ewildered as to her steps. She who
had been the soul of frankness and cheerful friendliness was now
reticent and reserved.

"It is poor Meredith's business," friend after friend decided. Where
little was known, much was suspected. "The Fletchers cannot easily brook
_that_ sort of thing."

Just what that "sort" was depended upon the temperament and character of
the person speaking.

Then among the first to call after Doris's return was Mrs. Tweksbury, an
old and valued family friend, a woman who was worth one's while to gain
as friend, for she could be a desperate foe. She had formed all her
opinions of Meredith Thornton's tragedy upon what she knew and loved
concerning the girl, and what she knew nothing whatever about,
concerning Thornton.

To Mrs. Tweksbury he was a black villain who had murdered--there was no
other word for it--an innocent young creature who belonged to that class
(Mrs. Tweksbury was frank and clear about "class") not supposed to be
subject to the coarser dealings of life.

Mrs. Tweksbury relied absolutely upon what she termed her inherited
intuition. This was quite outside feminine intuition. The Tweksbury male
intellect had been judicial from the first, and "the constant necessity
of knowing men and women," as Mrs. Tweksbury often explained, "had left
its mark upon the family."

"_We know!_ That is all there is to say. We know!"

So Mrs. Tweksbury "knew" all about everything when she folded Doris in
her motherly arms.

"There is no need of a word, my dear," she said, "and you are dealing
with the whole thing superbly. Let me see the children. How fortunate
that they are twins _and_ girls! Girls may inherit from the father, but
thank God! nature saves them from the developing along his line. And
being _twins_ certainly modifies what might otherwise be concentrated."

Doris felt her heart beat fast. She was not prepared to confide in Mrs.
Tweksbury, certainly not at present. She loved the old woman for her
good qualities, but she shrank from putting herself at the mercy of Mrs.
Tweksbury's "inherited intuitions!"

So she said nothing, but sent for the children.

Hidden deep in the old woman's heart were all the denied and suppressed
yearnings of a love that had escaped fulfilment--a love that had entered
in after her marriage to a man utterly without sympathy with her, but
which had been rigidly ignored because of the stern moral fibre that
marked her. After the death of all those who h