She felt sorry for Joy just then, seeing this best side of her that she liked.

For about a minute she wished she had let her have the upper drawer.
[Illustration] Joy's father started by a very early train, and it was still hardly light when he sat down to his hurried breakfast, with Joy close by him, that pale, pinched look on her face, and so utterly silent that Gypsy was astonished.

She would have thought she cared nothing about her father's going, if she had not seen her standing in the gray light upstairs.
"Joyce, my child, you haven't eaten a mouthful," said her father.
"I can't." "Come, dear, do, just a little, to please father." Joy put a spoonful of tea to her lips, and put it down.

Presently there was a great rumbling of wheels outside, and the coachman rang the door-bell.
"Well, Joy." Joy stood up, but did not speak.

Her father, holding her close in his arms, drew her out with him into the entry.