“No; he’s at home, and Emily, too. I said that I should like to come to you, and they said very well—I must write and ask you if it would be convenient. And then I packed a bag, and just came up by the next train.” “My dear Joan, they will think that you are lost.” “No they won’t. I wrote a letter to grandpapa before I came away, and he had given his consent, you know. Are you shocked, Embrance?” “Not in the least.” Embrance’s dark eyes rested on her friend with a look that showed how completely she meant what she said. “But I should like to hear the rest of the story, Joan. There is something more than a cracked plate.” “You are a real conjuror. I believe you know all about it without my telling you.” Joan hung her head, and went on pathetically, “Alfred Brownhill has been tiresome again, and grandpapa is bent upon my accepting him, and Emily keeps on trying to persuade me. She says that it is ridiculous for a girl in my position to throw away such a good chance. I am tired of being told so often that I’m dependent; so——” “You came to me to learn to do for your self, you poor child! You know how glad I shall be to help you, if I can.” “Embrance, you’re the kindest person in the world!” was all Joan said; but she slipped her hand into her friend’s slim fingers caressingly. They had been friends from childhood. Embrance had often helped little Joan Fulloch with her lessons, or coaxed her grandfather into overlooking some escapade that was against his notions of propriety. She knew well that it was a dreary home for an imaginative girl down at Doveton, and that Emily (another granddaughter of the old man’s) was as unsympathetic as she could be, looking upon Joan’s wish to become an artist as the wildest of wild schemes. Embrance had vague recollections of Mr. Brownhill (a flourishing county town solicitor) as a dull man, who played lawn tennis. She did not believe that Joan liked him, and as the child was harshly treated at home, she was doubly welcome here. At any rate, if the worst came to the worst, there was a small sum in the savings bank that would pay extra expenses for a year to come—and a year was a long time to look forward in Embrance’s eyes. Joan soon regained her spirits, and forgot her fatigue in the novelty of the situation. It was like a fairy tale, living up here at the top of that corkscrew staircase; and what a pretty flower! and might she paint here when Embrance was out? She had her own notions, though they were somewhat erratic, about making money.