resolutely from her. Her world was not their world--that was sure. If
this desperate loneliness couldn't drive her to them, nothing could. She
must make her own life! Lying on her hot bed, Joan thought and thought.
Of what did she want to make her life?

"I only want a decent amount of fun," she cried, turning her pillow
over, "and I will not have strings tied to all my fun, either."

This struck her as funny even in her misery. She sat up in bed and
counted her losses--what were they?

Ridge House and that dear, sweet life--sheltered and safe. Yes; she was
sure she had lost them, for she could not go back beaten before she had
really tried her luck, and if she succeeded she could never have them in
a sense of ownership.

"And I will succeed!" Even in that hard hour Joan rose up in arms.

"And I have earned enough to begin real work in the autumn." She counted
her gains. "And I can live close to Aunt Dorrie's beautiful life even if
I am not of it. And I _am_ sure of myself as dear Nancy never could
be--because I have proved myself in ways that girls like Nancy never
can."

Toward morning Joan fell asleep. When she awoke it was nearly noon time
and half the desert of Sunday was passed.

Then Joan, refreshed and comforted, planned a wholesome afternoon and
evening.

"I'll go out and get a really sensible dinner; take a walk in the Park,
and come home and practise. Monday will be here before I know it."

Joan carried out her programme, and it was five o'clock when she
returned, at peace with the whole world.

She took off her pretty street gown and slipped into a thin, airy little
dress and comfortable sandals. The sandals made her think of her
dancing; she always wore them unless she danced shoeless.

"And before I go to bed," she promised her gay little self, "I'll have a
dance to prove that nothing can down me--for long!

"I wonder--" here Joan looked serious as if a thought wave had struck
her--"I wonder where Pat is?"

This seemed a futile conjecture. Patricia was too elusive to be
followed, even mentally.

As a matter of fact, Patricia was, at that hour, confronting the biggest
question of her life.

Heretofore she had always left her roads of retreat open, had, in fact,
availed herself of them at critical periods; but this time she had, she
believed, so cluttered them that they were practically impassable and
she said she "didn't care."

The heat and her rudderless life had been too much for he