Again it was possible for Doris to face any fact that might present itself--she knew that, by her past course, she had not only secured justice for the children but faith in herself. Her greatest concern now was the menace of Thornton. "Think of Nancy," she mused, "sweet, sensitive, and fine, under such influence! And Joan so high-strung and reckless! It would be a hopeless condition!" Looked upon from this viewpoint Doris grew depressed. While her conscience remained clear as to any real wrong she had done in acting as she had, there were anxious hours spent in imagining that time when, as Thornton said, the girls themselves must know. When must they know? Doris had not considered that before to any extent. Thornton might demand at once that they know the truth. He had a right to that. Here was a new danger, but as the silence continued the immediate fear of this lessened. And the children were mere babies. They could not possibly understand if they were told, now. Until such time, then, as they must be told, Doris renewed her efforts in building well the small, healthy minds and bodies. "When they marry"--this brought a smile--"when they marry! Of course, then, they must know." With that conclusion reached, anxiety was once more lulled to rest. Gradually the old peaceful days merged into new peaceful days. Doris entered, little by little, into her social duties so long neglected; the children romped and lived joyously in the old house--"just children"--until suddenly a small but significant thing occurred when they were nine years of age that startled Doris into a line of thought that brought about a radical change in all their lives. She was sitting in the library one stormy day, reading. The tall back of the chair hid her from view, the fire and the book were soothing, and the excuse--that the storm gave her the right to do what she wanted to do, rather than what she, otherwise, might feel she should do--added to her enjoyment. From above she heard the voices of the children and Mary's quiet intervention now and again. Then Joan laughed, and the sound struck Doris as if she had never heard it before. What a peculiar laugh it was--for a child! Silver clear, musical, but with a note of defiance, recklessness, and yes, almost abandon. Joan was teasing Nancy about her dolls--Joan detested dolls, she declared that it was their stupid stare that made her dislike them. She only wanted live things: dogs and cats, not even birds--she was sorry for birds. Nancy's dolls were to her "children," and she was pleading now for an especial favourite and Joan was praying--rather mockingly--that God would let it get smashed because of "the proud nose." "But God makes children's noses!" Nancy was urging. "Well! He don't make dolls," Joan insisted, and proceeded with her petition until Nancy's wails brought Mary upon the scene.