Then Nancy's loveliness and charm gave their convincing evidence against
Joan's own characteristics. At this she shuddered.

"Doris said she never knew which child was mine," Thornton's words still
echoed.

"But she must have known!" Joan bowed her head, and all the loneliness
of her life gathered in this moment of supreme acceptance. She knew,
now, why she was, as she was; she knew why they could all cling
together. There was something that could hold them together; something
stronger than Doris could command. There _was_ a pay day! It had come!

"I do not see," Joan spoke at last, and her voice was heavy and even,
"why you should think you can harm Nancy. If what you have told is--I
mean, _because_ what you have told is true--Nancy cannot be hurt--Nancy
is--is yours! You would never doubt that if you saw her. I suppose you
think"--here Joan's eyes flamed--"you can get more by attacking Nancy."

At this Thornton startled Joan by throwing his head back and laughing
aloud, fearlessly, roughly.

She was alarmed. The servants--what would they think? Mary--suppose Mary
should appear? But above all else Joan wanted to get this hideous thing
over before Doris returned. Never for an instant did she falter there.

But the laugh continued, less noisy but more reckless.

"Well, by heaven, you are game!" Thornton managed to form the words, and
in his eyes there was a glint of admiration. His old sporting spirit
awakened--he knew the genuine ring of metal.

"Why, see here, my girl," he drew from his pocket a gold locket and an
old daguerreotype; "you don't suppose I came without evidence, do you?"

Mechanically Joan reached across the table and took the articles--her
fingers were stiff and cold, but she managed to unclasp the cases.
Thornton was watching her; he had stopped laughing.

In the locket were two miniatures--one of Meredith Fletcher, one of
Thornton painted just after their marriage--Doris had the duplicate of
Meredith's.

"That," Thornton spoke deliberately, as Joan turned to the other, "is my
mother! She and I were very like."

Joan drew her breath in sharp.

Once, back in the Dondale days, she had sung some of her old English
ballads in costume--a quaint picture of her had been taken at the time
and, for an instant, she thought this was it--she vaguely wondered how
Thornton had got it--she could not think clearly--her brain was growing
cloudy. Then she turned the old case over in her hand and looked at