"I will abide by your decision, Sister, but only after you have gone to the chapel—and seen the way. I will wait here."
Angela rose stiffly, holding to her cross as if it were a physical support. With bowed head she passed from the room and Doris sat down thinking; demanding justice.
A half hour passed before steps were heard in the hall. Doris stood up, her eyes fixed on the door.
Sister Angela entered, and in her arms, wrapped in the same blanket, were two sleeping babies wearing the plain clothing that Ridge House kept in store for emergencies. Doris ran forward; she bent over the small creatures.
"Which?" Nature leaped forth in that one palpitating word—it was the last claim of blood.
"I—forgot—when I brought them to you. We have all—forgot. It is the only way—the chance."
Doris took both children in her arms.
"I shall name them Joan and Nancy," she whispered, "for my mother and grandmother. Joan and Nancy—Thornton!"
Then she kissed them, and it was given to her at that moment to forget her bitter hatred.