And so the little family travelled east.  Mary in trim uniform (and how she silently hated it) of black, with immaculate cuffs, collars, and cap; the babies perfect in every way and Doris, herself, happier than she had ever been in her life—­handsomer, too.  Her life had developed normally around the children; she felt a wide and deep interest in everything, and always the sense of high adventure, a daring in her relations to the future.

The old Fletcher house set the standard for the others down the long row.  It was brick, with heavy oak, brass-bound doors.  The marble steps and white trim were spotless and glistening and behind it lay a deep yard hidden by a tall brick wall.  The house had reserved, as the family had, the right, once its civic duty was performed, to develop inwardly along its own lines.

The three generations, in turn, had set their marks upon it.  The first Fletcher had been a genial soul given to entertaining, and the dining room, back of the drawing room, gave evidence of the old gentleman’s taste.  It was a stately and beautiful room and each article of furniture had been made to fit into the space and the need by an artist.

Doris’s father was not indifferent to his father’s tastes, but he was a student at heart and had a vision as to libraries.  He encroached upon the ample space back of the house and had built an oval room through whose leaded panes the peach and plum trees could be seen like traceries on the clear glass.  Around the walls of this room the book shelves ranged at just the right height, and above them hung pictures that inspired but did not obtrude.  The high, carved chimney with its deep, generous hearth was a benediction.

When Doris had come home from St. Mary’s she made known a family trait—­she voiced what to her seemed an inspiration but which to the father, at first, seemed madness.  Still, he complied and spent many happy hours before his death in what he called “Doris’s Daring.”

“I want the west wall of the library knocked out, Father,” she had said, but Mr. Fletcher only stared.

“We can have the books and pictures in my room—­my sunken room.  There is enough garden to spare and we can save the roses.  We’ll drop down from the library by a shallow flight of steps; we’ll have a little fountain and about a mile of nice low window seats rambling around the room.  I don’t want nymphs in the fountain but dear, adorable children tossing water at each other.

“We must have birds in cages, and plants and pictures—­it must be a room where we can all take what is dearest to us—­and live.”

Of course it was an expensive and daring conception, but it was carried out by an inspired young architect, and it was Meredith who had posed for the figures in the fountain.

When Doris returned to New York with her children this room became the soul of the house.

The year after Doris’s adoption of the children Sister Angela died suddenly.  “She simply fell asleep,” Sister Constance wrote.