“Do you think the children will?” Thornton’s eyes were gloomy and grave.  “How about the hour when they—­know?”

Doris felt the pain in her heart that this possibility always awakened.  She raised her glance to the one full of hate and said quietly: 

“Who can tell?”

There was a dull pause.  Then: 

“Well, I guess I have all I want for the present.  I’m not out of the game, Doris, just count on me being in it at every deal of the cards.  Good-bye—­for now.”

“Good-bye, George.  I will not forget.”

CHAPTER VI

“There are two elements that go to the composition of friendship.  One is Truth; the other is Tenderness.”

After Thornton’s departure Doris metaphorically, drew a long breath.  She felt that he would make no further move at present—­how could he?  As one faces a possible surgical operation with the hope that Nature may intervene to make it unnecessary, she turned to her blessed duties with renewed vigour.

Of course, there were hours, there always would be hours, when, alone, or when the children played near her, Doris wondered and speculated but always reached the triumphant conclusion that her love, equal and sincere, for both little girls, had been made possible by her unprejudiced relations with them.  And that must count for much.

Every time she was diverted from her chosen path she courageously took stock, as it were, of her gains and possible losses.

For instance, when Mrs. Tweksbury had appeared to discern resemblance between Nancy and Meredith, she wondered if, as often is the case, the impartial observer could discover what familiarity had screened?

But try as she did, at that time, she could not find the slightest physical trace of likeness, and she brought old photographs to her aid.  While, on the other hand, the mental and temperamental characteristics of both little girls were such as were common to healthy childhood.

Again it was possible for Doris to face any fact that might present itself—­she knew that, by her past course, she had not only secured justice for the children but faith in herself.

Her greatest concern now was the menace of Thornton.

“Think of Nancy,” she mused, “sweet, sensitive, and fine, under such influence!  And Joan so high-strung and reckless!  It would be a hopeless condition!”

Looked upon from this viewpoint Doris grew depressed.  While her conscience remained clear as to any real wrong she had done in acting as she had, there were anxious hours spent in imagining that time when, as Thornton said, the girls themselves must know.

When must they know?

Doris had not considered that before to any extent.

Thornton might demand at once that they know the truth.  He had a right to that.

Here was a new danger, but as the silence continued the immediate fear of this lessened.  And the children were mere babies.  They could not possibly understand if they were told, now.