“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.

“Upstairs, my dear.  Why, Doris, you are shaking as if you had a chill.  You are ill—­let me call Sister Constance.”

But Doris stayed her as she rose.

“No, no, Sister.  I am only trembling because my feet are set on a possible way!  I am—­I am pushing things aside.  Tell me, is this child a girl?”

“Yes.”

“How old is it?”

“It was born the night before Meredith’s child.  It survived against grave dangers—­it had no care, really, for twenty-four hours.”

“You—­you think it will live?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think—­the grandmother will ever reclaim it?”

“No, my dear.  She is very old.  I do not know how old, but certainly she cannot last much longer.  She is a strange creature, but I am confident she realizes all that she said.”

“And she is right—­it is the only way.”  Doris was now speaking more to herself than to Angela.  It was as if she were arguing, seeking to convince her conservative self before she stepped out upon a new and perilous path.

“No one knowing!  Then the start could be new.  It is the knowing, expecting, and suggesting that do the harm.  We may call it inheritance, but it may be that we evolve from our knowledge and fears the very thing we would avert if we were left free.”

Sister Angela bent forward.  She whispered as if she felt the necessity of secrecy.

“What do you mean?”

“Sister, can you not see?  Suppose it were possible for me to take Merry’s child without the knowledge of its inheritance from the father.  Suppose this little mountain child were given its chance among people who did not know.”

“The children would reveal themselves, my dear.”  Angela was defending, she knew not what, but all her nature was up in arms.  “It is God’s way.”

“Or our bungling and lack of faith, Sister, which?”

All the weariness and hopelessness passed from Doris’s face; she was eager, her eyes shone.  Presently she stood up, her back to the fire, her glance on that far window that opened to the starry night and the narrow, flower-hidden bed on the hill.

“Sister Angela,” the words were spoken solemnly as a vow might be taken before God, “I am going to take—­both children.  But on one condition—­I am not to know which is Meredith’s.”

A log rolling from the irons startled the women—­their nerves were strained to the breaking point.

“Impossible!” gasped Angela.

“Why?”

“Your own has claims upon you!”

“None that I am not willing to give—­but this is the only way.  If, as you say, it is God’s way that they reveal themselves, then I lose; if God is with me, I win.”