"He must not have the child," she murmured. "It's the only chance for
the salvation of Meredith's little girl. He _shall_ not have it!"

Doris bent toward the fire holding her cold, clasped hands to the heat.
Suddenly she turned.

"I am growing nervous," she said, "I thought I heard someone pressing
against the window--I thought I saw--a shadow drift outside in the
moonlight."

Angela started and sat upright. Every sense was alert--she was
remembering her promise to old Becky!

"I wish," she said, haltingly, "I wish I had consulted Father Noble. I
have undertaken too much."

"Consulted him about what, Sister?" Doris was touched by the quivering
voice and strained eyes; she set her own trouble aside.

Again that pressing sound, and the wind swirling the dead leaves against
the house.

"About a little deserted mountain child upstairs. I have promised to
find a home for it, but I cannot manage such things any more--I am too
old."

The words came plaintively, as if defending against implied neglect.

Doris's eyes grew deep and concerned.

"A deserted child?" she repeated. In the feverish haste and trouble of
the past few days the ordinary life of Ridge House had held no part. It
seemed to be claiming its rights now, pushing her aside.

Then Sister Angela, her tired face set toward the long window whence
came that pressing sound and the swish of the wind, told Becky's story.
She told it as she might if Becky were listening, ready at any lapse to
correct her, but she carefully refrained from mentioning names.

It eased her mind to turn from Doris's trouble to poor Becky's, and she
saw with relief that Doris was listening; was interested.

"It is strange," Sister Angela mused, when the bare telling of the story
was over, "how the deep, cruel things in life are met by people in much
the same way--the ignorant and the wise, when they touch the inscrutable
they let go and turn to a higher power than their own. Meredith felt
that her child's chance in life lay in a new and fresh start. The
mountain woman's curse, as she termed it, could only be conquered, so
she pleaded, by giving her grandchild to those who did not know. It
amounts to the same thing.

"Meredith is--gone; the old woman of the hills cannot last long. I
wonder, as to the children--I wonder!"

Doris's eyes were burning and her voice shook when she spoke. Her words
and tone startled Angela.

"Where is the--the mountain child?" she asked.

"Upstai