[Illustration: "Do you think I am the sort of girl who would sellherself for anything--even for the justice I might think was yours?"]

THE MAN THOU GAVEST

BY

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

AUTHOR OF JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS, A SON OF THE HILLS, ETC. 

FRONTISPIECE BY E. F. WARD

DEDICATION

_I dedicate this book of mine to the lovely spot where most of it waswritten_

THE MACDOWELL COLONY PETERBOROUGH NEW HAMPSHIRE

AND

"TO HER WHO UNDERSTANDS"

Deep in the pine woods is the little Studio where work is made supremelypossible. Around the house the birds and trees sing together and nodisturbing thing is permitted to trespass. 

Within, like a tangible Presence, an atmosphere of loved labour; goodwill and high hopes greet the coming guests and speed the parting. 

Little Studio in the pine woods, my appreciation and affection areyours!

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

THE MAN THOU GAVEST

CHAPTER I

The passengers, one by one, left the train but Truedale took no heed. Hewas the only one left at last, but he was not aware of it, and then, just as the darkness outside caught his attention, the train stopped sosuddenly that it nearly threw him from his seat. 

"Accident?" he asked the conductor. "No, sah! Pine Cone station. Ireckon the engineer come mighty nigh forgetting--he generally does atthe end. The tracks stop here. You look mighty peaked; some oneexpecting yo'?"

"I've been ill. My doctor ordered me to the hills. Yes: some one willmeet me. " Truedale did not resent the interest the man showed; he wasgrateful. 

"Well, sah, if yo' man doesn't show up--an' sometimes they don't, owingto bad roads--you can come back with us after we load up with the wood. I live down the track five miles; we lie thar fur the night. Yo' don'tlook equal to taking to yo' two standing feet. "

The entire train force of three men went to gather fuel for the returntrip and, dejectedly, Truedale sat down in the gloom and silence toawait events. 

No human being materialized and Truedale gave himself up to gloomythoughts. Evidently he must return on the train and to-morrow morningtake to--just then a spark like a falling star attracted his attentionand to his surprise he saw, not a dozen feet away, a tall lank manleaning against a tree in an attitude so adhesive that he might havebeen a fungus growth or sprig of destroying mistletoe. It never occurredto Truedale that this indifferent onlooker could be interested in him, but he might be utilized in the emergency, so he saluted cordially. 

"Hello, friend!"

By the upward and downward curve of the glowing pipe bowl, Truedaleconcluded the man was nodding. 

"I'm waiting for Jim White. "

"So?" The one word came through the darkness without interest. 

"Do you happen to know him?"

"Sorter. "

"Could you--get me to his place?"

"I reckon. That's what I come ter do. "

"I--I had a trunk sent on ahead; perhaps it is in that shed?"

"It's up to--to Jim's place. Can you ride behind me on the mare?Travelling is tarnation bad. "

Once they were on the mare's back, conversation dragged, then died anatural death. Truedale felt as if he were living a bit of anti-warromance as he jogged along behind his guide, his grip knockingunpleasantly against his leg as the way got rougher. 

It was nine o'clock when, in a little clearing close by the trail, thelights of a cabin shone cheerily and the mare stopped short anddefinitely. 

"I hope White is at home!" Truedale was worn to the verge of exhaustion. 

"I be Jim White!" The man dismounted and stood ready to assist hisguest. 

"Welcome, stranger. Any one old Doc McPherson sends here brings hiswelcome with him. "

About a fortnight later, Conning Truedale stretched his long legs outtoward Jim White's roaring fire of pine knots and cones. It was a fierceand furious fire but the night was sharp and cold. There was no otherlight in the room than that of the fire--nor was any needed. 

Jim sat by the table cleaning a gun. Truedale was taking account ofhimself. He held his long, brown hand up to the blaze; it was as steadyas that of a statue! He had walked ten miles that day and feltexhilarated. Night brought sleep, meal time--and often in betweentimes--brought appetite. He had made an immense gain in health. 

"How long have I been here, Jim?" he asked in a slow, calm voice. 

"Come Thursday, three weeks!" When Jim was most laconic he was ofteninwardly bursting with desire for conversation. After a silence Conningspoke again:

"Say, Jim, are there any other people in this mountain range, except youand me?"

"Ugh! just bristlin' with folks! Getting too darned thick. That's whyI've got ter get into the deep woods. I just naturally hate folks exceptin small doses. Why"--here Jim put the gun down upon the table--"fivemile back, up on Lone Dome, is the Greyson's, and it ain't nine miles toJed Martin's place. Miss Lois Ann's is a matter o' sixteen miles; whatdo you call population if them figures don't prove it?"

Something had evidently disturbed White's ideas of isolation andindependence--it would all come out later. Truedale knew his man fairlywell by that time; at least he thought he did. Again Jim took up his gunand Con thought lazily that he must get over to his shack. He occupied asmall cabin--Dr. McPherson's property for sleeping purposes. 

"Do yo' know, " Jim broke in suddenly; "yo' mind me of a burr runnin'wild in a flock of sheep--gatherin' as yo' go. Yo' sho are a miracle!Now old Doc McPherson was like a shadder when he headed this way--but hetook longer gatherin', owin' to age an' natural defects o' build. Yourframe was picked right close, but a kind o' flabby layer of gristle andfat hung ter him an' wasn't a good foundation to build on. "

Conning gave a delighted laugh. Once Jim White began to talk of his ownvolition his discourse flowed on until hunger or weariness overtook him. His silences had the same quality--it was the way Jim began thatmattered. 

"When I first took ter handlin' yo' for ole Doc McPherson, I kinderhated ter take my eyes off yo' fearin' yo' might slip out, but Gawd! yo'can grapple fo' yo' self now and--I plain hanker fur the sticks. "

"The sticks?" This was a new expression. 

"Woods!" Jim vouchsafed (he despised the stupidity that requiredinterpretation of perfectly plain English), "deep woods! What with BurkeLawson suspected of bein' nigh, an' my duty as sheriff consarnin' himhittin' me in the face, I've studied it out that it will be a mightyreasonable trick fur this here officer of the law to be somewhere elsetill Burke settles with his friends an' foes, or takes himself off, 'fore he's strung up or shot up. "

Truedale turned his chair about and faced Jim. 

"Do you know, " he said, "you've mentioned more names in the last tenminutes than you've mentioned in all the weeks I've been here? You giveme a mental cramp. Why, I thought you and I had these hills toourselves; instead we're threatened on every side, and yet I haven'tseen a soul on my tramps. Where do they keep themselves? What has thisBurke Lawson done, to stir the people?"

"You don't call your santers real tramps, do you? Why folks is as thickas ticks up here, though they don't knock elbows like what they do whereyou cum from. They don't holler out ter 'tract yer attention, neither. But they're here. "

"Let's hear more of Burke Lawson. " Truedale gripped _him_ from theseething mass of humanity portrayed by White, as the one promising mostcolour and interest. "Just where does Burke live?"

"Burke? Gawd! Burke don't live anywhere. He is a born floater. Hescrooges around a place and raises the devil, then he just naturallyfloats off. But he nearly always comes back. Since the trap-settin' atime back, he has been mighty scarce in these parts; but any day he mayturn up. "

"The trap, eh? What about that?" With this Truedale turned about again, for Jim, having finished his work on the gun, had placed the weapon onits pegs on the wall and had drawn near the fire. He ran his handthrough his crisp, gray hair until it stood on end and gave him apeculiarly bristling appearance. He was about to enjoy himself. He wasas keen for gossip as any cabin woman of the hills, but Jim was anartist about sharing his knowledge. However, once he decided to share, he shared royally. 

"I've been kinder waitin' fur yo' to show some interest in us-all, " hebegan, "it's a plain sign of yo' gettin' on. I writ the same to old DocMcPherson yesterday! 'When he takes to noticin', ' I writ, 'he's on themend. '"

Conning laughed good naturedly. "Oh! I'm on the mend, all right, " hesaid. 

"Now as to that trap business, " Jim took up the story, "I'll have to goback some and tell yo' about the Greysons and Jed Martin--they all belinked like sassages. Pete Greyson lives up to Lone Dome. Pete came fromstock; he ain't trash by a long come, but he can act like it! Pete'sforbears drank wine and talked like lords; Pete has ter rely on mountaindew and that accounts fur the difference in his goin's-on; but once he'ssober, he's quality--is Pete. Pete's got two darters--Marg an'Nella-Rose. Old Doc McPherson use' ter call 'em types, whatever thatmeans. Marg is a type, sure and sartin, but Nella-Rose is a littleno-count--that's what I say. But blame it all, it's Nella-Rose as hasset the mountains goin', so far as I can see. Fellers come courtin' Margand they just slip through her fingers an' Nella-Rose gets 'em. Shedon't want 'em 'cept to play with and torment Marg. Gawd! how them twogals do get each other edgy. Round about Lone Dome they call Nella-Rosethe doney-gal--that meaning 'sweetheart'; she's responsible for moretrouble than a b'ar with a sore head, or Burke Lawson on a tear. "

Conning was becoming vitally interested and showed it, to Jim'sdelight; this was a dangerous state for White, he was likely, oncestarted and flattered, to tell more than was prudent. 

"Jed Martin"--Jim gave a chuckle--"has been tossed between them two galslike a hot corn pone. He'd take Nella-Rose quick enough if she'd havehim, but barrin' her, he hangs to Marg so as ter be nigh Nella-Rose inany case. And right here Burke Lawson figgers. Burke's got two naturs, same as old Satan. Marg can play on one and get him plumb riled up toanythin'; Nella-Rose can twist him around her finger and make him actlike the Second Coming. "

Conning called a halt. "What's the Second Coming?" he asked, his eyestwinkling. 

"Meaning?--good as a Bible character, " Jim explained huffily. "Gawd, man! do your own thinkin'. I can't talk an' splanify ter onct. "

"Oh! I see. Well, go on, Jim. "

"There be times of the moon when I declare that no-count Nella-Rose justplain seems possessed; has ter do somethin' and does it! Three monthsago, come Saturday, or thereabouts, she took it into her head to worstMarg at every turn and let it out that she was goin' to round up all thefellers and take her pick! She had the blazin' face ter come down hereand tell _me_ that! Course Marg knew it, but the two most consarneddidn't--meaning Jed and Burke. Least they suspected--but warn't sure. Jed meant to get Burke out o' the way so he could have a clear space toco't Nella-Rose, so he aimed to shoot one o' Burke's feet just enough tolay him up--Jed is the slow, calculatin' kind and an almighty sure shot. He reckoned Burke couldn't walk up Lone Dome with a sore foot, so helaid for him, meanin' afterward to say he was huntin' an' took Burke fora 'possum. Well, Burke got wind of the plot; I'm thinkin' Marg put aflea in his ear, anyway he set a trap just by the path leading from thetrail to Lone Dome. Gawd! Jed planted his foot inter it same as if hemeant ter, and what does that Burke do but take a walk with Nella-Roseright past the place where Jed was caught! 'Corse he was yellin'somethin' terrible. They helped Jed out and I reckon Nella-Rose wasinnocent enough, but Jed writ up the account 'gainst Burke and Burkefloated off for a spell. He ain't floated back yet--not _yet!_ But solong as Nella-Rose is above ground he'll naturally cum back. "

"And Nella-Rose, the little no-count; did she repay Jed, the poor cuss?"

"Nella-Rose don't repay no one--she ain't more'n half real, whatever wayyou put it. But just see how this fixes a sheriff, will yo'? Knowingwhat I do, I can't jail either o' them chaps with a cl'ar conscience. Gawd! I'd like to pass a law to cage all females and only let 'em outwith a string to their legs!" Then White laughed reminiscently. 

"What now, Jim?"

"Gals!" White fairly spit out the word. "Gals!" There was an eloquentpause, then more quietly: "Jest when yo' place 'em and hate 'em proper, they up and do somethin' to melt yo' like snow on Lone Dome in May. Iwas harkin' back to the little white hen and Nella-Rose. There ain'tmuch chance to have a livin' pet up to Greyson's place. Anything fit toeat is et. Pete drinks the rest. But once Nella-Rose came totin' up hereon a cl'ar, moonlight evenin' with somethin' under her little, oldshawl. 'Jim' she says--wheedlin' and coaxin'--'I want yo' to keep thishere hen fo' me. I'll bring its keep, but I love it, and I can't seeit--killed!' That gal don't never let tears fall--they jest wet her eyesand make 'em shine. With that she let loose the most owdacious whitebantam and scattered some corn on the floor; then she sat down andlaughed like an imp when the foolish thing hopped up to her and floppedonter her lap. Well, I kept the sassy little hen--there wasn't anythingelse ter do--but one day Marg, she followed Nella-Rose up and when shesaw what was going on, she stamped in and cried out: 'So! yo' can haveplaythings while us-all go starved! Yo' can steal what's our'n, --an'with that she took the bantam and fo' I could say a cuss, she wrung thatchicken's neck right fo' Nella-Rose's eyes!"

