"Thanks, Pat. I'll remember that when I—play around dry sticks. Good-night, you old, funny Pat, and thank you."
Joan bent and kissed the top of Patricia's head.
After that evening with Patricia Joan clung to Sylvia with unusual tenacity. She also went to see a well-known teacher of music and got his opinion of her voice.
"Your voice needs nearly everything to be done for it that can be done to a voice," the professor frankly told her, "but you have a voice, beyond doubt. You have feeling, too, almost too much of it; it is feeling uncontrolled, perhaps not understood.
"If you are willing to give years to it you will be a singer."
The man thought that he was killing hope in the girl before him, but to his surprise she raised her eyes seriously to him and said:
"I am a working girl, but I am saving for the chance of doing what you suggest. I will begin next winter. I think I know that I shall never be great, but I believe I will sing some day."
The man bowed her out with deep respect.
When Joan told of her interview Sylvia was delighted, and Patricia, who had happened in for a cup of tea, looked relieved.
"Of course you'll sing, Joan," she said, enthusiastically, "and if you don't turn your talent to account you'll bring the wrath of God down upon you. That Brier Bush is well enough to start you—but you're pretty well through with it, I fancy."