"Doris must be over thirty," he mused, "and not of the marrying type. There must be a pretty big pile to back all this." He got quickly to his feet, for Doris appeared just then at the doorway leading to the library. She paused at the top of the stairs--there was a strip of green velvet carpet running down the middle of the marble steps; her white gown came just to her ankles, and the narrow white-shod feet sank lightly into the green carpet as if it were moss. "I am glad to see that you have made yourself comfortable, George," she said, and smiled her very finest smile. There was no hint of reproof in the tone, but Thornton instantly wondered if it would not have been wiser to have kept to the reception room. "I hope I have not intruded," he went to the steps and held out his hand, "it _is_ home, you know, after all." This was meant to be conciliatory, but the appeal went astray. "Let us sit by the window," Doris remarked, "the air is delightful to-day." And then came the pause during which the path leading to an understanding must be chosen. Doris left the choosing to Thornton. He took the wrong one. "It brings so much back," he half whispered, "so much!" He was a fairly good actor, but Doris was not appreciative. "So much that had better be left where it rests," she said. "I have learned that the present needs every energy--the past can take care of itself." "You have had the real burden." Thornton meant to be magnanimous. "I shall always be grateful for your splendid help at a time when so much was at stake. Your goodness to my child----" For a moment Thornton could not think whether the child was a girl or a boy. He was confused and a bit alarmed. Doris came to his assistance. "Meredith's little girl was all that made the first bitter year possible for me. I have done my best, George, my happiest best--she is lovely; the most joyous thing you can imagine. Remembering how much Meredith and I needed each other, I adopted a child at the same time I undertook the care of your baby--the two are inseparable and wonderfully congenial." Thornton's brow clouded. He could not have described his sensations, but they were similar to those he had once experienced, standing alone in a dense Philippine thicket, and suddenly recalling that he was not popular with the natives. He sensed a menace somewhere. "You're quite remarkable, Doris," he said, "but was it altogether wise--the adoption, I mean? I suppose you know everything about the--the child, but even so, the break now will be difficult for--for everybody." Doris gave him a long, steady look. "I know very little about the child I adopted," she said. "The poor waif was deserted, and as to the wrench now, why, life has taught me, also, George, to take what joy one can and be willing to pay for it. We cannot afford to let a great blessing slip because we may have to do without it bye and bye."