"Very well, Sister." Constance folded the child to her ample breast; the
maternal in her gave the training she had received a divine quality. The
baby stirred, stretched out its little limbs, and opened its vague,
sleep-filled eyes as if at last something worthy of response had
appealed to it.

Sister Angela stood in the cold, dark hall listening, and when the door
of the west wing chamber closed, she felt, once more, secure. Sister
Angela was never able to describe afterward the state of mind that made
the happenings of the next few hours seem like flaming pillars against a
dead blur of sensation.

There was the sound of wheels. That set every nerve tense.

Meredith was in her arms--clinging, sobbing, and repeating:

"He must never have my child, Sister. Promise, promise!"

"I promise, my darling. I promise." Angela heard herself saying the
words as if they proceeded from the lips of a stranger.

"Has Doris come?"

"Not yet. She will be here soon."

"I can trust you and Doris. Doris knows. And now--I let go!"

Where had Sister Angela heard those words before? They went whirling
through her brain as if on a mighty wheel.