"We'll take a little extra care with food and sleep and wet feet," Joan cautioned, "and I'll put off my visit, Pat, for awhile." "And, Joan," Patricia said, laughingly, "keep your mouth shut in the street!" The four little rooms were sunshiny and warm; Joan sang hour by hour; worked at her music and "made the home," while Patricia kept to her rigid hours and designed marvellous things in which other women revelled. Since Nancy had gone South and her beloved was absent, Joan felt that her duty was to Patricia. Without being able to classify her feeling she clung to Patricia with a nameless anxiety. She taught the little dog to fetch Patricia's slippers to the living-room fire; she always had dinner ready when, tired and frail, Patricia appeared with that glad light in her eyes. "You act as if I, not you, were going away, my lamb," Patricia often said; "but you are a blessing! And Cuff"--she leaned down and gathered the small, quivering dog in her arms--"and Cuff runs you a close second." Cuff wagged his stubby tail excitedly. He was a proud creature, a proof of what could be done with a bad job, and he had all the snobbishness that is acquired, not bred in the bone. He slept on the foot of Patricia's bed and forgot back alleys. He selected tidbits with the air of one who knew not garbage cans, but he redeemed all shortcomings by his faithful love to her who had rescued him. The melting brown eyes found their highest joy in Patricia's approval, and a harsh word from her brought his diminutive tail between his legs for an hour. It was April when Patricia came up the stairs, one night, laggingly. Cuff was on the landing with his token of devotion. The girl picked him up, kissed his smooth body and went on, more slowly. Joan had the table set for the dainty dinner by the broad western window. She turned when Patricia entered. "What's the matter, Pat?" she asked. "Nothing, only Cuff is growing heavy." "Are you tired?" "Not a bit. What a wonder you are, Joan! That table is a dream with those daffodils in the green bowl. Old Syl was right--you put the punch in home!" "There's chicken to-night, Pat. I plunged on the strength of what my Professor said to-day." There were times when Joan wondered if Patricia was not insisting upon home more for her sake than her own. "What did she say, Joan?" "That next winter I might--sing!" "Bully! But you sing now--like several kinds of seraphs. Warble while I make ready for dinner, Joan." So Joan sang as she flitted from kitchen to dining room. "I'll take the high road and you take the low road And I'll get to Scotland before you----" she rippled, and Patricia joined in: "I'll get to Scotland before you!" Then she said, from the bedroom beyond: "I know what it is in your singing that gets us, Joan. It's the whole lot more than words can express." "Of course! That's high art, Pat! Come on, dearie-thing, you must carve."