ank you," he said with infinite tenderness; "you are permitting me to
share all that you have, my dear. Good-night."

CHAPTER VII

"_To do our best is one part, but to wash our hands smilingly of the
consequences is the next part, of any sensible virtue._"

In much that frame of mind, Doris arose the day following Martin's call.

By some subtle force the debris of the past seemed to have been disposed
of; the misunderstanding on her part and David's.

"It is the 'call' that makes everything possible or tragically
wretched," she said, "and one cannot be blamed for being born deficient.
Thank God I fitted in, though, when others were called away."

With David's understanding and cooeperation the present could be
confronted and the "hand washing of consequences" undertaken.

"I have done my best," Doris felt sure of this, "_my_ best, and now I
must do a bit of trusting. It has been my one daring adventure. It must
not fail."

After many attempts she wrote and dispatched a letter to George
Thornton, simply stating that she was about to send the children to
school.

While waiting for his reply she turned her attention to Mary, for in any
case, she decided, the children must be placed in another's care. What
Mary felt when Doris explained things to her no one was ever likely to
know. The girl's face became blanker; the lines stiffened.

"It was," Doris confided later to Martin, "as if I were wiping the past
out as I spoke."

The fact was that Doris was rekindling the past--the past that lay back
of the years of plain duty.

"I have not overlooked, Mary," Doris strove to get under the crust of
reserve and find something with which to deal emotionally, "the years of
devotion to us all. You have made no social ties for yourself; have not
taken any pleasures outside--what would you like to do now, Mary?"

"Go home."

"Go--home? Why--where is home, Mary?"

The pathos struck Doris--the pathos of those who, having served others,
find themselves stranded at last.

"Down to Silver Gap." As she spoke, Mary was hearing already the sound
of the river on the rocks and seeing the spring flowers in the crevices
of the hills.

"You mean, go back to Ridge House? You could not stay there alone, Mary,
with old Jed."

Mary stared blankly--she was further back than Ridge House.

"I've been saving," she went slowly on, "all the years. I reckon I have
most enough to buy the cabin where us-all was born." The tone and