“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 now Thornton thought that the worst was over.

“I will bring your little girl,” Doris said, and went quietly from the room.

Something of the sweetness and strength of the place seemed to go with her.  Again Thornton became restless, and it came back to him that his first aversion to Doris Fletcher was connected with this power of hers to overturn, without effort, his peace of mind and self-esteem.  But he had outwitted her in marrying her sister—­she had antagonized him but he had won then and would win again now!  The fountain irritated and annoyed him.  He got up and walked about the room.

“A devilish freakish conception,” he muttered, gazing at the fountain and kicking at a rare rug on the floor, “a kind of madness runs through the breed, I wager.  Too much blood of one sort gets clogged in the human system.”  And then he listened.

There were childish voices nearing:  sweet, piping voices with little gurgles of laughter rippling through.  The laugh of happy, healthy childhood.

“She’s bringing them both!” thought Thornton, and an ugly scowl came to his brow.  He did not know much about children, knew nothing really, except that they were noisy and usually messy—­some were better looking than others; gave promise, and he hoped his child would be handsome; it might help her along, and she would need all the help she could muster.  Then he heard Doris instructing the children: 

“See, Joan, dear, hold Nan by the hand like a big, strong sister, this is going to be another play.  Now listen sharp!  When we come to the steps you must stand close together and give that pretty courtesy that Mary taught you yesterday.  Now, darlings—­don’t forget!”

There are moments and incidents in life that seem out of all proportion to their apparent significance.  Thornton waited for what was about to happen as he might have the verdict were he on trial for his life.  He was frightened at he knew not what.  Would his child look like Meredith?  Would she have those eyes that could find his soul and burn it even while they smiled?  Would she look like him; find in him some thing that would help him to forget?  He looked up.  Doris had planned dramatically.  She left the babies alone on the top step and came down to Thornton.

“Aren’t they wonderful?” she asked in so calm and ordinary a tone that it was startling.

They were wonderful—­even a hard, indifferent man could see that.  Slim, vigorous little creatures they were with sturdy brown legs showing above socks and broad-toed sandals.  Their short white frocks fell in widening line from the shoulders, giving the effect of lightness, winginess.  Both children had lovely hair, curly, bobbed to a comfortable length, and their wide, curious eyes fastened instantly upon Thornton—­eyes of purple-blue and eyes of hazel-gold; strange eyes, frankly confronting him but disclosing nothing; eyes of utterly strange children; not a familiar feature or expression to guide him.