The children often peered through the high fence (it really was more fun
than the stupid games directed by their elders) and wondered--at least
Doris wondered; Meredith was either amused or shocked; if the latter it
was an easy matter to turn aside. This hurt Doris, and to her plea that
the thing was there, Meredith returned that she did not believe it, and
she did not, either.

Once, shielded by the skirts of an outgoing maid, Doris made her escape
and, for two thrilling and enlightening hours, revelled in the company
of the Great Unknown who were not deemed worthy of keys.

Doris had found them vital, absorbing, and human; they changed the whole
current of her life and thought; she was never the same again, neither
was anything else.

The nurse was at once dismissed and Mr. Fletcher placed his daughters in
the care of Sister Angela, who was then at the head of a fashionable
school for girls--St. Mary's, it was called.

Sister Angela believed in keys but had ideas as to their uses and the
good sense to keep them out of sight.

Under her wise and loving rule Doris Fletcher never suspected the hold
upon her and, while she did not forget the experience she had once had
outside the park, she no longer yearned to repeat it, for the present
was wholesomely full. As for Meredith, she felt that all danger was
removed--for Doris; for herself, what could shatter her joy? It was only
running outside gates that brought trouble.