Somewhere deep down in herself, Joan smiled. "That's not what you wanted to say," she thought. "You wanted to say something very different." But she fell in with Elizabeth's mood and tried to check her own enthusiasm. What did it matter if Elizabeth chose to play a part, she knew what this news meant to her; she could have laughed in her face. "But what really matters is that you've come back," she said. "Yes, I suppose that is what really matters," replied Elizabeth, her calm eyes meeting Joan's for an instant. "Oh, Elizabeth, it's been too awful without you, dull and awful!" "I know," she answered quietly. "And suppose I'd failed you, Elizabeth, suppose I'd failed in the examination," Joan's voice trembled. "Suppose I had had to tell you that!" "I should still have been coming back." "Yes, I know, and that's all that really matters; only it's better as it is, isn't it?" "You would never fail me, Joan. I think it's not in you to fail, somehow; in any case I don't think you'll fail me." She hesitated--then, "I don't feel that we ought to fail each other, you and I." She took off her hat and coat and drew off her gloves with her back turned; when she came back to the table her hands were behind her. She sat down quickly and folded them in her lap. In the excitement of the good news and the reunion, Joan had forgotten to ask to see her hands. "Where's Milly?" said Elizabeth. Joan smiled. "Can't you hear? She's at her fiddle." Elizabeth looked relieved. "Don't call her," she said. "Let me see your examination report." Joan fetched it and put it on the table in front of her. For a moment or two Elizabeth studied it in silence, then she looked up. "It's perfectly excellent," she remarked. In her enthusiasm, she picked up the paper to study it more closely, and at that moment the sun came out and fell on her hands. Joan gasped, a little cry of horror escaped her in spite of herself. Elizabeth looked up, she blanched and hid her hands in her lap, but Joan had seen them; they were hideously seamed and puckered with large, discoloured scars. "Oh, Elizabeth--your hands! Your beautiful hands! You were so proud of them----" Joan laid her head down on the table and wept. 2 After supper that night Joan took the plunge. She had not intended doing it so quickly, but waiting seemed useless, and, besides, she was filled with a wild energy that rendered any action a relief. Colonel Ogden was dozing over the evening paper; from time to time he jumped awake with a stifled snort; as always the dining-room smelt of his pipe smoke and stale food. At Joan's quick movement he opened his eyes very wide; he looked like an old baby. She began abruptly, "Mother, I want to tell you that I'm going to study to be a doctor." It was characteristic of her to get it all out at once without any prelude. Mrs. Ogden laid down her knitting, and contrary to all expectations did not faint; she did not even press her head, but she smiled unpleasantly.