So Mary took her place.

Doris Fletcher had her plans well laid.

“I must have myself well in hand,” she said to Sister Angela, “before I go to New York.  There’s the little bungalow in California where father took mother before Merry’s birth.  It happens to be vacant.  I will go there and work out my plans.”

It seemed a simple solution.  The children throve from the start in the sunshine and climate; the peace and detachment acted like charms, and Mary, stifling her soul’s homesickness, grew stern as to face, but marvellously tender and capable in her duties.  Doris grew accustomed to her silence and reserve after a time, but she never understood Mary, although she grew to depend upon her absolutely.  To friends in New York, especially to Doctor David Martin, Doris wrote often.  She was never quite sure how the impression was given that Meredith had left twins; certainly she had not said that, but she had spoken of “the children” without laying stress upon the statement, and while debating just what explanation she would make.  After all, it was her own affair.  Some day she would confide in David, but there were more important details to claim her attention.

The babies were adorable, but in neither could she trace an expression or suggestion of Meredith.  Their childish characteristics gave no clue—­they were simply healthy, normal creatures full of the charm that all childhood should have in common.  And gradually, as time passed, Doris lost herself in their demanding individualities; she became absorbed.  Joan was larger, stronger, seemed older.  She had brown eyes of that sunny tint which suggest sunshine.  Her hair was brown, almost from the first, with gold glints.  She was fair, had little colour unless the warm glow that rose and fell so sweetly in her face could be called colour.  Excitement brought the flush, disappointment or a chiding word banished it.  At other times Joan had the warm, ivory-tinted skin of health, not delicacy.  Nancy was, from the first, frankly blonde.  She never changed from the lovely, fair promise of her first year.  She was the most feminine creature one could imagine; a doll brought the light to her violet eyes.

“She takes that rather than her milk,” Mary explained, then gravely:  “She’ll take her milk if I hold off the doll.”

Nature was never quite sure what to do with Joan.  She changed with the years in tint, colouring, and character, but Nancy was fair, fine, and delicately poised from her baby days.

Both children worshipped Doris—­Auntie Dorrie, they were taught to call her—­and it was amusing to watch their relations to her.  To please her, to win her approval, were their highest hopes.  Mary clearly preferred Nancy and, for that reason, gave more attention to Joan.

When the children were nearly two Doris wrote to David Martin: 

“I am coming home.  I am glad that I have always kept the house in commission; I feel that I can trust myself there now.”