n her life. The loom by the
window suddenly cried out, too, as if Nancy were bending over
it--working on her unfinished but perfect pattern.

"Oh!" The word escaped Joan and found its way to Thornton's sympathy at
last. He paused as he watched the suffering his words were causing.

"It's a damned ugly thing she did to you," he said, "a damned ugly one.
I warned her about the time when you would have to know. I've travelled
a long distance to set you straight. She'll pay--now!"

Joan tried to speak--failed--then tried again.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, huskily, at last.

Thornton regarded her with a dark frown.

"Do?" he repeated, "claim my own--and let her pay."

"What good--would that do--now?"

Thornton stared. Where had he heard words like those before? Why should
they seem to defy him? defeat him?

"I'm going to have the truth known at last or----"

"Or--what?"

Shame held Thornton silent for a moment, but life had him at close
grip--he was beaten unless help were given.

"You think they will enjoy--the Tweksbury crowd--I mean--to know the
parentage or--lack of it--of--the girl just palmed off on them as a
Thornton? I may not be all that could be desired, but such as I am--I'm
the saving clause." Thornton's coarseness was more and more evident.
"I wonder if you can justify this mess?" he asked, suddenly, with a new
interest.

Joan was not trying to justify it--she was seeing it only as the
beautiful thing Doris had accomplished by that power of hers to make
real her ideal. It had been, still was, her one hold on life.

"It's too late to talk about that now," she answered, slowly, and
thinking fast and far, far ahead.

"I imagine it will be expensive not to think of it; but she'll pay!"
Thornton was braced for definite action. The girl opposite confused him.
She looked so young; so agonized--so brave. She was so like---- At this
Thornton turned away his eyes. Only by so doing could he hold to his
course.

Slowly, like one dragging a heavy load, Joan was reaching a place of
clear understanding. Flashed upon her aching brain were blinding
pictures.

"One child was a forsaken waif of these hills----" Thornton had said.
"_Thunder Peak! The old woman! Mary's silent and secret mission!_" rang
the echo. Joan's eyes widened; her breath caught in her throat while she
compelled herself to weigh and consider--though she did it in the dark.
Then suddenly Mary became a tower of strength. Mary!