"Indeed and you shall—for the carelessness that you show."
Somehow Mary lived through the day with her ears strained and a mighty fear in her heart.
It was nearing morning of the following day—that darkest hour—when the girl arose from her sleepless bed and stole forth again.
It was just then that Sister Constance, her face distorted by grief and the play of candlelight upon it, entered the west chamber with a baby in her arms!
Mary gripped the shutters—she felt faint and weak. Suppose she should slip and fall?
And then she saw two children on the bed and Sister Constance—bent in prayer—her cross pressed to her lips.
All this Mary had seen, but when Sister Angela asked her if she would like to go with Miss Fletcher and care for the children, so great was her curiosity that she, mentally, tore her roots from her home hills; let go her clinging to the deserted cabin where she had been born, and almost eagerly replied: "I'd like it powerful."
So Mary took her place.
Doris Fletcher had her plans well laid.
"I must have myself well in hand," she said to Sister Angela, "before I go to New York. There's the little bungalow in California where father took mother before Merry's birth. It happens to be vacant. I will go there and work out my plans."