Beacon Hill stood gloomily to the west, and above it gleamed a particularly bright star. Across Long Meadow the lights in the houses flickered from open windows, and the Black Cat's glare seemed to control her motions. It drew her on and on. It was to play a part in her future as it did in the futures of all--sooner or later. Wearily she mounted the steps of the tavern and went to the side door that opened into whatever there was of privacy in Leon's establishment. Isa was washing the supper dishes. She was a tall, gaunt woman with a kindly glance that Nature had, for a safeguard, hidden under heavy black brows. "You, Joyce?" she said, going on with her task. "I thought maybe it was some one else." "Isa," the girl stepped cautiously forward, "I want to tell you something." The gathering hilarity in the tavern made this moment secure. Isa put down her dish and faced the girl. "What?" she asked bluntly. Quickly, breathlessly the truth, with all its hideous colouring, truth bald, and yet with a saving clause for Gaston, was whispered in Isa's ear. When the parting with Jared was confided, the woman put her arms about the girl. "Now you hush, Joyce, I've heard enough. This is a man's world, God help us! Us women, when we can, must cling together. Me and Tate pull in harness because we find it pays--we'll help you out--Tate in _his_ way, me in mine, but, Lord a-mighty, don't I hope there'll be a heaven just for women, some day! "Sit down, you poor, little haggled thing, I don't believe you've eat a morsel. You look fagged out. They ain't worth it, Joyce, men ain't. Father, husband--not one of them. But since we've got to use them, we must make out some kind of game. Here!" She set food before the wan girl, and the readjustment of life, in her masterful hands, seemed already begun. It was comparatively easy, later on, to go into particulars with Isa. With the roar and clatter growing hourly more deafening in the tavern, Isa and Joyce, sitting on the back porch under the calm stars, spoke freely to each other. Isa, like a dutiful wife, had, while Joyce satisfied her hunger, confided as much of the girl's trouble to Leon as she thought advisable. Leon had recognized the opportunity as one by which to capture what was left of Jared's independence, and rose to the emergency. "Leave it to me," he said. "Everything will be blooming to-morrow like--like a--garden--er--Eden." So now Isa had only Joyce's sore little heart to deal with. "Come, girl," she began at last; "tears never yet unsnarled a knot. Be you, or be you not, going to marry Jude?" "Yes--I am." There must be no doubt upon that score and Joyce sat up stiffly and faced her helper.