irely your own affair. You wrote
to me while you were away about Meredith. I realized how cut up you
were, and God knows you had reason to be. Until you needed me, I don't
see but what you had a right to act as you saw fit about the children."

"David, I always need you. It is because I need you so much that I have
decency to keep my hands off!"

Martin's brows drew close, his mouth looked stern, but he was again
controlling the old, undying longing to possess the only woman he had
ever loved, and shield her from herself!

Then he gave his prescription:

"Doris, get rid of Mary. Find a proper place for her and forget whatever
doubts you may have. Remember only her years of service; she gave the
best she had. Then send the children to Miss Phillips'. Of course, you
must write to Thornton. Tell him as much or as little as you choose.
He's rightfully in the game. We're all three playing with a dummy." How
Doris blessed Martin for that "we three!" He had come into the game and,
once in, Martin could be depended upon.

"You've run amuck among accepted codes," he was saying with that curious
chuckle of his, "and yet, by heaven! you seem to have established a
divinely inspired one for the kids."

"You think that, David? You are not trying to comfort me?"

Martin got up. He seemed suddenly in a hurry to be off. He had given
what he could to meet Doris's need--given it briefly, concisely, as was
his way.

Doris brought his coat and held it for him--her face lifted to his with
that yearning in her eyes that always unnerved him. It was the look of
one who must offer an empty cup to another who thirsted. Then she spoke,
after all the silent years:

"David, I have always loved you, but I am beginning to understand at
last about love. I had not the 'call' in my soul. Merry had it, the
mountain mother had it--but it never came to me. Without it, I dared not
offer to pay the cost of marriage. That would have been unjust to you. I
did realize that, but the deeper truth has only come recently. I wonder
if you can understand, dear, if I say now, even _now_, that I would be
glad for you to marry and be happy--as you should be?"

"Doris, I counted that all up years ago. It did not weigh against you!"
Martin's voice was husky.

"Then, David, be my friend and the friend of my little children. For
their sakes, I implore your help along the way."

Martin bent and touched his lips to Doris's head which was bowed before
him.

"Th