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Conning; "the young brute! And the otherone--what did she do?"

"She jest looked at me--her eyes swimmin'. Nella-Rose don't talk muchwhen she's hurt, but she don't forget. I tell yo', young feller, bein' asheriff in this settlement ain't no joke. Yo' know folks too well andsee the rights and wrongs more'n is good for plain justice. "

"Well?" Jim rose and stretched himself, "yo' won't go on the b'ar huntter-morrer?"

"No, Jim, but I'll walk part of the way with you. When do you start?"

"'Bout two o' the mornin'. "

"Then I'll turn in. Good-night, old man! You've given me a greatevening. I feel as if I were suddenly projected into a crowd with humanproblems smashing into each other for all they're worth. You cannotescape, old man; that's the truth. You cannot escape. Life is life nomatter where you find it. "

"Now don't git ter talkin' perlite to me, " Jim warned. "Old DocMcPherson's orders was agin perlite conversation. Get a scrabble on yer!I'll knock yer up 'bout two or thereabouts. "

Outside, Truedale stood still and looked at the beauty of the night. Themoon was full and flooded the open space with a radiance whichcontrasted sharply with the black shadows and the outlines of the nearand distant peaks. 

The silence was so intense that the ear, straining for sound, ached fromthe effort. And just then a bewitched hen in White's shed gave a weirdcry and Truedale started. He smiled grimly and thought of the littleno-count and the tragedy of the white bantam. In the shining lightaround him he seemed to see her pitiful face as White had describedit--the eyes full of tears but never overflowing, the misery and hate, the loneliness and impotency. 

At two the next morning Jim tapped on Truedale's window with his gun. 

"Comin' fur a walk?"

"You bet!" Con was awake at once and alert. Ten minutes later, closingthe doors and windows of his cabin after him, he joined White on theleaf-strewn path to the woods. He went five miles and then bade his hostgood-bye. 

"Don't overwork!" grinned Jim sociably. "I'll write to old Doc McPhersonwhen I git back. "

"And when will that be, Jim?"

"I ain't goin' ter predict. " White set his lips. "When I stay, I stay, but once I take ter the woods there ain't no sayin'. I'll fetch fodderwhen I cum, and mail, too--but I ain't goin' ter hobble myself when Itake ter the sticks. "

Tramping back alone over the wet autumn leaves, Truedale had his firstsense of loneliness since he came. White, he suddenly realized, hadmeant to him everything that he needed, but with White unhobbled in thedeep woods, how was he to fill the time? He determined to force himselfto study. He had wedged one solid volume in his trunk, unknown to hisfriends. He would brush up his capacity for work--it could not hurt himnow. He was as strong as he had ever been in his life and the prospectahead promised greater gains. 

Yes, he would study. He would write letters, too--real letters. He hadneglected every one, especially Lynda Kendall. The others did notmatter, but Lynda mattered more than anything. She always would! Andthinking of Lynda reminded him that he had also, in his trunk, the playupon which he had worked for several years during hours that should havebeen devoted to rest. He would get out the play and try to breathe lifeinto it, now that he himself was living. Lynda had said, when last theyhad discussed his work, "It's beautiful, Con; you shall not belittle it. It is beautiful like a cold, stone thing with rough edges. Sometime youmust smooth it and polish it, and then you must pray over it and believein it, and I really think it will repay you. It may not mean anythingbut a sure guide to your goal, but you'd be grateful for that, wouldn'tyou?" Of course he would be grateful for that! It would mean life tohim--life, not mere existence. He began to hope that Jim White wouldstay away a month; what with study, and the play, and the doing forhimself, the time ahead was provided for already!

Stalking noiselessly forward, Truedale came into the clearing, passedWhite's shack, and approached his own with a fixed determination. Thenhe stopped short. He was positive that he had closed windows anddoors--the caution of the city still clung to him--but now both doorsand windows were set wide to the brilliant autumn day and a curl ofsmoke from a lately replenished fire cheerfully rose in the clear, dryair. 

"Well, I'll be--!" and then Truedale quietly slipped to the rear ofthe cabin and to a low, sliding window through which he could peer, unobserved. One glance transfixed him. 

CHAPTER II

The furnishing of the room was bare and plain--a deal table, a couple ofwooden chairs, a broad comfortable couch, a cupboard with somenondescript crockery, and a good-sized mirror in the space between thefront door and the window. Before this glass a strange figure waswalking to and fro, enjoying hugely its own remarkable reflection. Truedale's bedraggled bath robe hung like a mantle from the shoulders ofthe intruder--they were very straight, slim young shoulders; an oldridiculous fez--an abomination of his freshman year, kept forsentimental reasons--adorned the head of the small stranger and onlypartly held in check the mass of shadowy hair that rippled from it andaround a mischievous face. 

Surprise, then wonder, swayed Truedale. When he reached the wonderstage, thought deserted him. He simply looked and kept on wondering. Through this confusion, words presently reached him. The masqueraderwithin was bowing and scraping comically, and in a low, musical voicesaid:

"How-de, Mister Outlander, sir! How-de? I saw your smoke a-curling wayback from home, sir, and I've come a-visiting 'long o' you, MisterOutlander. "

Another sweeping curtsey reduced Truedale to helpless mirth and hefairly shouted, doubling up as he did so. 

The effect of his outburst upon the young person within was tremendous. She seemed turned to stone. She stared at the face in the window; sheturned red and white--the absurd fez dangling over her left ear. Thenshe emitted what seemed to be one word, so lingeringly sweet was thedrawl. 

"Godda'mighty!"

Seeing that there was going to be no other concession, Truedale pulledhimself together, went around to the front door and knocked, ceremoniously. The girl turned, as if on a pivot, but spoke no word. 

She had the most wonderful eyes--innocent and pleading; she was a merechild and, although she looked awed now, was evidently a forward youngnative who deserved a good lesson. Truedale determined to give her one!

"If you don't mind, " he said, "I'll come in and sit down. "

This he did while the big, solemn eyes followed him alertly. 

"And now will you be kind enough to tell me what you mean by--wearing myclothes?"

Still the silence and the blank stare. 

"You must answer my questions!" Truedale's voice sounded stern. "Isuppose you didn't expect me back so soon?"

The deep eyes confirmed this by the drooping of the lids. 

"And you broke in--what for?"

No answer. 

"Who are you?"

Really the situation was becoming unbearable, so Truedale changed histactics. He would play with the poor little thing and reassure her. 

"Now that I look at you I see what you are. You're not a human at all. You're a spirit of something or other--probably of one of those perkymountains over yonder. The White Maid, I bet! You had to don my clothesin order to materialize before my eyes and you had to use that word ofthe hills--so that I could understand you. It's quite plain now and youare welcome to my--my bath robe; I dare say that, underneath it, you aredecked out in filmy clouds and vapours and mists. Oh! come now--" Thestrange eyes were filling--but not overflowing!

"I was only joking. Forgive me. Why--"

The wretched fez fell from the soft hair--the bedraggled robe from therigid shoulders--and there, garbed in a rough home-spun gown, a littleplaid shawl and a checked apron, stood--

"It's the no-count, " thought Truedale. Aloud he said, "Nella-Rose!"

With the dropping of the disguise years and dignity were added to thegirl and Truedale, who was always at his worst in the presence ofstrange young women, gazed dazedly at the one before him now. 

"Perhaps"--he began awkwardly--"you'll sit down. Please do!" He drew achair toward her. Nella-Rose sank into it and leaned her bowed head uponher arms, which she folded on the table. Her shoulders rose and fellconvulsively, and Truedale, looking at her, became hopelessly wretched. 

"I'm a beast and nothing less!" he admitted by way of apology andexcuse. "I--I wish you _could_ forgive me. "

Then slowly the head was raised and to Truedale's further consternationhe saw that mirth, not anguish, had caused the shaking of thosedeceiving little shoulders. 

"Oh! I see--you are laughing!" He tried to be indignant. 

"Yes. "

"At what?"

"Everything--you!"

"Thank you!" Then, like a response, something heretofore unknown andunsuspected in Truedale rose and overpowered him. His shyness andawkwardness melted before the warmth and glow of the conquering emotion. He got up and sat on the corner of the table nearest his shabby littleguest, and looking straight into her bewitching eyes he joined her in along, resounding laugh. 

It was surrender, pure and simple. 

"And now, " he said at last, "you must stay and have a bite. I am aboutstarved. And you?"

The girl grew sober. 

"I'm--I'm always hungry, " she admitted softly. 

They drew the table close to the roaring fire, leaving doors and windowsopen to the crisp, sweet; morning air. 

"We'll have a party!" Truedale announced. "I'll step over to Jim's cabinand bring the best he's got. "

When he returned Nella-Rose had placed cups, saucers, and plates on thetable. 

"Do you--often have parties?" she asked. 

"I never had one before. I'll have them, though, from now on if--if youwill come!"

Truedale paused with his arms full of pitchers and platters of food, andheld the girl with his admiring eyes. 

"And you will let me come and see you--you and your sister and yourfather? I know all about you. White has explained--everything. He--"

Nella-Rose braced herself against the table and quietly and definitelyoutlined their future relations. 

"No, you cannot come to see us-all. You don't know Marg. If she doesn'tfind things out, there won't be trouble; when she does find things outthere's goin' t' be a right smart lot of trouble brewing!"

This was said with such comical seriousness that Truedale laughedagain, but sobered instantly when he recalled the incident of the whitebantam which Jim had so vividly portrayed. 

"But you see, " he replied, "I don't want to let you go after this firstparty, and never see you again!"

The girl shrugged her shoulders and apparently dismissed the matter. Shesat down and, with charming abandon, began to eat. Presently Truedale, amused and interested, spoke again:

"It would be very unkind of you not to let me see you. "

"I'm--thinking!" Nella-Rose drew her brows together and nibbled a bit ofcorn bread meditatively. Then--quite suddenly:

"I'm coming here!"

"You--you mean that?" Truedale flushed. 

"Yes. And the big woods--you walk in them?"

"I certainly do. "

"Sometimes--I am in the big woods. "

"Where--specially?" Truedale was playing this new game with the foolishskill of the novice. 

"There's a Hollow--where--" (Nella-Rose paused) "where the laurel tangleis like a jungle--"

Truedale broke in: "I know it! There's a little stream running throughit, and--trails. "

"Yes!" Nella-Rose leaned back and showed her white teeth alluringly. 

"I--I should not--permit this!" For a moment Truedale broke through thethin ice of delight that was luring him to unknown danger and fell uponthe solid rock of conservatism. 

"Why?" The eyes, so tenderly innocent, confronted him appealingly. "There are nuts there and--and other things! You are just teasing;you'll let me--show you the way about?"

The girl was all child now and made Truedale ashamed to hold her to anyabsurd course that his standards acknowledged but that hers had neverconceived. 

"Of course. I'll be glad to have you for a guide. Jim White has no ideasabout nuts and things--he goes to the woods to kill something; he'sthere now. I dare say mere are other things in the mountainsbesides--prey?"

Nella-Rose nodded. 

"Let's sit by the fire!" she suddenly said. "I--I want to tellyou--something, and then I must go. "

The lack of shyness and reserve might so easily have becomeboldness--but they did not! The girl was like a creature of the wildswhich, knowing no reason for fear, was revelling in heretoforeunsuspected enjoyment. Truedale pulled the couch to the hearth forNella-Rose, piled the pillows on one end and then seated himself on thestump of a tree which served as a settee. 

"Now, then!" he said, keeping his eyes on his breezy little guest. "What have you got to tell me--before you go?"

"It's something that happened--long ago. You will not laugh if I tellyou? You laugh right much. "

"I? You think I laugh a good deal? Good Lord! Some folk think I don'tlaugh enough. " He had his friends back home in mind, and somehow thememory steadied him for an instant. 

"P'r'aps they-all don't know you as well as I do. " This with amusingconviction. 

"Perhaps they don't. " Truedale was deadly solemn. "But go on, Nella-Rose. I promise not to laugh now. "

"It was the beginning of--you!" The girl turned her eyes to thefire--she was quaintly demure. "At first when I saw you looking in thatwindow, yonder, I was right scared. "

Jim White's statement that Nella-Rose wasn't more than half real seemed, in the light of present happenings, little less than bald fact. 

"It was the way _you_ looked--way back there when I was ten years old. Ihad run away--"

"Are you always running away?" asked Truedale from the hollow depths ofunreality. 

"I run away a smart lot. You have to if you want to--see things and bedifferent. "

"And you--you want to be different, Nella-Rose?"

"I--why, can't you see?--I _am_ different. "

"Of course. I only meant--do you like to be different. "

"I have to like it. I was born with a cawl. "

"In heaven's name, what's that?"

