There are moments and incidents in life that seem out of all proportion to their apparent significance. Thornton waited for what was about to happen as he might have the verdict were he on trial for his life. He was frightened at he knew not what. Would his child look like Meredith? Would she have those eyes that could find his soul and burn it even while they smiled? Would she look like him; find in him some thing that would help him to forget? He looked up. Doris had planned dramatically. She left the babies alone on the top step and came down to Thornton. "Aren't they wonderful?" she asked in so calm and ordinary a tone that it was startling. They were wonderful--even a hard, indifferent man could see that. Slim, vigorous little creatures they were with sturdy brown legs showing above socks and broad-toed sandals. Their short white frocks fell in widening line from the shoulders, giving the effect of lightness, winginess. Both children had lovely hair, curly, bobbed to a comfortable length, and their wide, curious eyes fastened instantly upon Thornton--eyes of purple-blue and eyes of hazel-gold; strange eyes, frankly confronting him but disclosing nothing; eyes of utterly strange children; not a familiar feature or expression to guide him. "I have called them Joan and Nancy," Doris was saying. "You expressed no preference, you know." "Which is--is--mine?" Thornton whispered the question that somehow made him flush with shame. "I do not know!" It was whisper meeting whisper. "You--what?" Thornton turned blazing eyes upon the woman by his side. Her answer did not seem to shock him so much as it revealed what he had suspected--Doris was playing with him, making him absurd by that infernal power of hers that he had all but forgotten. He recalled, too, with keen resentment her ability to transform a tragic incident into one of humour--or the reverse. "I do not know. I never have known," Doris was saying. "You see, I was afraid of heredity if I had to deal with it. Without knowing it I could be just to both children; give them the only possible opportunity to overcome handicaps. I thought they might reveal themselves--but so far they have not. They are adorable." "This is damnable! Someone shall be made to speak--to suffer--or by God!----" The words were hardly above a whisper, but the tone frightened the children. "Auntie Dorrie!" they pleaded, and stretched out entreating arms. "Come, darlings. The play is over and you did it beautifully." They ran to her, clambered into her lap, and turned doubting eyes upon Thornton. "You--expect me to--to--take both?" he asked, still in that low, thick tone. "Certainly not. One is mine. I shall demand my rights, be quite sure of that." "This is the most outrageous thing I ever heard of!" Thornton was at bay; "the most immoral."