hat made the first bitter year possible
for me. I have done my best, George, my happiest best--she is lovely;
the most joyous thing you can imagine. Remembering how much Meredith and
I needed each other, I adopted a child at the same time I undertook the
care of your baby--the two are inseparable and wonderfully congenial."

Thornton's brow clouded. He could not have described his sensations, but
they were similar to those he had once experienced, standing alone in a
dense Philippine thicket, and suddenly recalling that he was not popular
with the natives. He sensed a menace somewhere.

"You're quite remarkable, Doris," he said, "but was it altogether
wise--the adoption, I mean? I suppose you know everything about the--the
child, but even so, the break now will be difficult for--for everybody."

Doris gave him a long, steady look.

"I know very little about the child I adopted," she said. "The poor waif
was deserted, and as to the wrench now, why, life has taught me, also,
George, to take what joy one can and be willing to pay for it. We cannot
afford to let a great blessing slip because we may have to do without it
bye and bye."

"But--inheritance, Doris! You, of all women, to undervalue that! It was
a bit risky, but of course while children are so young----" Thornton
paused and Doris broke in.

"Inheritance is such a tricky thing," she said, looking out into the
flower-filled garden, "it is such a clever masquerader. Often it is like
those insects that take upon themselves the colour of the leaf upon
which they cling. It isn't what it seems, and when one really
knows--why, one can hardly be just, because of the injustice of
inheritance."

"Queer reasoning," muttered Thornton. "Why, that--kid's father might
be---- well, anything!" Why he said "father" would be hard to tell.

"Exactly!" agreed Doris. "But when I did not know, I could be fair and
unhampered. It has paid--the child is adorable."

"Shows no--no--evil tendencies?" Thornton grew more and more restive.

"On the contrary--only divine ones."

"We're all lucky." The man sighed, then spoke hurriedly: "I'd like to
see my little girl. She is here--of course?"

"Oh! yes. I have never been separated from her. I suppose--you mean
to----" Doris paused.

"I mean to relieve you, Doris, and assume my responsibility--now that I
dare."

"Your wife--is she willing?" Doris longed to say "worthy" but she knew
that the woman was not.

"More than willing." And