"Something over your eyes, and when they take it off you see more, andfarther, than any one else. You're part ha'nt. "

Truedale wiped his forehead--the room was getting hot, but the heatalone was not responsible for his emotions; he was being carried beyondhis depth--beyond himself--by the wild fascination of the littlecreature before him. He would hardly have been surprised had a draughtof air wafted her out of the window like a bit of mountain mist. 

"But you mustn't interrupt so much!" She turned a stern face upon him. "I ran away that time to see a--railroad train! One of the niggers toldme about it--he said it was the Bogy Man. I wanted to know, so I went tothe station. It's a right smart way down and I had to sleep one nightunder the trees. Don't the stars look starry sometimes?"

The interruption made Truedale jump. 

"They certainly do, " he said, looking at the soft, dark eyes with theirlong lashes. 

"I wasn't afraid--and I didn't hurry. It was evening, and the sun justa-going down, when I got to the station. There wasn't any one about soI--I ran down the big road the train comes on--to meet it. And then"(here Nella-Rose clasped her hands excitedly and her breath came short), "and then I saw it a-coming and a-coming. The big fire-eye a-glaring andthe mighty noise a-snorting and I reckoned it was old Master Satan and Ijust--couldn't move!"

"Go on! go on!" Truedale bent close to her--she had caught him in themesh of her dramatic charm. 

"I saw it a-coming, and set on--on devouring o' me, and still I couldn'tstir. Everything was growing black and black except a big square withthat monster eye a-glaring into the soul o' me!"

The girl's face was set--her eyes vacant and wild; suddenly theysoftened, and her little white teeth showed through the childish, partedlips. 

"Then the eye went away, there was a blackness in the square place, andthen a face came--a kind face it was--all a-laughing and it--it keptgoing farther and farther off to one side and I kept a-following anda-following and then--the big noise went rushing by me, and there I wasright safe and plump up against a tree!"

"Good Lord!" Again Truedale wiped his brow. 

"Since then, " Nella-Rose relaxed, "I can shut my eyes and always thereis the black square and sometimes--not always, but sometimes--thingscome!"

"The face, Nella-Rose?"

"No, I can't make that come. But things I want to, do and have. Ialways think, when I see things, that I'm going to do a big, fine thingsome day. I feel upperty and then--poof! off go the pictures and I amjust--lil' Nella-Rose again!"

A comically heavy sigh brought Truedale back to earth. 

"But the face you saw long ago, " Truedale whispered, "was it my face, doyou think?"

Nella-Rose paused--then quietly:

"I--reckon it was. Yes, I'm mighty sure it was your face. When I saw itat that window"--she pointed across the room--"I certainly thought myeyes were closed and that--it had come--the kind, good face that savedme!" A sweet, friendly smile wreathed the girl's lips and she rose withrare dignity and held out her thin, delicate hand:

"Mister Outlander, we're going to be neighbours, aren't we?"

"Yes--neighbours!" Truedale took the hand with a distinct sense ofsuffocation, "but why do you call me an outlander?"

"Because--you are! You're not _of_ our mountains. "

"No, I wish I were!"

"Wishing can't make you. You are--or you aren't. "

Truedale noted the girl's language. Distorted and crude as it often was, it was never positively illiterate. This surprised him. 

"You--oh! you're not going yet!" He put his hand out, for the definiteway in which Nella-Rose turned was ominous. Already she seemed to belongto the cabin room--to Truedale himself. Not a suggestion of strangenessclung to her. It was as if she had always been there but that his eyeshad been holden. 

"I must go!"

"Wait--oh! Nella-Rose. Let me walk part of the way with you. I--I have athousand things to say. "

But she was gone out of the door, down the path. 

Truedale stood and looked after her until the long shadows reached up toLone Dome's sharpest edge. White's dogs began nosing about, suggestingattention to affairs nearer at hand. Then Truedale sighed as if wakingfrom a dream. He performed the duties Jim had left to his tendermercy--the feeding of the animals, the piling up of wood. Then he forcedhimself to take a long walk. He ate his evening meal late, and finallysat down to his task of writing letters. He wrote six to Brace Kendalland tore them up; he wrote one to his uncle and put it aside forconsideration when the effect of his day dreams left him sane enough tojudge it. Finally he managed a note to Dr. McPherson and one to LyndaKendall. 

"I think"--so the letter to Lynda ran--"that I will work regularly, now, on the play. With more blood in my own body I can hope to put more intothat. I'm going to get it out to-morrow and begin the infusion. I wishyou were here to-night--to see the wonderful effect of the moon on themists--but there! if I said more you might guess where I am. When I comeback I shall try to describe it and some day you must see it. Severaltimes lately I have imagined an existence here with one's work andenough to subsist on. No worry, no nerve-racking, and always thetremendous beauty to inspire one! Nothing seems wholly real here. "

Then Truedale put down his pen. Nella-Rose crowded Lynda Kendall fromthe field of vision; later, he simply signed his name and let the notego with that. 

As for Nella-Rose, as soon as she left Truedale, her mind turned tosterner matters close at hand. She became aware before long of some onenear by. The person, whoever it was, seemed determined to remain hiddenbut for that very reason it called out all the girl's cunning andcleverness. It might be--Burke Lawson! With this thought Nella-Rosegasped a little. Then, it might be Marg; and here the dark eyes grewhard--the lips almost cruel! She got down upon her knees and crawledlike a veritable little animal of the wilds. Keeping close to theground, she advanced to where the trail from Lone Dome met the broaderone, and there, standing undecided and bewildered, was a tall, fairgirl. 

Nella-Rose sprang to her feet, her eyes ablaze. 

"Marg! What you--hounding me for?"

"Nella-Rose, where you been?"

"What's that to you?"

"You've been up to Devil-may-come Hollow!"

"Have I? Let me pass, Marg. Have your mully-grubs, if you please; I'mgoing home. "

As Nella-Rose tried to pass, Marg caught her by the arm. 

"Burke's back!" she whispered, "he's hiding up to Devil-may-come! He'sbeen seen and you know it!"

"What if I do?" Nella-Rose never ignored a possible escape for thefuture. 

"You've been up there--to meet him. You ought to be licked. If you don'tlet him alone--let him and me alone--I'll turn Jed on him, I will; Iswear it!"

"What is he--to you!" Nella-Rose confronted her sister squarely. Blueeyes--bold, cold blue they were--looked into dark ones even now so softand winning that it was difficult to resist them. 

"If you let him alone, he'll be everything to me!" Marg blurted out. "What do you want of him, Nella-Rose?--of him or any other man? But ifyou must have a sweetheart, pick and choose and let me have my day. "

The rough appeal struck almost brutally on Nella-Rose's ears. She was asun-moral, perhaps, as Marg, but she was more discriminating. 

"I'm mighty tired of cleaning and cooking for--for father and you!"Marg tossed her head toward Lone Dome. "Father's mostly always drunkthese days and you--what do you care what becomes of me? Leave me to geta man of my own and then I'll be human. I've been--killing the hogto-day!" Marg suddenly and irrelevantly burst out; "I--I shall never doit again. We'll starve first!"

"Why didn't father?" Nella-Rose said, softly. 

"Father? Huh! he couldn't have held the knife. He went for the jug--andgot it full! No, I had to do it, but it's the last time. Nella-Rose, tell me where Burke is hidden--tell me! Leave me free to--to win him;let me have my chance!"

"And then who'll kill the pig?" Nella-Rose shuddered. 

"Who cares?" Marg flung back. 

"No! Find him if you can. Fair play--no favours; what I find is open toyou!" Nella-Rose laughed impishly and, darting past her sister, ran downthe path. 

Marg stood and watched her with baffled rage and hate. For a moment shealmost decided to take her chances and seek Burke Lawson in the distantHollow. But night was coming--the black, drear night of the low places. Marg was desperate, but a primitive conservatism held her. Not for allshe hoped to gain would she brave Burke Lawson alone in the secretplaces of Devil-may-come Hollow! So she followed after Nella-Rose andreached home while her sister was preparing the evening meal. 

Peter Greyson, the father, sat huddled in a big chair by the fire. Hehad arrived at that stage of returning consciousness when he felt thatit was incumbent upon him to explain himself. He had been a handsomeman, of the dashing cavalry type and he still bore traces of past glory. In his worst moments he never swore before ladies, and in his best heremembered what was due them and upheld their honour and position withfervour. 

"Lil' Nella-Rose, " he was saying as Marg paused outside the door in thedark, "why don't you marry Burke Lawson and settle down here with me?"

"He hasn't asked me, father. "

"He isn't in any position now to pick and choose"--this betweenhiccoughs and yawns--"I saw him early this morning; I know his backanywhere. I'd just met old Jim White. I reckon Burke was calculating toshoot Jim, but my coming upset his plans. Shooting a sheriff ain't safebusiness. " What Greyson really had seen was Truedale's retreat afterparting company with Jim, but not knowing of Truedale's existence hejumped to the conclusion which to his fuddled wits seemed probable, andhad so informed Marg upon his return. 

"I tell yo', Nella-Rose, " he ran on, "yo' better marry Burke and tamehim. There ain't nothing as tames a man like layin' responsibilities onhim. "

"Come, father, let me help you to the table. I don't want to talk aboutBurke. I don't believe he's back. " She steadied the rolling form to thehead of the table. 

"I tell yo', chile, I saw Burke's back; don't yo' reckon I know Lawsonwhen I see him, back or front? Don't yo' want ter marry Lawson, Nella-Rose?"

"No, I wouldn't have him if he asked me. It would be like marrying atree that the freshet was rolling about. I'm not going to seek and hidewith any man. "

"Why don't yo' let Marg have 'im then? She'd be a right smartresponsibility. "

"She can have him and welcome, if she can find him!" Then, hearing hersister outside, she called:

"Come in, Marg. Shut out the cold and the dark. What's the use of actinglike a little old hateful?"

Marg slouched in; there was no other word to describe her indifferentand contemptuous air. 

"He's coming around?" she asked, nodding at her father. 

"Yes--he's come, " Nella-Rose admitted. 

"All right, then, I'm going to tell him something!" She walked over toher father and stood before him, looking him steadily in the eyes. 

"I--I killed the hog to-day;" she spoke sharply, slowly, as to a densechild. Peter Greyson started. 

"You--you--did that?"

"Yes. While you were off--getting drunk, and while Nella-Rose wastraipsing back there in the Hollow I killed the hog; but I'll never doit again. It sickened the soul of me. I'm as good as Nella-Rose--just asgood. If you can't do your part, father, and she _won't_ do hers, that'sno reason for me being benastied with such work as I did to-day. Youhear me?"

"Sure I hear you, Marg, and I'm plumb humiliated that--that I let you. It--it sha'n't happen again. I'll keep a smart watch next year. Agentleman can't say more to his daughter than that--can he?"

"Saying is all very well--it's the doing. " Marg was adamant. "I'm goingto look out for myself from now on. You and Nella-Rose will find out. "

"What's come to you, Marg?" Peter looked concerned. 

"Something that hasn't ever come before, " Marg replied, keeping her eyeson Nella-Rose. "There be times when you have to take your life by thethroat and strangle it until it falls into shape. I'm gripping minenow. "

"It's the killing of that hog!" groaned Peter. "It's stirred you, and Ican't blame you. Killing ain't for a lady; but Lord! what a man you'dha' made, Marg!"

"But I ain't!" Marg broke in a bit wildly, "and other things are notfor--for women to do and bear. I'm through. It's Nella-Rose and me toshare and share alike, or--"

But there was nothing more to say--the pause was eloquent. The three atein silence for some moments and then talked of trivial things. PeterGreyson went early to bed and the sisters washed the dishes, sharingequally. They did the out-of-door duties of caring for the scanty livestock, and at last Nella-Rose went to her tiny room under the eaves, while Marg lay down upon the living-room couch. 

When everything was at rest once more Nella-Rose stole to the low windowof her chamber and, kneeling, looked forth at the peaceful moonlitscene. How still and white it was and how safe and strong the high hillslooked! What had happened? Why, nothing _could_ happen and yet--andyet--Then Nella-Rose closed her eyes and waited. With all her might shetried to force the "good, kind face" to materialize, but to no purpose. Suddenly an owl hooted hideously and, like a guilty thing, the girl bythe window crept back to bed. 

Owls were very wise and they could see things in the dark places withtheir wide-open eyes! Just then Nella-Rose could not have borne anyinvestigation of her throbbing heart. 

CHAPTER III

Lynda Kendall closed her desk and wheeled about in her chair with aperplexed expression on her strong, handsome face. Generally speaking, she went her way with courage and conviction, but since ConningTruedale's breakdown, an element in her had arisen that demandedrecognition and she had yet to learn how to control it and insist uponits subjection. 

Her life had been a simple one on the whole, but one requiring fromearly girlhood the constant use of her faculties. Whatever help she hadhad was gained from the dependence of others upon her, not hers uponthem. She was so strong and sweet-souled that to give was a joy, it wasa joy too, for them that received. That she was ever tired and longedfor strong arms to uphold her rarely occurred to any one except, perhaps, William Truedale, the invalid uncle of Conning. 

