A week after this incident, one warm day in May, the teacher stopped the class as it was filing out, and said, "Who can go see why Jennie Jessup does not come to school?" No one answered. It had been so tiresome a day, and all were eager to get home, Winnie especially, as she had been promised a little outing--a pleasant sail to Staten Island, an evening with friends, and a glimpse of blue waters and green fields. At the same time she thought to herself, "I pass the house she lives in. Perhaps I might just take time to stop." The teacher seemed to divine her thoughts. "I wish you would go, Winnie. You're not afraid?" "Afraid of what?" "Well, she may be sick, and sometimes girls don't like to go to strange houses." "I am not afraid. I'll go," said Winnie, just a little proudly, as the girl passed her who had twitted her with being afraid in the dark. Winnie picked up her books and trudged off. "How nice it will be to get out of the hot city!" she thought; "and what lovely lilacs I shall bring home! I wonder if their roses are out yet, and the syringas! And what nice teas Mrs. Graham always has!--so much better than a dinner such a day as this! And perhaps Rob will take us out sailing. Anyway, the trip up and down the bay will be delightful." So she went on anticipating, until she came to Jennie Jessup's house. It was one of a block which had seen better days, but which now was degenerating from contact with the crowding business of the city. She knocked at a door. No one replied. The occupants had gone to their daily duties, and had not returned. She mounted another pair of stairs. A partly open door had a small card tacked on it, upon which was the name "Jessup." She knocked. No answer. Again she tried. This time a far-away "Who is it?" was whispered. "Can I come in?" asked Winnie, pushing the door gently before her. "If you're not afraid," was the reply. It fairly stung Winnie. "What should I be afraid of?" "Why, of me," said Joan of Arc, in muffled accents. "Hush! don't wake mother; she's just tired out, and here am I sick in bed. Perhaps you had better not come in." "I will, though," said Winnie; "that is, if it is right. I don't want to catch anything, and take it home to the children." "I don't think it is catching. My head ached awfully, and the doctor was thinking it might turn out to be something contagious; but that fear is over. Oh, Winnie, is it not dreadful to be sick?" Poor Joan of Arc was lying in a small, dark room, and in a large chair beside her was a pale-faced woman asleep. On an easel was an unfinished crayon head; here and there were sketches, scraps of pictures, as if done to test a color or a method. The afternoon sun was pouring a dusty flood of light on the faded carpet. Winnie turned as if to go--were not Bob and Mary Graham waiting for her? she could fairly hear the splash of the water against the side of the boat. Joan of Arc turned a pale, longing face toward her. "Oh, don't go, Winnie!"