children--bad food; no care--ah! well, they will learn, they will
learn."

And the old man rode away.

And still Doris had not seen Meredith's child.

"I cannot, Sister," she had pleaded. "I can think of it only as George
Thornton's child."

The hate in Doris's heart was so new and appalling a sensation that it
frightened her.

She tried to think of the unseen child with the love that she felt for
all children--but that one! She struggled to overcome the sickening
aversion that grew, instead of lessened, while the days dragged on. But
always the helpless child represented nothing but passion, brutality,
suffering, and disgrace. It was _not_ a child, a piteous, pleading
child--it was the essence of Wrong made visible.

Sister Angela was deeply concerned. The unnatural attitude called forth
her old manner of authority. Sitting alone with Doris before the fire in
the living room the evening of Meredith's funeral and Father Noble's
departure she grew stern and commanding.

"This will never do, my dear," she said. "It cannot be that life has
made of you a cruel, unjust woman."

Doris dropped her eyes--they were wonderful eyes, her real and only
claim to beauty. Dusky eyes they were, with a light in them of amber.