At this juncture of Lynda's career, she shrank from William Truedale asshe never had before. Had Conning died, she knew she would never haveseen the old man again. She believed that his incapacity forunderstanding Conning--his rigid, unfeeling dealing with him--had beenthe prime factor in the physical breakdown of the younger man. Allalong she had hoped and believed that her hold upon old William Truedalewould, in the final reckoning, bring good results; for that reason, anda secret one that no one suspected, she kept to her course. She paidregular visits to the old man--made him dependent upon her, though henever permitted her to suspect this. Always her purpose had centred uponCon, who had, at first, appealed to her loyalty and justice, but of lateto something much more personal and tender. 

The day's work was done and the workshop, in which the girl sat, wasbeginning to look shadowy in the far corners where evidences of herprofession cluttered the dim spaces. She was an interior decorator, butof such an original and unique kind that her brother explained her as a"Spiritual and Physical Interpreter. " She had learned her trade, but shehad embellished it and permitted it to develop as she herself had grownand expanded. 

Lynda looked now at her wrist-watch; it was four-thirty. The last maildelivery had brought a short but inspiring note from Con--per Dr. McPherson. 

"I've got my grip again, Lynda! The day brings appetite and strength;the night, sleep! I wonder whether you know what that means? I begin tobelieve I am reverting to type, as McPherson would say, and I'mintensely interested in finding out--what type? Whenever I think ofstudy, I have an attack of mental indigestion. There is only one fellowcreature to share my desolation but I am never lonely--never lackingemployment. I'm busy to the verge of exhaustion in doing nothing andgetting well!"

Lynda smiled. "So he's not going to die!" she murmured; "there's no usein punishing Uncle William any longer. I'll go up and have dinner withhim!"

The decision made, and Conning for the moment relegated to second place, Lynda rose and smiled relievedly. Then her eyes fell upon her mother'sphotograph which stood upon her desk. 

"I'm going, dear, " she confided--they were very close, that dead motherand the live, vital daughter--"I haven't forgotten. "

The past, like the atmosphere of the room, closed in about the girl. Shewas strangely cheerful and uplifted; a consciousness of approval soothedand comforted her and she recalled, as she had not for many a day, thenight of her mother's death--the night when she, a girl of seventeen, had had the burden of a mother's confession laid upon her youngheart. .. . 

"Lynda--are you there, dear?"

It had been a frequent, pathetic question during the month of illness. Lynda had been summoned from school. Brace was still at his studies. 

"Yes, mother, right here!"

"You are always--right here! Lyn, once I thought I could not stand it, and I was going to run away--going in the night. As I passed your dooryou awoke and asked for a drink of water. I gave it, trembling lest youmight notice my hat and coat; but you did not--you only said: 'Whatwould I do if I woke up some night and didn't have a mother?' Lyn, dear, I went back and--stayed!"

Lynda had thought her mother's mind wandering so she patted the seekinghands and murmured gently to her. Then, suddenly:

"Lyn, when I married your father I thought I loved him--but I lovedanother! I've done the best I could for you all; I never let any oneknow; I dared not give a sign, but I want you--by and by--to goto--William Truedale! You need not explain--just go; you will be my giftto him--my last and only gift. "

Startled and horrified, Lynda had listened, understood, and grown oldwhile her mother spoke. .. . 

Then came the night when she awoke--and found no mother! She was neverthe same. She returned to school but gave up the idea of going tocollege. After her graduation she made a home for the father who now--inthe light of her secret knowledge--she comprehended for the first time. All her life she had wondered about him. Wondered why she and Brace hadnot loved and honoured him as they had their mother. His weakness, hissuperficiality, had been dominated by the wife who, having accepted herlot, carried her burden proudly to the end!

Brace went to college and, during his last year there, his father died;then, confronting a future rich in debts but little else, he and Lyndaconsequently turned their education to account and were soonself-supporting, full of hope and the young joy of life. 

Lynda--her mother's secret buried deep in her loyal, tender heart--begansoon after her return from school to cultivate old William Truedale, much to that crabbed gentleman's surprise and apparent confusion. Therewas some excuse for the sudden friendship, for Brace during preparatoryschool and college had formed a deep and sincere attachment for ConningTruedale and at vacation time the two boys and Lynda were much together. To be sure the visiting was largely one-sided, as the gloomy house ofthe elder Truedale offered small inducement for sociability; but Lyndamanaged to wedge her way into the loneliness and dreariness andeventually for reasons best known to herself became the one bright thingin the old man's existence. 

And so the years had drifted on. Besides Lynda's determination to proveherself as her mother had directed, she soon decided to set mattersstraight between the uncle and the nephew. To her ardent young soul, fired with ambition and desire for justice, it was little less thancriminal that William Truedale, crippled and confined to his chair--forhe had become an invalid soon after Lynda's mother's marriage--shouldmisunderstand and cruelly misjudge the nephew who, brilliantly, butunder tremendous strain, was winning his way through college on apittance that made outside labour necessary in order to get through. Shecould not understand everything, but her mother's secret, her growingfondness for the old man, her intense interest in Conning, all held herto her purpose. She, single-handed, would right the wrong and save themall alive!

Then came Conning's breakdown and the possibility of his death orpermanent disability. The shock to all the golden hopes was severe andit brought bitterness and resentment with it. 

Something deep and passionate had entered into Lynda's relations withConning Truedale. For him, though no one suspected it, she had brokenher engagement to John Morrell--an engagement into which she had driftedas so many girls do, at the age when thought has small part in primalinstinct. But Conning had not died; he was getting well, off in hishidden place, and so, standing in the dim workshop, Lynda kissed hermother's picture and began humming a glad little tune. 

"I'll go and have dinner with Uncle William!" she said--the wordsfitting into the tune--"we'll make it up! It will be all right. " And soshe set forth. 

William Truedale lived on a shabby-genteel side street of aneighbourhood that had started out to be fashionable but had beendefeated in its ambitions. It had never lost character, but it certainlyhad lost lustre. The houses themselves were well built and sternlycorrect. William Truedale's was the best in the block and it stood witha vacant lot on either side of it. The detachment gave it dignity andseclusion. 

There had been a time when Truedale hoped that the woman he loved wouldchoose and place furniture and hangings to her taste and his, but whenthat hope failed and sickness fell upon him, he ordered only such roomsput in order as were necessary for his restricted life. The library onthe first floor was a storehouse of splendid books and austere luxury;beyond it were bath and bedroom, both fitted out perfectly. The long, wide hall leading to these apartments was as empty and bare as whencarpenter and painter left it. Two servants--husband and wife--servedWilliam Truedale, and rarely commented upon anything concerning him ortheir relations to him. They probably had rooms for themselvescomfortably furnished, but in all the years Lynda Kendall had never beenanywhere in the house except in the rooms devoted to her old friend'suse. Sometimes she had wondered how Con fared, but nothing was eversaid on the subject and she and Brace had been, in their visiting, limited to the downstair rooms. 

When Lynda was ushered now into the library from the cold, outer hall itwas like finding comfort and luxury in the midst of desolation. Theopening door had not roused the man by the great open fire. He seemedlost in a gloomy revery and Lynda had time to note, unobserved, thetragic, pain-racked face and the pitifully thin outlines of the figurestretched on the invalid chair and covered by a rug of rare silver fox. 

There were birds in gilded cages by the large south window--mute littlemites they were; they rarely if ever sang but they were alive! Therewere plants, too, luxuriously growing in pots and boxes--but not aflower on one! They existed, not joyously, but persistently. A Russianhound, white as snow, lay before the fire; his soft, mournful eyes werefixed upon Lynda, but he did not stir or announce the intrusion. A catand two kittens, also white, were rolled like snowballs on a crimsoncushion near the hearth; Lynda wondered whether they ever played. Alone, like a dead thing amid the still life, William Truedale, helpless--deathever creeping nearer and nearer to his bitter heart--passed his wearydays. 

As she stood, watching and waiting, Lynda Kendall's eyes filled withquick tears. The weeks of her absence had emphasized every tragicdetail of the room and the man. He had probably missed her terribly fromhis bare life, but he had made no sign, given no call. 

"Uncle William!"

Truedale turned his head and fixed his deep-sunk, brilliant eyes uponher. 

"Oh! So you've thought better of it?" was all that he said. 

"Yes, I've thought better of it. Will you let me stay to dinner?"

"Take off your wraps. There now! draw up the ottoman; so long as youhave a spine, rely upon it. Never lounge if you can help it. "

Lynda drew the low, velvet-covered stool near the couch-chair; the houndraised his sharp, beautiful head and nestled against her knee. Truedalewatched it--animals never came to him unless commanded--why did they goto Lynda? Probably for the same reason that he clung to her, watched forher and feared, with sickening fear, that she might never come again!

"I suppose, since Con's death isn't on my head, you felt that you couldforgive me, eh?"

"Well, something like that, Uncle William. "

"What business is it of yours what I do with my money--or my nephew?"

These two never approached each other by conventional lines. Theirabsences were periods in which to store vital topics andquestions--their meetings were a series of explosive outbursts. 

"None of my business, Uncle William, but if I could not approve, why--"

"Approve! Huh! Who are you that you should judge, approve, or disapproveyour elders?"

There was no answer to this. Lynda wanted to laugh, but feared she mightcry. The hard, indignant words belied the quivering gladness of thevoice that greeted her in every tone with its relief and surrender. 

"I've got a good deal to say to you, girl. It is well you cameto-day--you might otherwise have been too late. I'm planning a longjourney. "

Lynda started. 

"A--long journey?" she said. Through the past years, since the dreaddisease had attacked Truedale, his travelling had been confined topassing to and from bedchamber and library in the wheelchair. 

"You--you think I jest?" There was a grim humour in the burning eyes. 

"I do not know. "

"Well, then, I'll tell you. I am quite serious. While I have been exiledfrom your attentions--chained to this rock" (he struck the arms of thechair like a passionate child), "I have reached a conclusion I havealways contemplated, more or less. Now that I have recognized that thetime will undoubtedly come when you, Con--the lot of you--will clearout, I have decided to prove to you all that I am not quite thedependant you think me. "

"Why--what can you mean, Uncle William?"

This was a new phase and Lynda bent across the dog at her knee and puther hand on the arm of the chair. She was frightened, aroused. Truedalesaw this and laughed a dry, mirthless laugh. 

"Oh! a chair that can roll the length of this house can roll thedistance I desire to go. Money can pay for anything--anything! ThankGod, I have money, plenty of it. It means power--even to such a thing asI am. Power, Lynda, power! It can snarl and unsnarl lives; it can buyfavour and cause terror. Think what I would have been without it allthese years. Think! Why, I have bargained with it; crushed with it;threatened and beckoned with it--now I am going to play with it! I'mgoing to surprise every one and have a gala time myself. I'm going toset things spinning and then I'm going on a journey. It's queer" (thesneering voice fell to a murmur), "all my prison-years I've thought ofthis and planned it; the doing of it seems quite the simplest part. Iwonder now why I have kept behind the bars when, by a little exertion--alittle indifference to opinion--I might have broadened my horizon. Butgood Lord! I haven't wasted time. I've studied every detail; nothing hasescaped me. This" (he touched his head--a fine, almost noble head, covered by a wealth of white hair), "this has been doing double dutywhile these" (he pointed to his useless legs) "have refused to playtheir part. While I felt conscientiously responsible, I stuck to my job;but a man has a right to a little freedom of his own!"

Lynda drew so close that her stool touched the chair. She bent her cheekupon the shrivelled hand resting upon the arm. The excitement andfeverish banter of Truedale affected her painfully. She reproachedherself bitterly for having left him to the mercy of his loneliness andimagination. Her interest in, her resentment for, Conning faded beforethe pitiful display of feeling expressed in every tone and word ofTruedale. 

The touch of the warm cheek against his hand stirred the man. His eyessoftened, his face twitched and, because the young eyes were hidden, hepermitted his gaze to rest reverently upon the bowed head. She was theonly thing on earth he loved--the only thing that cut through his crustof hardness and despair and made him human. Then, from out theunexpected, he asked:

"Lynda, when did you break your engagement to John Morrell?"

The girl started, but she did not change her position. She never lied orprevaricated to Truedale--she might keep her own counsel, but when shespoke it was simple truth. 

"About six months ago. "

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"There was nothing to tell, Uncle William. "

"There was the fact, wasn't there?"

"Oh! yes, the fact. "

"Why did you do it?"

"That--is--a long story. " Lynda looked up, now, and smiled the raresmile that only the stricken man understood. Appeal, confusion, anddetachment marked it. She longed, helplessly, for sympathy andunderstanding. 

"Well, long stories are welcome enough here, child; especially after thedearth of them. Ring the bell; let's have dinner. Pull down the shadesand" (Truedale gave a wide gesture) "put the live stock out! An earlymeal, a long evening--what better could we add than a couple of longstories?"

