A black silence presently engulfed the whole world. At last Doris opened her eyes--or had they been open during the eternity when nothing had occurred? She glanced at the clock, a trivial thing against the carving of the wall, but upon whose face Truth sat faithfully. Two hours had passed since she had noticed the clock before! "But--I have been thinking a long time, planning for the children; reading the letter----" Doris sought to establish a normal state of affairs--she saw the letter lying at her feet, but did not bend to pick it up. "Only a faint. But I have never fainted before!" she thought on. She was not frightened, not even excited. She felt as if she had simply come upon something that she had always known was on the road ahead awaiting her. She had come upon it sooner than she had expected to, that was all. She did not want to pass into the silence again if she could help it, so she lay back in the chair quietly, guardedly, and waited. Then she heard steps. Outside the family only one person came unannounced to the sunken room and gladly, thankfully, Doris turned her eyes and met David Martin's as he paused at the doorway above. Martin had himself in control before Doris noticed the fear in his eyes. He came slowly to her, sat down beside her and, while simply taking her hand in greeting, let his trained touch fall upon her pulse. It told him the dread secret, but it did not shatter his calm--he even smiled into the pale face and said lightly: "Well, what have you been trying to do?" Doris told him, without emotion, what had occurred. She did not remove her hand from his--his touch comforted her; held her to the things she knew and loved and trusted. "And now, David," she said at last, "I think we have both known that some day this would occur. We are too good friends to be anything but frank--I am not afraid, and it is essential that I should know the truth. The family ogre has caught me--but it has not conquered me yet!" "Well, Doris--it is the first call!" The man's words hurt like a knife turned upon himself. "I feared so--and I am forty-nine." "A mere child, my dear, if we deal honestly with the fact. Your father was fifty-five and might have lived to be seventy if he had stopped in time. Your grandfather----" "Never mind, David, let's keep to me. How much longer--have I?" "No man on earth could tell you that, my dear, but I hope--always granting that you will be wise--that you may count on, say, twenty years." They both smiled. After all, what did it matter? "And--what do you suggest I should do--as a beginning of the--twenty years?" "Close this house, Doris, and start another kind of existence--somewhere else." "Why, David--I must bring the girls out, you know. They must not be told--of this."