"I wonder," mused Joan, "she is so understanding. I wonder. But come, Nan, dear, I must go practise the thing I'm to sing at Commencement, and I have a perfectly new idea for a dance on Class Day." David Martin and Doris were never to forget the impression Joan made on the two occasions when she stood forth alone, during the Commencement week, like a startling and unique figure, with the background of lovely young girlhood. No one resented her conspicuousness. All gloried in it. They clapped and cheered her on--she was their Joan, the idol of the years which she had made vital and electric by her personality. She danced on Class Day a wonderful dance that she had originated herself. Nancy played her accompaniment, keeping her fascinated gaze upon Joan while her fingers touched the keys in accord with every movement. Lightly, bewilderingly, the gauzy, green-robed figure was wafted here, there, everywhere, under the broad elms, apparently on Nancy's tune. She was a leaf, a petal of a flower, a creature born of light and air. People forgot they were performing a stilted duty at a school function--they were frankly delighted and appreciative. Joan rose to the homage and, at such moments, she was beautiful with a beauty that did not depend upon feature or colouring. But it was when she sang on Commencement Day that she achieved her triumph. Martin was watching Doris closely. She had had no return of her March illness; she never spoke of it, nor did he, but for that very reason Martin kept a more rigid guard upon any excitement. There was that in Doris's face which, to his trained eye, was significant. It was as if she had been touched by a passing frost. She had not withered, but she was changed. The time of blight might be soon or distant, but the frost had fallen on the woman's life. It was when Joan had finished her song that Martin took Doris from the hall. It happened this way: The flower-banked platform was empty until the accompanist--it was a young professor, this time, not Nancy--came on. The audience waited politely; the rows of girlish faces were turned expectantly, and then Joan entered! Without a trace of self-consciousness she looked at her friends--they were all her friends--with that sweet confidence and understanding of the true artist. The dainty loose gown covered any angle that might have proved unlovely, and Joan was at one of her rarely beautiful moments. She stood at ease while the first notes were played--she appeared suddenly detached, and then she sang. It was an old English ballad, quaint and rollicking: "I'll sail upon the Dog-star, I'll sail upon the Dog-star, And then pursue the morning And then pursue, and then pursue the morning. "I'll chase the moon, till it be noon, I'll chase the moon, till it be noon, But I'll make her leave her horning. "I'll climb the frosty mountain, I'll climb the frosty mountain, And there I'll coin the weather.