In the doing of what Truedale commanded, Lynda found a certain relief. These visits were like grim plays, to be sure, but they were also sacredduties. This one, after the lapse of time filled with new and strangeemotions, was a bit grimmer than usual, but it had the effect of a tonicupon the ragged nerves of the two actors. 

The round table was set by the fire--it was the manservant who attendednow; silver and glass and linen were perfect, and the simple farecarefully chosen and prepared. 

Truedale was never so much at his ease as when he presided at thesesmall dinners. He ate little; he chose the rarest bits for his guest; hetalked lightly--sometimes delightfully. At such moments Lynda realizedwhat he must have been before love and health failed him. 

To-night--shut away from all else, the strain of the past weeks ignored, the long stories deliberately pushed aside--Truedale spoke of the bookshe had been reading; Lynda, of her work. 

"I have two wonderful houses to do, " she said, poising a morsel of foodgracefully. "One is for a couple recently made rich; they do not dare tomove for fear of going wrong. I have that place from garret to cellar. It's an awful responsibility--but lots of fun!"

"It must be. Spending other people's money and making them as good asnew at the same time, must be rare sport. And the other contract?"

"Oh! that is another matter. " Lynda leaned back and laughed. "I'm toningup an old house. Putting false fronts on, a bit of rouge, filling inwrinkles; in short, giving a side-tracked old lady something to interesther. She doesn't know it, but I'm letting her do the work, and she'svery happy. She has a kind of rusty good taste. I'm polishing it withouthurting her. The living room! Why, Uncle William, it is a picture. It isa tender dream come true. "

"And you are charging for that, you pirate?"

"I do not have to. The dear soul is so grateful that I'm forced torefuse favours. "

"Lynda, ring for Thomas. " Truedale drew his brows close. "I thinkI'll--I'll smoke. It may help me to sleep after the long storiesand--when I am alone. " He rarely indulged in this way--tobacco excitedinstead of soothed him--but the evening must have all the clear thoughtpossible!

CHAPTER IV

Lynda sat again upon her ottoman--her capacity for sitting hours withouta support to her back had always been one of her charms for WilliamTruedale. The old man looked at her now; how strong and fine she was!How reliant and yet--how appealing! How she would always give andgive--be used to the breaking point--and rarely understood. Truedaleunderstood her through her mother!

"I want to ask you, Lynda, why do you come here--you of all the world? Ihave often wondered. "

"I--I like to come, generally, Uncle William. "

"But--other times, out of the general? You come oftener then. Why?"

And now Lynda turned her clear, dark eyes upon him. A sudden resolve hadbeen taken. She was going to comfort him as she never had before, goingto recompense him for the weeks just past when she had failed him whileespousing Con's cause. She was going to share her secret with him!

"Just before mother went, Uncle William, she told me--"

The hand holding the cigar swayed--it was a very frail, thin hand. 

"Told you--what?"

"That you once--loved her. "

The old wound ached as it was bared. Lynda meant to comfort, but she wascausing excruciating pain. 

"She--told you that? And you so young! Why should she so burden you--sheof all women?"

"And--my mother loved you, Uncle William! She found it out too lateand--and after that she did her best for--for Brace and me and--father!"

The room seemed swaying, as all else in the universe was, at thatmoment, for William Truedale. Everything that had gone to hisundoing--to the causing of his bitter loneliness and despair--was beatendown by the words that flooded the former darkness with almostterrifying light. For a moment or two he dared not speak--dared nottrust his voice. The shock had been great. Then, very quietly:

"And--and why did she--speak at the last?"

Lynda's eyes filled with tears. 

"Because, " she faltered, "since she could not have come to you withoutdishonour--she sent me! Her confidence has been the sacredest thing inmy life and I have tried to do as she desired. I--I have failedsadly--lately, but try to forgive me for--my mother's sake!"

"And you--have"--the voice trembled pitifully in spite of the effortTruedale made to steady it--"kept silence--since she went; why? Oh!youth is so ignorant, so cruel!" This was said more to himself than tothe girl by his knee upon whose bowed head his shrivelled handunconsciously rested. 

"First it was for father that I kept the secret. He seemed so strickenafter--after he was alone. And then--since I was trying to be to youwhat mother wanted me to be--it did not seem greatly to matter. I wantedto win my way. I always meant to tell you, and now, after these weeks ofmisunderstanding, I felt you should know that there will always be areason for me, of all the world, to share your life. "

"I see! I see!" A great wave of emotion rose and rose, carrying the pastyears of misery with it. The knowledge, once, might have saved him, butnow it had come too late. By and by he would be able to deal with thisstaggering truth that had been so suddenly hurled upon him, but not nowwhile Katherine Kendall's daughter knelt at his side!

"Lynda, I cannot talk to you about this. When you are older--when lifehas done its best or its worst for you--you will understand better thanyou do to-day; but remember this: what you have told me has cut deep, but it has cut, by one stroke, the hardness and bitterness from myheart. Remember this!"

Then with a sudden reversion to his customary manner he said:

"And now tell me about Morrell. "

Lynda started; the situation puzzled her. She had meant tocomfort--instead she seemed to have hurt and confused her old friend. 

"About John Morrell?" she murmured with a rising perplexity; "thereisn't much to tell. "

"I thought it was a long story, Lynda. "

"Somehow it doesn't seem long when you get close to it. But surely youmust see, Uncle William, that after--after father and mother--I wouldnaturally be a bit keener than most girls. It would never do for me tomarry the wrong man and, of course, a girl never really knows until--shefaces the situation at close quarters. I should never have engagedmyself to John Morrell--that was the real mistake; and it was only whenhe felt sure of me--that I knew! Uncle William, I must have my own life, and John--well, he meant to have his own and mine, too. I couldn't standit! I have struggled up and conquered little heights just as hehas--just as Con and Brace have; we've all scrambled up together. Itdidn't seem quite fair that they should--well, fly their colours fromtheir peaks and that I should" (here Lynda laughed) "cuddle under John'sstandard. I don't always believe in his standard; I don't approve of it. Much as I like men, I don't think they are qualified to arrange, sort, fix, and command the lives of women. If a woman thinks the abdicationjustifies the gains, that's all right. If I had sold myself, honourably, to John Morrell I would have kept to the agreement; I hateand loathe women who don't! I'm not belittling the romance andsentiment, Uncle William, but when all's told the usual marriage is abargain and half the women whine about holding to it--the others play upand, if there is love enough, it pans out pretty well--but I couldn't!You see I had lived with father and mother--felt the lack betweenthem--and I saw mother's eyes when she--let go and died! No! I mean tohave my own life!"

"And you are going to forego a woman's heritage--home and children--forsuch a whim? Your mother had recompenses; are you not afraid ofthe--future?"

"Not if I respect it and do not dishonour the present. "

"A lonely man or woman--an outcast from the ordinary--is a creature ofhell!"

Lynda shook her head. 

"Go on!" Truedale commanded sternly. "Morrell is a good fellow. From myprison I took care to find that out. Brace did me practical service whenhe acted as sleuth before your engagement!"

Lynda coloured and frowned. 

"I did not know about that, " was all she said. 

"It doesn't matter--only I'm glad I can feel sorry for him and angry atyou. I never knew you could be a fool, Lynda. "

"I dare say we all can, if we put our minds to it--sometimes without. Well! that's the whole story, Uncle William. "

"It's only the preface. See here, Lynda, did it ever strike you that awoman like you doesn't come to such a conclusion as you have without anexperience--a contrast to go by?"

"I--I do not know what you mean, Uncle William. "

"I think you do. I have no right to probe, but I have a right to--tohelp you if I can. You've done much for your mother; can you deny methe--the honour of doing something for her?"

"There's nothing--to do. "

"Let us see! You're just a plain girl when all's said and done. You'vegot a little more backbone and wit than some, but your heart's in thesame place as other women's and you're no different in the main. Youwant the sane, right things just as they do--home, children, andsecurity from the things women dread. A man can give a woman a chancefor her best development; she ought to recognize that and--yes--appreciateit. "

"Surely!" this came very softly from the lips screened now by two coldshivering hands. "A woman does recognize it; she appreciates it, butthat does not exclude her from--choice. "

"One man--of course within limits and reason--is as good as another whenhe loves a woman and makes her love him. You certainly thought youloved Morrell. You had nothing to gain unless you did. You probablyearned as much as he. "

"That's true. All quite true. "

"Then something happened!" Truedale flung his half-smoked cigar in thefire. "What was it, Lynda?"

"There--was nothing--really--"

"There was something. There was--Con!"

"Oh! how--how can you?" Lynda started back. She meant to say "How dareyou?"--but the drawn and tortured face restrained her. 

"Because I must, Lynda. Because I must. You know I told you I had astory? You must bear with me and listen. Sit down again and try toremember--I am doing this for your mother! I repeat--there was Con. Atfirst you took up arms for him as Brace did; your sex instincts were notawakened. You were all good fellows together until you drifted, blindfolded, into the trap poor Morrell set for you. You thought I wasill-treating Con--disregarding his best interests--starving his soul!Oh! you poor little ignoramus; the boy never had a soul worth mentioninguntil it got awakened, in self-defense, and grew its own limit. What didyou and Brace know of the past--the past that went into Con's making?You were free enough with your young condemnation and misplacedloyalty--but how about justice?"

Lynda's eyes were fixed upon Truedale's face. She had never seen him inthis mood and, while he fascinated, he overawed her. 

"Why, girl, Con's father, my younger brother, was as talented as Con, but he was a scamp. He had money enough to pave the way to his owndestruction. Until it was gone he spurned me--spurned even his owngenius. He married a woman as mad as himself and then--without aqualm--tossed her aside to die. He had no sense of responsibility--noshame. He had temperament--a damnable one--and he drifted on it to theend. When it was all over, I brought Conning here. Just at thattime--well, it was soon after your mother married your father--thiscreeping disease fell upon me. If it hadn't been for the boy I'd haveended the whole thing then and there, but with the burden laid upon me Icouldn't slip out. It has been a kind of race ever since--this menacemounting higher and higher and the making of Con keeping pace. I sworethat if he had talent it must prove itself against hardship, not inluxury. I made life difficult in order to toughen and inspire. I nevermeant to kill--you must do me that justice. Only you see, chained here, I couldn't follow close enough, and Con had pride, thank God! and hethought he had hate--but he hasn't or he'd have starved rather thanaccept what I offered. In his heart he--well, let us say--respects me toa certain extent. I saw him widening the space between himself and hisinheritance--and it has helped me live; you saw him making a man ofhimself and it became more absorbing than the opportunity of annexingyourself to a man already made. Oh, I have seen it all and it has helpedme in my plan. "

"Your--plan?" The question was a feeble attempt to grapple with asituation growing too big and strong. "Your plan--what is your plan?"

"Lynda, I have made my will! Sitting apart and looking on, the doing ofthis has been the one great excitement of my life. Through the years Ihave believed I was doing it alone; now I see your mother's guiding handhas led me on; I want you to believe this as--I do!"

"I--I will try, Uncle William. " Lynda no longer struggled against thatwhich she could not understand. She felt it must have its way with her. 

"This house, " Truedale was saying, "was meant for your mother. I left itbare and ready for her taste and choice. After--I go, I want you to fitit out for her--and me! You must do it at once. "

"No! No!" Lynda put up a protesting hand, but Truedale smiled her intosilence and went on: "I may let you begin to-morrow and not wait! Youmust fill the bare corners--spare no expense. You and I will be quitereckless; I want this place to be a--home at last. "

And now Lynda's eyes were shining--her rare tears blinded her. 

"You have always tried indirectly, Lynda, to secure Con's greatest good;you have done it! I mean to leave him a legacy of three thousand a year. That will enable him to let up on himself and develop the talent youthink he has. I have seen to it that the two faithful souls who haveserved me here shall never know want. There will be money, and plenty ofit, for you to carry out my wishes regarding this house, should--well--should anything happen to me! After these details areattended to, my fortune, rather a cumbersome one, goes to--Dr. McPherson, my old and valued friend!"

Lynda started violently. 

"To--to Dr. McPherson?" she gasped, every desire for Conning up in arms. 

"There! there! do not get so excited, Lynda. It is only for--threeyears. McPherson and I understand. "

"And then?"

"It will go to Conning--if--"

"If what?" Lynda was afraid now. 

"If he--marries you!"

"Oh! this is beyond endurance! How could you be so cruel, UncleWilliam?" The hot, passionate tears were burning the indignant face. 

"He will not know. The years will test and prove him. "

"But I shall know! If you thought best to do this thing, why have youtold me?"

"There have been hours when I myself did not know why; I understandto-night. Your mother led me!"

"My mother could never have hurt me so. Never!"

"You must trust--her and me, Lynda. "

"Suppose--oh! suppose--Con does not . .. Oh! this is degrading!"

