Ridge House and that dear, sweet life--sheltered and safe. Yes; she was sure she had lost them, for she could not go back beaten before she had really tried her luck, and if she succeeded she could never have them in a sense of ownership. "And I will succeed!" Even in that hard hour Joan rose up in arms. "And I have earned enough to begin real work in the autumn." She counted her gains. "And I can live close to Aunt Dorrie's beautiful life even if I am not of it. And I _am_ sure of myself as dear Nancy never could be--because I have proved myself in ways that girls like Nancy never can." Toward morning Joan fell asleep. When she awoke it was nearly noon time and half the desert of Sunday was passed. Then Joan, refreshed and comforted, planned a wholesome afternoon and evening. "I'll go out and get a really sensible dinner; take a walk in the Park, and come home and practise. Monday will be here before I know it." Joan carried out her programme, and it was five o'clock when she returned, at peace with the whole world. She took off her pretty street gown and slipped into a thin, airy little dress and comfortable sandals. The sandals made her think of her dancing; she always wore them unless she danced shoeless. "And before I go to bed," she promised her gay little self, "I'll have a dance to prove that nothing can down me--for long! "I wonder--" here Joan looked serious as if a thought wave had struck her--"I wonder where Pat is?" This seemed a futile conjecture. Patricia was too elusive to be followed, even mentally. As a matter of fact, Patricia was, at that hour, confronting the biggest question of her life. Heretofore she had always left her roads of retreat open, had, in fact, availed herself of them at critical periods; but this time she had, she believed, so cluttered them that they were practically impassable and she said she "didn't care." The heat and her rudderless life had been too much for her; she had, too, been honestly stirred by beautiful things--although they were not hers nor could ever rightfully be hers. She had slipped into the danger, that seemed now about to engulf her, on a gradual decline. Her connection with the Burke home life was, apparently, innocent enough at first. No one but Patricia herself sensed what really was threatening, but the conditions were ripe for what occurred. Mrs. Burke, bent upon her own pleasure, utterly indifferent to the rights of others, was glad enough to leave her house and family to the charm of Patricia while she could, at the same time, as she smilingly declared, give a bit of happiness to that poor, gifted young creature.