of the door that startled Angela into consciousness.
Doris Fletcher stood within the room. Her eyes took in the scene, the
pretty face against Sister Angela's bosom; the sunlight lying full
across the bed and picking out into a gleam the golden cross that hung
to the floor.

"I'm too--late!"

Agony rang in the quiet words.

"And I've travelled day and night! Her letter was forwarded to me."

The letter burned against Doris's bosom like a tangible thing. She
crossed the room and sank beside the bed.

They all slipped through the following days as people do who realize
that troubles do not come to them, but are overtaken on the way. They
seemed always to have been there; some people pass on the other side,
but if one's path lies close, then one must go with what courage
possible--look hard, feel and groan with the understanding, and pass on
as best he can bearing the memory with him.

Father Noble came from many miles back in the hills. Riding his sturdy
little horse, his loose black cloak floating like benignant wings
bearing him on; his radiant old face shining even in the face of death.

He stayed until the wound in the hillside was covered over Meredith's
little form; stayed to see the flowers hide the scar, murmuring again
and again: "In the hope of joyful resurrection." His was the task to
bridge life and death, and there was no doubt in his beautiful soul.

"And now," he said, after four days, "I must go to Cleaver's
Clearing"--the Clearing was twenty hard miles away. "There are children
there who never heard of God until I took some toys to them last
Christmas. Then they thought that I was God. They are sick now, poor
children--bad food; no care--ah! well, they will learn, they will
learn."

And the old man rode away.

And still Doris had not seen Meredith's child.

"I cannot, Sister," she had pleaded. "I can think of it only as George
Thornton's child."

The hate in Doris's heart was so new and appalling a sensation that it
frightened her.

She tried to think of the unseen child with the love that she felt for
all children--but that one! She struggled to overcome the sickening
aversion that grew, instead of lessened, while the days dragged on. But
always the helpless child represented nothing but passion, brutality,
suffering, and disgrace. It was _not_ a child, a piteous, pleading
child--it was the essence of Wrong made visible.

Sister Angela was deeply concerned. The unnatural attitude called