t had Mary
known at Ridge House?

The dull, quiet girl, as Doris recalled her, seemed merely a part of the
machinery of the Sisters' Home; she had never taken her into
account--but had she been what she seemed? What was she now?

It was appalling--in the doubt as to what was, or was not--to think that
so much had been taken for granted.

The children had seemed babies. The mere physical care had been the main
consideration, and while that was going on Joan had grown weary of the
old games and Nancy had learned to gain her ends by indirect methods.

Clearly, Doris must have help at this juncture.

"I see," she thought on, heavily, "why fathers _and_ mothers are none
too many where children are concerned."

It was then that she thought of David Martin in a strangely new way--a
way that brought a faint colour to her cheeks.

All the afternoon she thought of him while she, having set Mary to other
tasks, devoted herself to Nancy and Joan. She read to them, scampered
through the house with them, did anything and everything they suggested,
until she had subdued the nervous strain and could laugh a bit at her
bugbears of the morning. Joan, flushed and towzled, Nancy, sweetly
radiant, effaced the menacing images her anxiety had created--but she
still needed help. And David Martin was the one, the only one among her
friends who seemed adequate to her need.

"I've tried to be a mother," she thought, "but I have taken the father
out of their lives--I must supply it."

When the children were in bed and the house quiet, Doris went to the
sunken room and, taking up the telephone receiver, called her number.
She was calm and at peace. She was prepared to lay the whole matter of
the past few years before David Martin, and she was conscious, already,
of relief.

"I am going to let myself--go!" she thought, her ear waiting for a
reply.

It was Martin who answered.

"David, are you quite free for an hour?"

"For the entire evening, Doris. Are the children sick?"

How like Martin that was! What most concerned and interested Doris was
first in his thought.

Doris's face twitched.

"It's my friend," she said, slowly, "that I want. Not my physician."

"I'll be there in a half hour."

The soft drip of the rain outside was soothing. So happy did Doris feel
that she wondered if her fears would not strike Martin as absurd, and
after all, why should she lay her burden of confession upon him in order
to ease her perplexity?