mile 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."

"And the others?"

"I doubt if they ever knew much, but if they did they forgot--they are
like that; besides, I have not heard of them in years."

More and more Thornton realized the hopelessness of personal
investigation, and he was not prepared to take outside counsel,
certainly not yet.

"The Sisters did fairly well for the outcast in this instance," he
sneered, "but we may all have to pay some day. Murder will out, you
know!"

"Of course," Doris agreed, wearily; "we all understand that."

"Do you think the children will?" Thornton's eyes were gloomy and grave.
"How about the hour when they--know?"

Doris felt the pain in her heart that this possibility always awakened.
She raised her glance to the one full of hate and said quietly:

"Who can tell?"

There was a dull pause. Then:

"Well, I guess I have all I want for the present. I'm not out of the
game, Doris, just count on me being in it at every deal of the cards.
Good-bye--for now."

"Good-bye, George. I will not forget."

CHAPTER VI

"_There are two elements that go to the composition of friendship. One
is Truth; the other is Tenderness._"

After Thornton's departure Doris metaphorically, drew a long breath. She
felt that he would make no further move at present--how could he? As one
faces a possible surgical operation with the hope that Nature may
intervene to make it unnecessary, she turned to her blessed duties with
renewed vigour.

Of course, there were hours, there always would be hours, when, alone,
or when the children played near her, Doris wondered and speculated but
always reached the triumphant conclusion that her love, equal and
sincere, for both little girls, had been made possible by her
unprejudiced relations with them. And that must count for much.

Every time she was diverted from