to float about a bit to-day," she said, and her feet were
fairly dancing. "I've only known New York before holding to Aunt
Dorrie's hand or my nurse's. Today I'm going to go back alone and
then--catch up with myself."

Suddenly she began to sing her old graduation song:

"I'll sail upon the Dog-star
I'll sail upon the Dog-star;
I'll chase the moon, till it be noon,
But I'll make her leave her horning.

"I'll climb the frosty mountain
And there I'll coin the weather.
I'll tear the rainbow from the sky
And tie both ends together."

Sylvia leaned back, clapping and laughing. This was as it should be.
Fun, youth, gaiety. She went to her easel in the north room, humming
Joan's old ballad, and never did better work in her life than she did
that day.

Joan sallied forth equally happy and her past, thank heaven, had been
brief enough and rosy enough to make the tying of the ends nothing but a
joyous task. She rode downtown on top of a bus. The crisp air stung and
rallied her. She longed to s