Joyce was simple-hearted and happy. She loved her work, and she was having a good time. The superintendent did not pick her out to focus his entire attention upon her and make her an object of jealousy, therefore she enjoyed the occasional trips to the city to hear some fine music, and the constantly kindly helpfulness of the young man as her head in the school. Things were going well with her, and she thanked God every night. Somehow, however, with Harrington’s advent there had come so many new things that her time was more than filled. The letters she had planned to write to Meadow Brook were still unwritten, and the more she thought about them (usually at night, after she had got to bed, and was reviewing the day), the harder they seemed to write. How to explain her going, what to say about Nan and Gene. It would be so disagreeable if Nan should take it into her head to come after her and coax her to come back and live with them. Nan hated housework, and she could not help knowing that she was valuable to her in that way. No, she was not yet ready to write home. So the days drifted by, full of hard work, and pleasantness. She loved her young pupils and they loved her. Often they invited her to their homes, and here she met many pleasant people who showed themselves as more than friendly. She could have spent every evening in a merry round if she had chosen. But, here again, the fact that she was a very old-fashioned girl, and neither danced nor played bridge nor mah jong, nor could be persuaded to learn, set her apart, and saved many evenings for reading and study and necessary sewing. People tried to persuade her at first, laughed at her, and cajoled her, but she remained sweetly firm, yet without preaching to them, and they finally, good-naturedly, let her alone. Sometimes she had little gatherings of two or three people in her wee house, and served them chocolate and delectable little cakes, or Welsh rarebit or hot pancakes made on her little electric grill. Harrington was occasionally included in these gatherings, but she never received young men alone. She told them they could not come without some woman friend with them. They laughed at her old-fashioned ideas, but they went away and found some quiet elderly friend and came again. Joyce’s home began to have a reputation all its own, showing a girl could live alone and yet keep free from all the unconventions of the modern world. If any one grew troublesome there was always Mrs. Bryant to whom she might call, and Mrs. Bryant understood and always happened in whenever she knew Joyce had a caller who might want to stay alone. So the fall passed and the winter entered in. Jim had finished the chimney and fireplace, and the little room was warm and cosy, even on a bitter November evening with the wind howling outside.