"Then the fortune will--be yours. McPherson and I have worked thisout--most carefully. "

"Mine! Mine! Why"--and here Lynda flung her head back and laughedrelievedly--"I refuse absolutely to accept it!"

"In that case it goes--to charities. "

A hush fell in the room. Baffled and angry, Lynda dared not trustherself to speak and Truedale sank back wearily. Then came a rattle ofwheels in the quiet street--a toot of a taxi horn. 

"Thomas has not forgotten to provide for your home trip; but the man canwait. The night is mild"--Truedale spoke gently--"and you and I arerich. "

Lynda did not seem to hear. Her thoughts were rushing wildly over thepath set for her by her old friend's words. 

"Conning would not know!" she grasped and held to that; "he would beable to act independently. At first it had seemed impossible. Herknowledge could affect no one but herself! If"--and here Lynda breathedfaster--"if Conning should want her enough to ask her to share his lifethat the three thousand dollars made possible, why then the happinessof bringing his own to him would be hers!--hers!"

Again the opposite side of the picture held her. "But suppose he did_not_ want her--in that way? Then she, his friend--the one who, in allthe world, loved him the best--would profit by it; she would be awealthy woman, for her mother's sake or"--the alternative staggeredher--"she could let everything slip, everything and bear theconsequences!"

At this point she turned to Truedale and asked pitifully again:

"Oh! why, why did you do this?"

There was no anger or rebellion in the words, but a pathos that causedthe old man to close his eyes against the pleading in the uplifted face. It was the one thing he could not stand. 

"Time will prove, child; time will prove. I could not make youunderstand; your mother might have--I could not. But time will show. Time is a strange revealer. All my life I have been working in darknessuntil--now! I should have trusted more--you must learn from me. 

"There, do not keep the man waiting longer. I wonder--do not do itunless you want to, or think it right--but I wonder if you could kiss megood-bye?"

Lynda rose and, tear-blinded, bent over and kissed him--kissed himtwice, once for her mother!--and she felt that he understood. She hadnever touched her lips to his before, and it seemed a strange ceremony. 

An hour later Truedale called for Thomas and was wheeled to his bedroomand helped to bed. 

"Perhaps, " he said to the man, "you had better put those drops on thestand. If I cannot sleep--" Thomas smiled and obeyed. There had been atime when he feared that small, dark bottle, but not now! He believedtoo sincerely in his master's strength of character. Having the medicinenear might, by suggestion, help calm the restlessness, but it had neverbeen resorted to, so Thomas smiled as he turned away with a cheery:

"Very well, sir; but there will be no need, I hope. "

"Good-night, Thomas. Raise the shade, please. It's a splendid night, isn't it? If they should build on that rear lot I could not see the moonso well. I may decide to buy that property. "

When Thomas had gone and he was alone at last, Truedale heaved a heavysigh. It seemed to relieve the restraint under which he had beenlabouring for weeks. 

All his life the possibility of escape from his bondage had made thebondage less unendurable. It was like knowing of a secret passage fromhis prison house--an exit dark and attended by doubts and fears, butnevertheless a sure passage to freedom. It had seemed, in the past, acowardly thing to avail himself of his knowledge--it was like goingwith his debts unpaid. But now, in the bright, moonlit room it nolonger appeared so. He had finished his task, had ended the bungling, and had heard a clear call ringing with commendation and approval. Therewas nothing to hold him back!

Over in the cabinet by the window were a photograph and a few letters;Truedale turned toward them and wondered if Lynda, instead of his oldfriend McPherson, would find them? He wished he had spoken--but afterall, he could not wait. He had definitely decided to take the journey!But he spoke softly as if to a Presence:

"And so--you played a part? Poor girl! how well--you played it! Andyou--suffered--oh! my God--and I never did you the justice ofunderstanding. And you left your girl--to me--I have tried not to failyou there, Katherine!"

Then Truedale reached for the bottle. He took a swallow of the contentsand waited! Presently he took another and a thrill of exhilarationstirred his sluggish blood. Weakly, gropingly, he stretched his benumbedhand out again; he was well on his way now. The long journey was begunin the moonlight and, strange to say, it did not grow dark, nor did heseem to be alone. This surprised him vaguely, he had always expected itwould be so different!

And by and by one face alone confronted him--it was brighter than themoonlit way. It smiled understandingly--it, too, had faced the broadhighway--it could afford to smile. 

Once more the heavy, dead-cold hand moved toward the stand beside thebed, but it fell nerveless ere it reached what it sought. 

The escape had been achieved!

CHAPTER V

The days passed and, unfettered, Jim White remained in the deep woods. After Nella-Rose's disturbing but thrilling advent, Truedale reboundedsharply and, alone in his cabin, brought himself to terms. By a rigidarraignment he relegated, or thought he had relegated, the whole matterto the realm of things he should not have permitted, but which had doneno real harm. He brought out the heavy book on philosophy andendeavoured to study. After a few hours he even resorted to the wettowel, thinking that suggestion might assist him, but Nella-Rosepersistently and impishly got between his eyes and the pages and floutedphilosophy by the magic of her superstition and bewitching charm. 

Then Truedale attacked his play, viciously, commandingly. This was moresuccessful. He reconstructed his plot somewhat--he let Nella-Rose in!Curbed and somewhat re-modelled, she materialized and, while he dealtstrictly with her, writing was possible. 

So the first day and night passed. On the second day Truedale's newstrength demanded exercise and recreation. He couldn't be expected tolock himself in until White returned to chaperone him. After all, therewas no need of being a fool. So he packed a gunny sack with food and abook or two, and sallied forth, after providing generously for the livestock and calling the dogs after him. 

But Truedale was unaware of what was going on about him. Pine ConeSettlement had, since the trap episode, been tense and waiting. Not manythings occurred in the mountains and when they did they were made themost of. With significant silence the friends and foes of Burke Lawsonwere holding themselves in check until he returned to his old haunts;then there would be considerable shooting--not necessarily fatal, amidnight raid or two, a general rumpus, and eventually, a truce. 

All this Jim White knew, and it was the propelling factor that had senthim to the deep woods. His sentiments conflicted with duty. Guilty asLawson was, the sheriff liked him better than he did Martin and hemeant, should he come across Burke in "the sticks, " to take him off fora bear hunt and some good advice. Thus he would justify his conscienceand legal duties. But White, strange to say, was as ignorant as Truedalewas of an element that had entered into conditions. It had neveroccurred to Jim to announce or explain his visitor's arrival. To PineCone a "furriner" aroused at best but a superficial interest and, sinceTruedale had arrived, unseen, at night, why mention him to a communitythat could not possibly have anything in common with him? So it wasthat Greyson and a few others, noting Truedale at a distance and losingsight of him at once, concluded that he was Burke, back and in hiding;and a growing but stealthy excitement was in the air. He was supposed byboth factions to be with the sheriff, and feeling ran high. In the finalestimate, could White have known it, he himself held no small part!

Beloved and hated, Lawson divided the community for and against himselfabout equally. There were those who defended and swore they would killany who harmed the young outlaw--he was of the jovial, dare-devil typeand as loyal to his friends as he was unyielding to his foes. Othersdeclared that the desperado must be "finished"; the trap disagreementwas but the last of a long list of crimes; it was time to put a quietuson one who refused to fall into line--who called the sheriff his friendand had been known to hobnob with revenue men! That, perhaps, was theblackest deed to be attributed to any native. 

So all Pine Cone was on the war path and Truedale, heedless and unaware, took his air and exercise at his peril. 

The men of the hills had a clear case now, since Peter Greyson had givenhis evidence, which, by the way, became more conclusive hour by hour asimagination, intoxication, and the delight of finding himself important, grew upon Greyson. 

"Jim told me, " Peter had confided to Jed Martin, "that he was going toget a posse from way-back and round Lawson up. "

This was wholly false. White never took any one into his businesssecrets, least of all Greyson for whom he had deep contempt. "But Idon't call that clean to us-all, Jed. We don't want strangers to catchBurke; we don't want them to--to string him up or shoot him full ofholes; what we-all want is to force White to hand him over to justice, give him a fair trial, and then send him to one of them prison traps toeat his soul out behind bars. Jed--just you shut your eyes and _see_Burke Lawson behind bars--eating sop from a pan, drinking prisonwater--just you call that picture up. "

Jed endeavoured to do so and it grew upon his imagination. 

"We-all wants to trail him, " Greyson continued, "we don't want to givehim a free passage to Kingdom-Come by rope or shot--we-all want prisonfor Lawson, prison!"

As Jed was the one most concerned, this edict went abroad by mountainwireless. 

"Catch him alive!" Friend and foe were alert. 

"And when all's fixed and done--when Burke's trapped, " Greyson said, "what you going to do--for me, Jed?"

This was a startling, new development. 

"I didn't reckon yo' war doin' this--fur pay!" Jed faltered. ThenGreyson came forth:

"No pay, Jed. Gawd knows I do my duty as I see it. But being keen aboutduty, I see more than one duty. When you catch and cage Lawson, Jed, Iwant to be something closer to you than a friend. "

"Closer than--" Jed gasped. 

"And duty drives me to confess to you, Jed, that the happiness of a ladyis at stake. "

Jed merely gaped now. Visions of Nella-Rose made him giddy andspeechless. 

"The day you put Lawson in jail, Jed, that day I'll give you the hand ofmy daughter. She loves you; she has confessed! You shall come here andshare--everything! The hour that Burke is convicted--Marg is yours!"

"Marg!" The word came on a gasp. 

"Not a word!" Greyson waved his hand in a princely way--this gesture wasan heirloom from his ancestry. "I understand your feelings--I've seenwhat has been going on--but naturally I want my daughter to marry oneworthy of her. You shall have my Marg when you have proven yourself!I've misjudged you, Jed, but this will wipe away old scores. "

With a sickening sense of being absorbed, Jed sank into black silence. If Marg wanted him and old Greyson was helping her, there was no hope!Blood and desire would conquer every time; every mountaineer recognizedthat!

And so things were seething under a surface of deadly calm, whenTruedale, believing that he had himself well in control, packed hisgunny sack and started forth for a long tramp. He had no particulardestination in mind--in fact, the soft, dreamy autumn day lulled him tomental inertia--he simply went along, but he went as directly toward therhododendron slick as though he had long planned his actions. However, it was late afternoon before he came upon Nella-Rose. 

On the instant he realized that he had been searching for her all day. His stern standards crumbled and became dry dust. One might as wellapply standards to flickering sunlight or to swirling trifles ofmountain mist as to Nella-Rose. She came upon him gaily; the dogs haddiscovered her on one of their ventures and were now quietlyaccompanying her. 

"I--I've been looking for you--all day!" Truedale admitted, with truthbut indiscretion. And then he noted, as he had before, the strangeimpression the girl gave of having been blown upon the scene. Thepretty, soft hair resting on the cheek in a bewildering curve; thelarge, dreamy eyes and black lashes; the close clinging of her shabbycostume, as if wrapped about her slim body by the playful gale that hadwafted her along; all held part in the illusion. 

"I had to--to lead Marg to Devil-may-come Hollow. She's hunting therenow!" Nella-Rose's white teeth showed in a mischievous smile. "We'reright safe with Marg down there, scurrying around. Come, I know a sunnyplace--I want to tell you about Marg. "

Her childish appropriation of him completed Truedale's surrender. Theabsolute lack of self-consciousness drove the last remnant of cautionaway. They found the sunny spot--it was like a dimple in a hill that hadcaught the warmth and brightness and held them always to the exclusionof shadows. It almost seemed that night could never conquer the nook. 

And while they rested there, Nella-Rose told him of the belief of thenatives that he was the refugee Lawson. 

"And Marg would give you up like--er--this" (Nella-Rose puffed animaginary trifle away with her pretty pursed lips). "She trailed afterme all day--she lost me in a place where hiding's good--and there I lefther! She'll tell Jed Martin this evening when she gets back. Marg isscenting Burke for Jed and his kind to catch--that's her way and Jed's!"Stinging contempt rang in the girl's voice. 

"But not your way I bet, Nella-Rose. " The fun, not the danger, of thesituation struck Truedale. 

"No!--I'd do it all myself! I'd either warn him and have done with it, or I'd stand by him. "

"I'm not sure that I like the misunderstanding about me, " Truedale halfplayfully remarked, "they may shoot me in the back before they findout. "

"Do you" (and here Nella-Rose's face fell into serious, dangerouslysweet, lines), "do you reckon I would leave you to them-all if there wasthat danger? They don't aim to shoot or string Burke up; they reckonthey'll take him alive and--get him locked up in jail to--to--"

"What, Nella-Rose?"

"Die of longing!"

"Is that what would happen to Burke Lawson?"

The girl nodded. Then the entrancing mischief returned to her eyes andshe became a child once more--a creature so infinitely young thatTruedale seemed grandfatherly by comparison. 

"Can't you see how mighty funny it will be to lead them and let themfollow on and then some day--they'll plump right up on you and find out!Godda'mighty!"

