"A devilish freakish conception," he muttered, gazing at the fountain and kicking at a rare rug on the floor, "a kind of madness runs through the breed, I wager. Too much blood of one sort gets clogged in the human system." And then he listened.

There were childish voices nearing: sweet, piping voices with little gurgles of laughter rippling through. The laugh of happy, healthy childhood.

"She's bringing them both!" thought Thornton, and an ugly scowl came to his brow. He did not know much about children, knew nothing really, except that they were noisy and usually messy--some were better looking than others; gave promise, and he hoped his child would be handsome; it might help her along, and she would need all the help she could muster.

Then he heard Doris instructing the children:

"See, Joan, dear, hold Nan by the hand like a big, strong sister, this is going to be another play. Now listen sharp! When we come to the steps you must stand close together and give that pretty courtesy that Mary taught you yesterday. Now, darlings--don't forget!"

There are moments and incidents in life that seem out of all proportion to their apparent significance. Thornton waited for what was about to happen as he might have the verdict were he on trial for his life. He was frightened at he knew not what. Would his child look like Meredith?

Would she have those eyes that could find his soul and burn it even while they smiled? Would she look like him; find in him some thing that would help him to forget? He looked up. Doris had planned dramatically.

She left the babies alone on the top step and came down to Thornton.

"Aren't they wonderful?" she asked in so calm and ordinary a tone that it was startling.

They were wonderful--even a hard, indifferent man could see that. Slim, vigorous little creatures they were with st.u.r.dy brown legs showing above socks and broad-toed sandals. Their short white frocks fell in widening line from the shoulders, giving the effect of lightness, winginess. Both children had lovely hair, curly, bobbed to a comfortable length, and their wide, curious eyes fastened instantly upon Thornton--eyes of purple-blue and eyes of hazel-gold; strange eyes, frankly confronting him but disclosing nothing; eyes of utterly strange children; not a familiar feature or expression to guide him.

"I have called them Joan and Nancy," Doris was saying. "You expressed no preference, you know."

"Which is--is--mine?" Thornton whispered the question that somehow made him flush with shame.

"I do not know!" It was whisper meeting whisper.

"You--what?" Thornton turned blazing eyes upon the woman by his side.

Her answer did not seem to shock him so much as it revealed what he had suspected--Doris was playing with him, making him absurd by that infernal power of hers that he had all but forgotten. He recalled, too, with keen resentment her ability to transform a tragic incident into one of humour--or the reverse.

"I do not know. I never have known," Doris was saying. "You see, I was afraid of heredity if I had to deal with it. Without knowing it I could be just to both children; give them the only possible opportunity to overcome handicaps. I thought they might reveal themselves--but so far they have not. They are adorable."

"This is d.a.m.nable! Someone shall be made to speak--to suffer--or by G.o.d!----"

The words were hardly above a whisper, but the tone frightened the children.

"Auntie Dorrie!" they pleaded, and stretched out entreating arms.

"Come, darlings. The play is over and you did it beautifully."

They ran to her, clambered into her lap, and turned doubting eyes upon Thornton.

"You--expect me to--to--take both?" he asked, still in that low, thick tone.

"Certainly not. One is mine. I shall demand my rights, be quite sure of that."

"This is the most outrageous thing I ever heard of!" Thornton was at bay; "the most immoral."

"I have often thought that it might be," Doris returned, her lips against Nancy's fair hair, "but the more you consider it the more you are convinced that it is not. It is simply--unusual." The tone defied understanding. "You must consider what I have done, George, step by step. I did not act rashly. And when we come to actual contact with all the truth confronting us, you and I will have to be very frank. May I send the children away? It is time for their nap." Already Doris's finger was pressing the electric b.u.t.ton cunningly set in the coping of the fountain.

"Yes, do. There is much to say," Thornton muttered and, not having heard the bell, was startled at seeing the nurse appear at once. He looked up, and Mary looked at him. The girl felt the atmosphere. Thornton made a distinct impression upon her.

Left alone with Doris, Thornton drew his chair close to hers and waited for her to begin.

"Well," he said, "what have you to say? It would seem as if you might have a great deal, Doris."

"I have nothing to say."

"I suppose you did this to humiliate me--defeat me?" Thornton's lips twitched.

"On the contrary, after the first I gave you very little thought, George. I was concerned in making sure the future of Meredith's child."

"Did you forget that she was also mine?"

"I tried to. After a bit, I did--after the ident.i.ties of the babies became blurred. If you stop to think and are just, you will understand that I took a desperate chance to accomplish the most good to Meredith's child. That is all that seemed to count. Suppose you could claim your child now, would its future be as secure as it would be with me? Have you really the child's interest at heart--you, who left its mother to----"

"The mother--left me! Don't overlook facts, Doris." Thornton's face flamed angrily.

"Yes. In self-defence she left you!" Doris held him with eyes heavy with misery. "I knew everything necessary to know, George, that enabled me to take this step."

"But not enough to make you pause and consider!" A bitterness rang in the words.

"There are some occasions when one cannot, dare not, consider," said Doris.

Thornton got up and paced the room. Suddenly he turned like a man at bay.

"But the inheritance?" he flung out.

"I told you, George, it was the inheritance that forced me to it."

"I mean--" here Thornton's eyes fell--"I mean the money," he stammered.

"I see!" Doris's voice trembled; then she hastened on: "The money you sent, George, has never been touched. I have waited for this hour."

"And your revenge!" muttered Thornton.

"I had not considered it in that light." A deep contempt throbbed in the words. "When I remember I am not bitter, but I am filled, anew, with a desire to save Meredith's child!"

"At the risk of pa.s.sing her off as the child of--whom?"

And then Doris smiled--a long, strange smile that burnt its way into Thornton's consciousness.

"It was that doubt that saved, gave hope," she said, and quickly added, "I will tell you all there is to know, and then I request that you spare me another interview until you have come to a decision regarding--your child."

There was pitifully little to tell. A deserted mountain child!

"Who deserted it?" Thornton broke in.

"I did not ask. Sister Angela promised to find a home for it where no one would know of its sad birth--there are people willing to risk that much for a little child. I am!"

"And this--this Sister Angela----" Thornton asked.

"She died the year after."