She had always known this. She had been building of herself a temple to love, when blaspheming hands had shaken the temple, leaving love a thing to be feared. She had shuddered away from love and turned to music. That could not turn and rend her. . . . Then love had come, again, so bright and pure a thing that she could not be afraid. But the bright blaze had burned itself out, and then when nothing was left . . . there was music. And the soul of music had united with her own soul as had been predicted—weaving itself ever more closely into her being. Then love had come again—and this time it had not burst upon her in the flame of romance, the golden glory of dreams; instead, it had quietly encompassed her until she knew—that it spelled all of life to her. Keeping pace with music, it had woven itself ever more closely into her being. The discovery had made her dismiss it—as if a thing that had had become a part of her, could be dismissed. _But music was a part of her, too!_ Félicie had given up “the only things that matter,” and met her terrible lesson. She, Joy, must cease wavering in the world of phantoms, of those who put love aside, those to whom it does not come, and those who are incapable of love. It was towards evening that she telephoned Jim. A dreadful fear assailed her while she was waiting for him to come to the wire. Supposing he were sick! Supposing he wouldn’t be there—She had always regarded him as an institution that never failed. She had heard of girls regarding men in that way before—and how they had been surprised when they turned to the institution, after a long time. In her overtired, overwrought condition, his familiar voice brought a relief so great as to be almost hysterical. She babbled out the story of Félicie’s calamity, and implored him to come out. She implored him with unnecessary fervour. . . . When she had rung off, she realized that she was overdoing things, and calmed down to the extent of telephoning the hospital and getting Greg on the wire. He informed her that as yet he had not been able to see Félicie. “I brought bales of roses that they’ve surrounded her with in her bed,” he said; “and she always likes things like that.” “I’ll be up later;” and Joy relayed the latest bulletin to Madame Durant, who had several times during the day arrayed herself in her bonnet and cloak preparatory to another journey to the hospital, being stopped each time by Joy’s assurances concerning the futility of another visit that day. “Why don’t you practice?” asked the old lady, now noting her restlessness. “You haven’t practiced at all to-day—and I don’t know what Félicie’d do, if she could see all that music spilled on the parlour floor.”