she became
absorbed. Joan was larger, stronger, seemed older. She had brown eyes
of that sunny tint which suggest sunshine. Her hair was brown, almost
from the first, with gold glints. She was fair, had little colour unless
the warm glow that rose and fell so sweetly in her face could be called
colour. Excitement brought the flush, disappointment or a chiding word
banished it. At other times Joan had the warm, ivory-tinted skin of
health, not delicacy. Nancy was, from the first, frankly blonde. She
never changed from the lovely, fair promise of her first year. She was
the most feminine creature one could imagine; a doll brought the light
to her violet eyes.

"She takes that rather than her milk," Mary explained, then gravely:
"She'll take her milk if I hold off the doll."

Nature was never quite sure what to do with Joan. She changed with the
years in tint, colouring, and character, but Nancy was fair, fine, and
delicately poised from her baby days.

Both children worshipped Doris--Auntie Dorrie, they were taught to call
her--and it was amusing to watch their relations to her. To please her,
to win her approval, were their highest hopes. Mary clearly preferred
Nancy and, for that reason, gave more attention to Joan.

When the children were nearly two Doris wrote to David Martin:

"I am coming home. I am glad that I have always kept the house in
commission; I feel that I can trust myself there now."

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
tast