Joan faced her lesson squarely. But she felt sick, degraded, literally soiled. This was the sort of thing that happened to girls who "fell." She had, for all her reading, a quite hazy idea of what "falling" meant. For a frantic moment (it must be remembered that Joan's education had been conducted by religious ladies who paste decent tissue-paper skirts over offending illustrations in the physiology books)--she struggled with a nightmare horror that she had perhaps "fallen" herself, that such a degradation of the spirit might even have physical results.... "No, no, _no_!" gasped Joan, "not when I hate him so! It's impossible!" For if, according to a rather touching convent theory, it is love alone which calls children into being, surely hate must have the opposite effect? Joan had not pursued this line of mental research to her usual lengths. Certain things, it appeared, such as miracles and the power of prayer and all phenomena embraced under the generic title of Love, were better taken entirely on trust. With ashen cheeks and a heart thumping with terror, Joan put her hands over her ears to shut out the sound of her own thoughts. It was the first time in her life she had come face to face with the meaning of the word "fear." And that the fear was childish, made it none the less real. Nineteen, not ninety, is the age of tragedy. There are few suicides among the old.... She did not hear a rap twice repeated, nor the opening of the door. Somebody peeped in, saw the sobbing figure on the bed, the scattered bon-bons, the crumpled note on the floor. Then came a louder knock. Joan sat up, and cried in a panic, "Don't come in!" But Mrs. Rossiter chose to misunderstand her. "Did you say come in?" she inquired cheerfully. "I hope so, because nobody else seems to be at home, and I'm pining for company." She paused as Joan sank back in despair, hiding her ravaged face in her handkerchief. "What's the matter, dear? Headache?" she questioned kindly, adding with a glance at the overturned basket, "Too much candy, perhaps?" "Yes," gulped Joan, fighting for self-control "Too much candy!" Mrs. Rossiter selected a _marron_ from the floor with care, wiped it daintily, and began to eat. "This looks," she said, "like one of Ned Desmond's offerings. He's such an artist about everything! Who but he would have thought of selecting a basket to match your eyes?" Joan lay still, and hated her. She thought of several biting remarks she might make to this woman who had come to gloat over her; but unfortunately she could not yet trust her voice to utter them. "So you sent him away after all?" continued the voice smilingly, "Led him on, and made a fool out of our poor dear Ned, and then sent him about his business? Naughty Joan!" Something impelled the girl to utter frankness. She was done with acting. "I didn't, and you know I didn't," she gulped. "I accepted him. I was engaged to him!" "Engaged?" "Yes!--and then the next day he was gone."