and exquisite string of pearls there could be made of our unspoken
words!

The logs glowed red; the hard tick of the pompous clock marked off
the precious moments; and outside, spring had come. But Joan sat on
with mutinous thoughts, and the man who not so long ago had stalked
the beasts whose heads and skins were silent reminders of his
strength, lay back in his chair with nodding head.

"He's old," she said to herself, "dreadfully, awfully old, and he's
punishing me for being young. Oh! It's wicked, it's wicked. If only
I had a father to spoil me and let me live! If only Mother hadn't
forgotten all about me in her own happiness! If only I had money of
my own and could run away and join the throng!"

She heard a sigh that was almost a groan, turned quickly and saw two
slow tears running down her grandfather's face. He had been kicking
against the pricks again and had hurt his foot.

With all the elaborate care of a Deerslayer, Joan got up, gave the
boards that creaked a wide berth--she knew them all--and tiptoed to
the door. The fact that she, at eighteen years of age, a full-grown
woman in her own estimation, should be obliged to resort to such
methods made her angry and humiliated. She was, however, rejoicing
at one thing. Her grandfather had fallen asleep several pages of the
paper earlier than usual, and she was to be spared from the utter
boredom of wading through the leading articles which dealt with
subways and Tammany and foreign politics and other matters for which
she had a lofty contempt. She was never required to read the notices
of new plays and operas and the doings of society, which alone were