"I know, Aunt Dorrie, I know. It hurts--but--but--oh! listen, dear. This seems my chance; perhaps it isn't--but I can never know until I try. Dearie--I will do just what you say. I will, and I will think you right. I want so much to try and find out what is in me that I--I cannot see clear." For a moment Doris could not see the girl across the room. The sunlight fell full on her, and hid her, rather than revealed her. "I'll try to be worthy of your faith in me, darling. Go on." Doris spoke quietly. They did not come together physically, these two. They felt no need of the affectionate human contact; it was more one soul reaching out to another with courage and honesty. Doris listened, following closely. People and places became visualized as Joan spoke. Sylvia Reed with her strong, purposeful face and eyes of a young prophet; the new nest of genius where the brave creature, believing in herself, waited for another in whom she trusted and for whom she held a deep-founded affection. Doris felt her way in silence--relinquishing, loving, fearing, but never blinded. She knew the moment's pain of disappointment caused by the realization that with all her love and riches she had not, for the time being, anything to offer this untried soul that could lure it from its vision. Presently she heard herself speaking as if a third person were in the room: "If this means anything it means that it must be met in the spirit with which Sylvia is meeting it. She has risked all; is willing to pay the price--are you?" "Yes, Aunt Dorrie." "You know, darling, that it would be easier for me to lavish everything on you?" "Yes, Aunt Dorrie." "You understand that if I leave you free to meet this chance in its only true way--the hard, struggling way--it is not because I desire to sicken you of it and so regain you for Nancy and me?" "Oh! yes, Aunt Dorrie, I do understand that." "I'm sure you do, child, or you would not be here. And so I set you free, little Joan, I wish you luck and success, but if you find the chance is not your chance, my darling, will you come as frankly to me as you have come to-night?" "Yes--yes, Aunt Dorrie, and you are--well--there is no word for you, but I feel as if you were my mother and I'd just--found you! You'll never seem quite the same, Aunt Dorrie--though that always seemed good enough. Why"--And here Joan slipped to her feet and danced lightly in the sunny room tossing her hair and swaying gracefully--"why, I'm free to fail even if I must--fail or succeed--and you understand and love me and don't begrudge me my freedom--you are setting me free and not even disapproving." The dance in that sanctuary did not seem incongruous; Doris watched the motion as she might a figment loose in the sunlight. It was as much a prayer of thanks as any ever uttered in the peaceful place. CHAPTER X "_Hopes and disappointments, and much need of philosophy._"