India, the great vampire, had not wrecked her, for she was wiry; her little frame could withstand what her husband's bulk had failed to endure. Mrs. Ogden was a strong woman. She did not look robust, however; this she knew and appreciated. Her pathetic eyes were sunken and somewhat dim, her nose, short and straight like Joan's, looked pinched, and her drooping mouth was pale. All this Mrs. Ogden knew, and she used it as her stock-in-trade with her elder daughter. There were days when the desire to produce an effect upon someone became a positive craving. She would listen for Joan's footsteps on the stairs, and then assume an attitude, head back against the couch, hand pressed to eyes. Sometimes there were silent tears hastily hidden after Joan had seen, or the short, dry cough so like her brother Henry's. Henry had died of consumption. Then, as Joan's eyes would grow troubled, and the quick: "Oh, Mother darling, aren't you well?" would burst from her lips, Mrs. Ogden's conscience would smite her. But in spite of herself she would invariably answer: "It's nothing, dearest; only my cough," or "It's only my head, Joan; it's been very painful lately." Then Joan's strong, young arms would comfort and soothe, and her firm lips grope until they found her mother's; and Mrs. Ogden would feel mean and ashamed but guiltily happy, as if a lover held her. And so, when in addition to the fuss about the bacon, a cup of the valued breakfast set lay shattered on the floor, Mrs. Ogden felt, on this summer morning, that life had become overpowering and that a headache, real or assumed, would be the relief she so badly needed. "It's very hard," she began tremulously. "I'm quite tired out; I don't feel able to face things to-day. I do think, my dear, that you might have been more careful!" Tears brimmed up in her soft brown eyes and she went hastily to the window. "Oh, darling, don't cry." Joan was beside her in an instant. "I am sorry, darling, look at me; I will be careful. How much will it cost? A new one, I mean. I've still got half of Aunt Ann's birthday money; I'll get a cup to match, only please don't cry." The slight gruffness that was characteristic of her voice grew more pronounced in her emotion. Mrs. Ogden drew her daughter to her; the gesture was full of soft, compelling strength. "It's a shame!" "What is, dear?" said Mrs. Ogden, suddenly attentive. "Father!" cried Joan defiantly. "Hush, hush, darling." "But it is; he bullies you." "No, dear, don't say such things; your father has a weak heart." "But you're ill, too, and Father's heart isn't always as bad as he makes out. This morning----" "Hush, Joan, you mustn't. I know I'm not strong, but we must never let him know that I sometimes feel ill." "He ought to know it!" "But, Joan, you were so frightened when he had that attack last Christmas." "That was a real one," said Joan decidedly.