Irresponsible mirth swayed the girl to and fro. She laughed, silently, until the tears stood in the clear eyes. Truedale caught the spirit ofher mood and laughed with her. The picture she portrayed of settingjealousy, malice, and stupidity upon the wrong trail was very funny, butsuddenly he paused and said seriously:

"But in the meantime this Burke Lawson may return; you may be the deathof him with your pranks. "

Nella-Rose shook her head. "I would know!" she declared confidently. "Iknow everything that's going on in the hills. Burke would let meknow--first!"

"It's like melodrama, " Truedale murmured half to himself. By some trickof fancy he seemed to be looking on as Brace Kendall might have. Thethought brought him to bay. What would good old Brace do in the presentsituation?

"What is melodrama?" Nella-Rose never let a new word or suggestionescape her. She was as keen as she was dramatic and mischievous. 

"It would be hard to make you understand--but see here"--Truedale drewthe gunny sack to him--"I bet you're hungry!" He deliberately put Bracefrom his thoughts. 

"I reckon I am. " The lovely eyes were fixed upon the hand that wasbringing forth the choicest morsels of the food prepared early thatmorning. As he laid the little feast before her, Truedale acknowledgedthat, in a vague way, he had been saving the morsels for Nella-Rose evenwhile he had fed, earlier, upon coarser fare. 

"I don't know about giving you a chicken wing!" he said playfully. "Youlook as if you were about to fly away as it is--but unfortunately I'veeaten both legs!"

"Oh! please"--Nella-Rose reached across the narrow space separatingthem, she was pleading prettily--"I just naturally admire wings!"

"I bet you do! Well, eat plenty of bread with them. And see here, Nella-Rose, while you are eating I'm going to read a story to you. It isthe sort of thing that we call melodrama. "

"Oh!" This through the dainty nibbling of the coveted wing. "I'm rightfond of stories. "

"Keep quiet now!" commanded Truedale and he began the spirited tale oflove and high adventure that, like the tidbits, he knew he had broughtfor Nella-Rose!

The warm autumn sun fell upon them for a full hour, then it shifted andthe chill of the approaching evening warned the reader of the flight oftime. He stopped suddenly to find that his companion had long sinceforgotten her hunger and food. Across the debris she bent, absorbed andtense. Her hands were clasped close--cold, little hands they were--andher big eyes were strained and wonder-filled. 

"Is that--all?" she asked, hoarsely. 

"Why, no, child, there's more. "

"Go on!"

"It's too late! We must get back. "

"I--I must know the rest! Why, don't you see, you know how it turns out;I don't!"

"Shall I tell you?"

"No, no. I want it here with the warm sun and the pines andyour--yourself making it real. "

"I do not understand, Nella-Rose!" But as he spoke Truedale began tounderstand and it gave him an uneasy moment. He knew what he ought todo, but knew that he was not going to do it! "We'll have to come againand hear the rest, " was what he said. 

"Yes? Why"--and here the shadowy eyes took on the woman-look, the lookthat warned and lured the man near her--"I did not know it ever camelike that--really. "

"What, Nella-Rose?"

"Why--love. They-all knew it--and took it. It was just like it wassomething all by itself. That's not the sort us-all have. Does it onlycome that--er--way in mel--melerdrammer?"

"No, little girl. It comes that way in real life when hearts are bigenough and strong enough to bear it. " Truedale watched the effect of hiswords upon the strange, young face before him. They forced their waythrough her ignorance and untrained yearning for love and admiration. Itwas a perilous moment, for conscience, on Truedale's part, seemeddrugged and sleeping and Nella-Rose was awakening to that which she hadnever known before. Gone, for her, were caprice and mischief; she seemedabout to see and hear some wonderful thing that eluded but called heron. 

And after that first day they met often. "Happened upon each other" wasthe way Truedale put it. It seemed very natural. The picturesque spotsappealed to them both. There was reading, too--carefully selected bits. It was intensely interesting to lead the untrained mind into bewilderingmazes--to watch surprise, wonder, and perplexity merge intounderstanding and enjoyment. Truedale experienced the satisfaction ofseeing that, for the first time in his life, he was a great power. Thethought set his brain whirling a bit, but it made him seriously humbleas well. 

Gradually his doubts and introspections became more definite; he livedday by day, hour by hour; while Jim White tarried, Nella-Rose remained;and the past--Truedale's past--faded almost from sight. He could hardlyrealize, when thinking of it afterward, where and how he decided to cutloose from his past, and all it meant, and accept a future almostludicrously different from anything he had contemplated. 

One day a reference to Burke Lawson was made and, instead of letting itpass as heretofore, he asked suddenly of Nella-Rose:

"What is he to you?"

The girl flushed and turned away. 

"Burke?--oh, Burke isn't--anything--now!"

"Was he ever--anything?"

"I reckon he wasn't; I _know_ he wasn't!"

Then, like a flash, Truedale believed he understood what had happened. This simple girl meant more to him than anything else--more than thepast and what it held! A baser man would not have been greatly disturbedby this knowledge; a man with more experience and background would haveunderstood it and known that it was a phase that must be dealt withsternly and uncompromisingly, but that it was merely a phase and as suchbound to pass. Not so Truedale. He was stirred to the roots of hisbeing; every experience was to him a concrete fact and, consequently, momentous. In order to keep pure the emotions that overpowered him attimes, he must renounce all that separated him from Nella-Rose andreconstruct his life; or--he must let _her_ go!

Once Truedale began to reason this out, once he saw Nella-Rose'sdependence upon him--her trust and happiness--he capitulated andpermitted his imagination to picture and colour the time on ahead. Herefused to turn a backward glance. 

Of course all this was not achieved without struggle and foreboding; buthe saw no way to hold what once was dear, without dishonour to thatwhich now was dearer; and he--let go!

This determined, he strenuously began to prepare himself for the change. Day by day he watched Nella-Rose with new and far-seeing interest--notalways with love and passion-blinded eyes. He felt that she could, withhis devotion and training, develop into a rarely sweet and fine woman. He was not always a fool in his madness; at times he was wonderfullyclear-sighted. He meant to return home, when once his health wasrestored, and take the Kendalls into his confidence; but the thought ofLynda gave him a bad moment now and then. He could not easily depose herfrom the most sacred memories of his life, but gradually he grew tobelieve that her relations to him were--had always been--platonic; andthat she, in the new scheme, would play no small part in his life andNella-Rose's. 

There would be years of self-denial and labour and then, by and by, success would be achieved. He would take his finished work, and in thishe included Nella-Rose, back to his old haunts and prove his wisdom andgood fortune. In short, Truedale was love-mad--ready to fling everythingto the ruthless winds of passion. He blindly called things by wrongnames and steered straight for the rocks. 

He meant well, as God knew; indeed all the religious elements, hithertounsuspected in him, came to the fore now. Conventions were absurd whenapplied to present conditions, but, once having accepted the inevitable, the way was divinely radiant. He meant to pay the price for what heyearned after. He had no other intention. 

Now that he was resigned to letting the past go, he could afford torevel in the joys of the present with a glad sense of responsibility forthe future. 

Presently his course seemed so natural that he wondered he had everquestioned it. More and more men with a vision--and Truedale devoutlybelieved he had the vision--were recognizing the absurdity of oldideals. 

Back to the soil meant more than the physical; it meant back to theprimitive, the simple, the real. The artificial exactions of societymust be spurned if a new and higher morality were to be established. 

If Truedale in this state of mind had once seen the actual danger, allmight have been well; but he had swung out of his orbit. 

At this juncture Nella-Rose was puzzling her family to the extent ofkeeping her father phenomenally sober and driving Marg to the verge ofnerve exhaustion. 

The girl had, to put it in Greyson's words, "grown up over night. " Shewas dazzling and recalled a past that struck deep in the father's heart. 

There had been a time when Peter Greyson, a mere boy, to be sure--andbefore the cruel war had wrecked the fortunes of his family--had beensurrounded by such women as Nella-Rose now suggested. Women with dancingeyes and soft, white hands. Women born and bred for love and homage, whodemanded their privileges with charm and beauty. There had been onefascinating woman, a great-aunt of Nella-Rose's, who had imperilled thefamily honour by taking her heritage of worship with a high hand. Disregarding the rights of another, she boldly rode off with the man ofher choice and left the reconstruction of her reputation to her kith andkin who roused instantly to action and lied, like ladies and gentlemen, when truth was impossible. Eventually they so toned down and polishedthe deed of the little social highwaywoman as to pass her on in thefamily history with an escutcheon shadowed only, rather than smirched. 

Nella-Rose, now that her father considered, was dangerously like herpicturesque ancestress! The thought kept Peter from the still, back inthe woods, for many a day. He, poor down-at-heel fellow, was as ready asany man of his line to protect women, especially his own, but he wassorely perplexed now. 

Was it Burke Lawson who, from his hiding place, was throwing a glamourover Nella-Rose?

Then Peter grew ugly. The protection of women was one thing; ridding thecommunity of an outlaw was another. Men knew how to deal with suchmatters and Greyson believed himself to be very much of a man. 

"Nella-Rose, " he said one day as he smoked reflectively and listened tohis younger daughter singing a camp meeting hymn in a peculiarly sweetlittle voice, "when my ship comes in, honey, I'm going to buy you aharp. A gold one. "

"I'd rather have a pink frock, father, and a real hat; I just naturallyhate sunbonnets! I'd favour a feather on my hat--flowers fade righteasy. "

"But harps is mighty elegant, Nella-Rose. Time was when your--auntsand--and grandmothers took to harps like they was their dailynourishment. Don't you ever forget that, Nella-Rose. Harps in familiesmean _blood_, and blood don't run out if you're careful of it. "

Nella-Rose laughed, but Marg, in the wash-house beyond, listenedand--hated!

No one connected _her_ with harps or blood, but she held, in her sullenheart and soul, the true elements of all that had gone into the makingof the best Greysons. And as the winter advanced, Marg, worn in mind andbody, was brought face to face with stern reality. Autumn wasgone--though the languorous hours belied it. She must prepare. So shegathered her forces--her garden products that could be exchanged fornecessities; the pork; the wool; all, all that could be spared, she mustset in circulation. So she counted three dozen eggs and weighed tenpounds of pork and called Nella-Rose, who was driving her mad by singingand romping outside the kitchen door. 

"You--Nella-Rose!" she called, "are you plumb crazy?"

Nella-Rose became demure at once and presented herself at the door. 

"Do I look it?" she said, turning her wonderful little face up forinspection. Something in the words and in the appealing beauty made Margquiver. Had happiness and justice been meted out to Marg Greyson shewould have been the tenderest of sisters to Nella-Rose. Several yearslay between them; the younger girl was encroaching upon the diminishingrights of the older. The struggle between them was as old as lifeitself, but it could not kill utterly what should have existed ardently. 

"You got to tote these things"--Marg held forth the basket--"down to theCentre for trade, and you can fetch back the lil' things like pepper, salt, and sugar. Tell Cal Merrivale to fetch the rest and bargain forwhat I've got ready here, when he drives by. If you start now you can beback by sundown. "

To Marg's surprise, Nella-Rose offered no protest to the seven-milewalk, nor to the heavy load. She promptly pulled her sunbonnet to theproper angle on her head and gripped the basket. 

"Ain't you goin' to eat first?" asked Marg. 

"No. Put in a bite; I'll eat it by the way. "

As the Centre was in the opposite direction from the Hollow, as sevenmiles going and seven miles coming would subdue the spirits and energyeven of Nella-Rose, Marg was perplexed. However, she prepared food, tucked it in the basket, and even went so far as to pin her sister'sshawl closely under her chin. Then she watched the slim, straight figuredepart--still puzzled but at peace for the day, at least. 

Nella-Rose, however, was plotting an attack upon Truedale quite out ofthe common. By unspoken consent he and she had agreed that theirmeetings should be in the open. Jim White might return at anytime andneither of them wanted at first to include him in the bewildering dramaof their lives. For different reasons they knew that Jim's coldunderstanding of duty would shatter the sacred security that was alltheirs. Truedale meant to confide everything to White upon hisreturn--meant to rely upon him in the reconstruction of his life; but heknew nothing could be so fatal to the future as any conflict at thepresent with the sheriff's strict ideas of conduct. As for Nella-Rose, she had reason to fear White's power as woman-hater and upholder of lawand order. She simply eliminated Jim and, in order to do this, she mustkeep him in the dark. 

Early that morning she had looked, as she did every day, from the hillbehind the house and she had seen but one thin curl of smoke from theclearing! If White had not returned the night before the chances werethat he would make another day of it! Nella-Rose often wondered whyothers did not note the tell-tale smoke--a clue which often played avital part in the news of the hills. Only because thoughts were focussedon the Hollow and on White's absence, was Truedale secure in hisprivacy. 

"I'll hurry mighty fast to the Centre, " Nella-Rose concluded, afterescaping from Marg's disturbed gaze, "then I'll hide the things by thebig road and I'll--go to his cabin. I'll--I'll surprise him!"

