To-morrow she would write to her cousin, Horace Meade, and he would help her to get something to do; and she began making calculations as to the number of people who required dinner services in the course of a year. If Horace could once get orders for her, her fortune was made, and in her spare time, she would paint landscapes for exhibitions. “Then, you must give up these rooms,” exclaimed Joan, eagerly, “and we can go and live somewhere where there is a garden. And, dear Embrance, you’ll let me buy you another dress. You ought really never to wear that cold colour.” Joan’s own dress was of a delicate blue shade, hanging in artistic folds about her pretty figure. Embrance heaved a little sigh; she was accustomed of old to her friend’s castle-building, but she would not say a word to damp her ardour on this first night. She arranged her books and papers ready for the morning’s work (her special reading must, of course, be put aside now), then she came and sat by Joan, and listened to her long account of home troubles, till the clock struck eleven, and the lamp began to burn low. The days passed on; the winter was at hand. In spite of Joan Fulloch’s good resolutions, in spite of her hostess’s kindness, she was far from content in her new surroundings. Her grandfather had sent a box containing clothes and painting materials; he had enclosed a brief note in which he foretold that she would soon wish to return to Doveton. Perhaps, if it had not been for this note, Joan would have said good-bye to Embrance and the second floor parlour some weeks ago. As it was she stayed on, always looking out for commissions that never came, and making plans to paint pictures that she never began. Either the light was too bad, or she had a headache; there was always an excuse, and Embrance returned night after night, to find her visitor plunged in the depths of despair. She would straightway set to work to cheer her up, and before tea was over, Joan was invariably sure of success—to-morrow or the next day. At last she heard of a pupil, but, unfortunately, she did not take kindly to teaching; she was very unpunctual, and it did not seem likely that her connection would increase with rapidity. In the meantime, Embrance had begun to draw upon her savings, for the expenses had increased marvellously since the autumn. There were so many little luxuries that Joan, poor child, could not possibly do without. “Embrance,” said Joan, one evening. She was sitting over the fire with a novel, her face was flushed, and her hair was disordered; “I do want so many things. I wish I could earn some money.” “You have got your pupil,” said Embrance, looking up from her book. She was translating Schiller, and it was the third time that Joan had interrupted her. “Five shillings an hour!” exclaimed Joan, kicking the fireirons down with a clatter. “It’s so little; I shan’t have earned enough by Christmas to buy a winter jacket, and besides, I owe you so much, Embrance!”