--for the carelessness that you show."

Somehow Mary lived through the day with her ears strained and a mighty
fear in her heart.

It was nearing morning of the following day--that darkest hour--when the
girl arose from her sleepless bed and stole forth again.

It was just then that Sister Constance, her face distorted by grief and
the play of candlelight upon it, entered the west chamber with a baby in
her arms!

Mary gripped the shutters--she felt faint and weak. Suppose she should
slip and fall?

And then she saw two children on the bed and Sister Constance--bent in
prayer--her cross pressed to her lips.

All this Mary had seen, but when Sister Angela asked her if she would
like to go with Miss Fletcher and care for the children, so great was
her curiosity that she, mentally, tore her roots from her home hills;
let go her clinging to the deserted cabin where she had been born, and
almost eagerly replied: "I'd like it powerful."

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;