She lay down on her bed again and buried her face in the pillow. "Oh, Elizabeth," she whispered, "I will come, I will be faithful, I swear I will." 2 They breakfasted at Leaside at eight o'clock, for Joan's train left at ten-thirty. At ten o'clock Elizabeth would arrive with the fly. Joan could not swallow. "Eat something, my darling," said Mrs. Ogden tenderly. She looked as though she had been crying all night, her eyes were red and swollen, but she smiled bravely whenever she saw her daughter's glance turned in her direction. She refused to give in about not sleeping alone. "Nonsense," she said brusquely, when Joan implored, "I shall be all right; don't be silly, darling." But she did not look as though she would be all right, and Joan searched her brain desperately for some new scheme, but found none. What was she to do? And in less than two hours now she would be gone. Throwing her arms round her mother's neck she dropped her head on her shoulder. "I can't leave you like this," she said desperately. Mrs. Ogden's tears began to fall. "But you must leave me, Joan; I want you to go." They clung together, forlorn and miserable. "You will write, Mother, very often?" "Very often, my Joan, and you must too." "Every day," Joan promised. "Every day." She went up to her room and began to pack her bag, but, contrary to custom, Mrs. Ogden did not follow her. At a quarter to ten she came downstairs; her mother was nowhere to be seen. "Mother!" she called anxiously, "where are you?" "In my room, darling," came the answer from behind a closed door. "I'll be down in a minute; you wait where you are." Joan wandered about the drawing-room. It had changed very little in all these years; the wallpaper was the same, though faded now, there were the same pink curtains and chairs, all shabby and reflecting the fallen family fortunes. The turquoise blue tiles in the grate alone remained startlingly bright and aggressive. The engraving of Admiral Sir William Routledge looked down on her as if with interest; she wondered if he were pleased or angry at the step his descendant was about to take; perhaps, as he had been a man of action, he was pleased. "'Nelson's Darling' ought at least to admire my courage!" she thought ruefully, and turned her back on him. She sat down in the Nelson arm-chair. Nelson's chair, how her mother had treasured it, how she did still; her poor little mother. Joan patted the extended arms with tender hands, and rested her head wearily where Nelson's head was said to have rested. "Good-bye," she murmured, with a lump in her throat. 3