"They discounted your resemblance to my side of the house." There was something almost pathetic underlying the sneer in Thornton's voice. "I did not know myself until I came in the door--but when I saw you, it was as if my mother stood here." Joan could not speak, but, as a change of wind turned the mists in The Gap _to_ the east instead of _from_ the east, so her clouds were drifting; drifting, and a flood of light was blinding her. She looked up--her eyes were shining with tears that did not fall; her lips twitched nervously, but she was happy; happy. The sensation brought strength and purpose. She did not seem alone--she was close, close to them who, unseen, but vital, were pressing near; waiting for her decision--now that she understood! What had her unconscious preparation done for her? Oh! she would not fail them. She was almost ready to prove herself. In a moment she could master her emotions and be worthy. Then she looked at Thornton and throbbed with hate; but as she looked her mood again changed--she felt such pity as she had never known in her life before. It repelled; it did not attract--but it was pity that called forth a desire to help. Clasping the silent witnesses of the truth in her cold hands Joan spoke: "No! Aunt Doris and Nancy shall not pay," she said, quietly. "Who--then?" Thornton felt the ground slipping from under him. The young creature opposite looked so old and hard that she impressed him in spite of himself. "You and I--will pay!" By those words Joan took her stand with Thornton, not against him. He winced. "Think--think what all this means," she faltered. Thornton did think. He thought back of the girl confronting him with his mother's eyes. The backward path was black and wreck-strewn; it led--where? "Aunt Doris has told me of--of my mother! You and I owe my mother----" here Joan choked and Thornton burst in: "But is it right and decent--that this imposition should be put upon innocent people? That girl--may turn out to be----" But Joan was not heeding. She paused and looked at the unfinished but perfect work upon the loom! "It is too late now to consider that," she whispered, brokenly. Then: "Aunt Doris has saved Nancy. You need have no fear. "Oh! can you not see what a chance you have to--to help this wonderful thing Aunt Doris did?" "Help? How?" Thornton sunk back in his chair. He was crushed--but in the depths of his soul something was stirring; something that he believed had died when he heard of the birth of the girl across the table who was pleading with him for those who had made her what she was! "How?" "Why--by simply--going away!" Thornton almost broke again into that maddening laugh, but caught himself in time. "That sounds--devilish easy!" he said, furiously, but the flare of passion died at birth, for Joan was saying: