veal themselves, then I lose; if
God is with me, I win."

"Dare--you?"

Doris stretched her arms as if pushing aside every obstacle.

"I do," she said. "I am not a daring woman: I am a weak and fearful
one--this, though, I dare!"

"But the father----" Angela whispered.

"The--father----" Doris's eyes flamed.

"But he may, as you say, claim the child." Angela hastened breathlessly
as one running.

"How could he, if I did not know which child was his?"

The blinding light began to point the way clearer, now, to the older
woman.

"It's--unheard of," she murmured, "and yet----"

"I will write to Thornton, offer to take his child," Doris was pleading,
rather than explaining. "I think at the first he will agree to the
proposal--what else can he do? The shock--remember, he does not even
know that a child is expected! Dare we refuse Meredith's child this only
and desperate chance--knowing what we do?"

Angela made no reply. She was letting go one after another of her rigid
beliefs. Again Doris spoke, again she pleaded:

"I will abide by your decision, Sister, but only after you have gone to
the chapel--and seen the way. I will wait here."

Angela rose stiffly, holding to her cross as if it were a physical
support. With bowed head she passed from the room and Doris sat down
thinking; demanding justice.

A half hour passed before steps were heard in the hall. Doris stood up,
her eyes fixed on the door.

Sister Angela entered, and in her arms, wrapped in the same blanket,
were two sleeping babies wearing the plain clothing that Ridge House
kept in store for emergencies. Doris ran forward; she bent over the
small creatures.

"Which?" Nature leaped forth in that one palpitating word--it was the
last claim of blood.

"I--forgot--when I brought them to you. We have all--forgot. It _is_ the
only way--the chance."

Doris took both children in her arms.

"I shall name them Joan and Nancy," she whispered, "for my mother and
grandmother. Joan and Nancy--Thornton!"

Then she kissed them, and it was given to her at that moment to forget
her bitter hatred.

CHAPTER IV

"_Just as much of doubt as bade us plant a surer foot upon the
sun-road._"

Doris Fletcher had no turning-back in her nature. She never reached a
goal but by patient effort to understand, and she was able to close her
eyes to by-paths.

Having adopted the children, having foregone her prejudices--good and
evil--having set her feet upon