Truedale had told her the day before, in a moment of caution, that hewould have to work hard for a time in order to make ready for White'sreturn. The fact was he had now got to that point in his story when helonged for Jim as he might have longed for safety on a troubled sea. With Jim back and fully informed--everything on ahead would be safe. 

"I'll surprise him!" murmured Nella-Rose, with the dimples in full playat the corners of her mouth; "old Jim White can't keep me away. I'llwatch out--it's just for a minute; I'll be back by sundown; it will beonly to say 'how-de?'"

Something argued with the girl as she ran on--something quite new anduncontrolled. Heretofore no law but that of the wilds had entered intoher calculations. To get what she could of happiness and life--to makeas little fuss as possible--that had been her code; but now, the samerestraint that had held Marg from going to the Hollow awhile back, whenshe thought that, with night, Burke Lawson might disclose hiswhereabouts, held Nella-Rose! So insistent was the rising argument thatit angered the girl. "Why? Why?" her longings and desires cried. "Because! Because!" was the stern response, and the _woman_ inNella-Rose thrilled and throbbed and trembled, while the girlish spiritpleaded for the excitement of joy and sweetness that was making thegrim stretches of her narrow existence radiant and full of meaning. 

On she went doggedly. The dimples disappeared; the mouth fell into thepathetic, drooping lines that by and by, unless something savedNella-Rose, would become permanent and mark her as a hill-woman--one towhom soul visions were denied. 

CHAPTER VI

Wisdom had all but conquered Nella-Rose's folly when she came in sightof Calvin Merrivale's store. But--who knows?--perhaps the girl's storyhad been written long since, and she was not entirely free. Be that asit may, she paused, for no reason whatever as far as she could tell, andcarefully took one dozen eggs from the basket and hid them under somebushes by the road! Having done this she went forward so blithely andlightly that one might have thought her load had been considerablyeased. She appeared before Calvin Merrivale, presently, like arefreshing apparition from vacancy. It was high noon and Merrivale wasdozing in a chair by the rusty stove, in which a fire, prepared againstthe evening chill, was already burning. 

"How-de, Mister Merrivale?" Calvin sprang to his feet. 

"If it ain't lil' Nella-Rose. How'se you-all?"

"Right smart. I've brought you three dozen eggs and ten pounds of pork. "Nella-Rose almost said po'k--not quite! "And you must be mighty generouswith me when you weigh out--let me see!--oh, yes, pepper, salt, andsugar. "

"I'll lay a siftin' more in the scale, Nella-Rose, on 'count o' yo'enjoyin' ways. But I can't make this out"--he was counting theeggs--"yo' said three dozen aigs?"

"Three dozen, and ten pounds of pork!" This very firmly. 

Merrivale counted again and as he did so Nella-Rose remembered! The redcame to her face--the tears to her ashamed eyes. 

"Stop!" she said softly, going close to the old man. "I forgot. I tookone dozen out!"

Merrivale stood and looked at her and then, what he thought wasunderstanding, came to his assistance. 

"Who fo', Nella-Rose, who fo'?"

There was no reply to this. 

"Yo' needn't be afraid to open yo' mind ter me, Nella-Rose. Keeping sto'is a mighty help in gettin' an all-around knowin' o' things. Folks jestnaterally come here an' talk an' jest naterally I listen, an' 'twixt JimWhite, the sheriff, an' old Merrivale, there ain't much choosin', jedgmatically speakin'. I know White's off an' plannin' ter round upBurke Lawson from behind, as it war. T'warnt so in my day, lil'Nella-Rose. When we-uns had a reckonin comin', we naterally went out an'shot our man; but these torn-down scoundrels like Jed Martin an' hiskind they trap 'em an' send 'em to worse'n hell. Las' night"--and hereMerrivale bent close to Nella-Rose--"my hen coop was 'tarnally gonethrough, an' a bag o' taters lifted. I ain't makin' no cry-out. I ain'tforgot the year o' the fever an'--an'--well, yo' know who--took care o'me day an' night till I saw faces an' knew 'em! What's a matter o' a heno' two an' a sack o' taters when lined up agin that fever spell? I tellyo', Nella-Rose, if _yo'_ say thar war three dozen aigs, thar _war_three dozen aigs, an' we'll bargain accordin'!"

And now the dimples came slowly to the relieved face. 

"I'll--I'll bring you an extra dozen right soon, Mister Merrivale. "

"I ain't a-goin' ter flex my soul 'bout that, Nella-Rose. Aigs is aigs, but human nater is human nater; an' keepin' a store widens yo' stretcho' vision. Now, watch out, lil' girl, an' don't take too much fo'granted. When a gun goes off yo' hear it; but when skunks trail, yo'don't get no sign, 'less it's a smell!"

Nella-Rose took her packages, smiled her thanks, and ran on. She ate herlunch by the bushes where the eggs lay hidden, then depositing in thesafe shelter the home bundles Merrivale had so generously weighed, sheput the eggs in the basket, packed with autumn leaves, and turned intothe trail leading away from the big road. 

Through the bare trees the clear sky shone like a shield of blue-graymetal. It was a sky open for storm to come and pass unchecked. The verystillness and calm were warnings of approaching disturbance. Nature waslistening and waiting for the breaking up of autumn and the clutch offrost. 

It was only two miles from the Centre to White's clearing and theafternoon was young when Nella-Rose paused at the foot of the last climband took breath and courage. There was a tangled mass of rhododendronsby the edge of the wood and suddenly the girl's eyes became fixed uponit and her heart beat wildly. Something alive was crouching there, though none but a trained sense could have detected it! They waited--thehidden creature and the quivering girl! Then a pair of eager, suspiciouseyes shone between the dead leaves of the bushes; next a dark, thin facepeered forth--it was Burke Lawson's! Nella-Rose clutched her basketcloser--that was all. After a moment she spoke softly, but clearly:

"I'm alone. You're safe. How long have you been back?"

"Mor'n two weeks!"

Nella-Rose started. So they had known all along, and while she hadplayed with Marg the hunt might at any moment have become deadlyearnest. 

"More'n two weeks, " Lawson repeated. 

"Where?" The girl's voice was hard and cold. 

"In the Holler. Miss Lois Ann helped--but Lord! you can't eat a helplessold woman out of house and home. Last night--"

"Yes, yes; I know. And oh, Burke, Mister Merrivale hasn't forgot--thefever and your goodness. He won't give you up. "

"He won't need to. I'm right safe, 'cept for food. There's an old hole, back of a deserted still--I can even have a bit of fire. The devilhimself couldn't find me. After a time I'm going--"

"Where? Where, Burke?"

"Nella-Rose, would you come with me? 'Twas you as brought me back--I hadto come. If you will--oh! my doney-gal--"

"Stop! stop, Burke. Some one might be near. No, no; I couldn't leave thehills--I'd die from the longing, you know that!"

"If I--dared them all--could you take me, Nella-Rose? I'd run my chanceswith you! Night and day you tug and pull at the heart o' me, Nella-Rose. "

Fear, and a deeper understanding, drove Nella-Rose to the wrong course. 

"When you dare to come out--when they-all let you stay out--then ask meagain, Burke Lawson. I'm not going to sweetheart with one who dare notshow his head. "

Her one desire was to get Lawson away; she must be free!

"Nella-Rose, I'll come out o' this. "

"No! no!" the girl gasped, "they're not after you to shoot you, Burke;Jed Martin is for putting you in jail!"

"Good God--the sneaking coward. "

"And Jim White is off raising a posse, he means to--to see fair play. Wait until Jim comes back; then give yourself up. "

"And then--then, Nella-Rose?"

The young, keen face among the dead leaves glowed with a light that sentthe blood from Nella-Rose's heart. 

"See"--she said inconsequently--"I have" (she counted them out), "I havea dozen eggs; give them to Miss Lois Ann!"

"Let me touch you, Nella-Rose! Just let me touch your lil' hand. "

"Wait until Jim White comes back!"

Then, because a rabbit scurried from its shelter, Burke Lawson sank intohis, and Nella-Rose in mad haste took to the trail and was gone! Amoment later Lawson peered out again and tried to decide which way shewent, but his wits were confused--so he laughed that easy, fearlesslaugh of his and put in his hat the eggs Nella-Rose had left. Then, crawling and edging along, he retraced his steps to that hole in theHollow where he knew he was as safe as if he were in his grave. 

With distance and reassurance on her side, Nella-Rose paused to takebreath. She had been thoroughly frightened. Her beautiful plans, unsuspected by all the world, had been threatened by an unlooked-fordanger. She had never contemplated Burke Lawson as a complication. Shewas living day by day, hour by hour. Jim White she had accepted as amenace--but Burke never! She was no longer the girl Lawson had known, but how could she hope to make him understand that? Her tender, love-seeking nature had, in the past, accepted the best the mountainsoffered--and Burke had been the best. She had played with him--teasedMarg with him--revelled in the excitement, but _now_? Well, theblindness had been torn from her eyes--the shackles from her feet. Noone, nothing, could hold her from her own! She must not be defrauded andimprisoned again!

Yes, that was it--imprisoned just when she had learned to use her wings!

Standing in the tangle of undergrowth, Nella-Rose clenched her smallhands and raised wide eyes to the skies. 

"I seem, " she panted--and at that moment all her untamed mysticismswayed her--"like I was going along the tracks in the dark and somethingis coming--something like that train long ago!"

Then she closed her eyes and her uplifted face softened and quivered. Behind the drooping lids she saw--Truedale! Quite vividly hematerialized to her excited fancy. It was the first time she had everbeen able to command him in this fashion. 

"I'm going to him!" The words were like a passionate prayer rather thanan affirmation. "I'm going to follow like I followed long ago!" Sheclutched the basket and fled along. 

And while this was happening, Truedale, in his cabin, was working as hehad not worked in years. He had burned all his bridges and outlyingoutposts; he was waiting for White, and his plans were completed. Hemeant to confide everything to his only friend--for such Jim seemed inthe hazy and desolated present--then he would marry Nella-Rose off-hand;there must be a minister somewhere! After that? Well, after thatTruedale grasped his manuscript and fell to work like one inspired. 

Lynda Kendall would never have known the play in its present form. Truedale's ideal had always been to portray a free woman--a super-woman;one who had evolved into the freedom from shattered chains. He now had aheroine free, in that she had never been enslaved. If one greater thanhe had put a soul in a statue, Truedale believed that he could awaken achild of nature and show her her own beautiful soul. He had outlined, atime back, a sylvan Galatea; and now, as he sat in the still room, theframework assumed form and substance; it breathed and moved himdivinely. It and he were alone in the universe; they were to begin theworld--he and--

Just then the advance messenger of the coming change of weather enteredby way of a lowered window. It was a smart little breeze and itflippantly sent the ashes flying on the hearth and several sheets ofpaper broadcast in the room. Truedale sprang to recover his treasures;he caught four or five, but one escaped his notice and floated towardthe door, which was ajar. 

"Whew!" he ejaculated, "that was a narrow escape, " and he began to sortand arrange the sheets on the table. 

"Sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two. Now where in thunder is that sixty-three?"

A light touch on his arm made him spring to his feet, every nervea-tingle. 

"Here it is! It seemed like it came to meet me. "

"Nella-Rose!"

The girl nodded, holding out the paper. 

"So you have come? Why--did you?"

The dimples came into play and Truedale stood watching them while manyemotions flayed him; but gradually his weakness passed and he was ableto assume an extremely stern though kindly manner. He meant to set thechild right; he meant to see _only_ the _child_ in her until Whitereturned; he would ignore the perilously sweet woman-appeal to hissenses until such time as he could, with safety, let them once more holdpart in their relations with each other. 

But even as he arrived at this wise conclusion, he was noting, as oftenbefore he had noted, the fascinating colour and quality of Nella-Rose'shair. It was both dark and light. If smoke were filled with sunlight itwould be something like the mass of more or less loosened tendrils thatcrowned the girl's pretty head. Stern resolve began to melt before thegirlish sweetness and audacity, but Truedale made one last struggle; hethought of staunch and true Brace Kendall! And, be it to Brace Kendall'scredit, the course Conning endeavoured to take was a wise one. 

"See here, Nella-Rose, you ought not to come here--alone!"

"Why? Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Of course. But why did you come?" This was risky. Truedale recognizedit at once. 

"Just to say--'how-de'! You certainly do look scroogy. "

At this Truedale laughed. Nella-Rose's capacity for bringing forth hishappier, merrier nature was one of her endearing charms. 

"You didn't come just for that, Nella-Rose!" This with sterndisapproval. 

"Take off the scroogy face--then I'll tell you why I came. "

"Very well!" Truedale smiled weakly. "Why?"

"I'm right hungry. I--I want a party. "

Of course this would never do. White, or one of the blood-and-thunderraiders, might appear. 

"You must go, Nella-Rose. "

"Not"--here she sat down firmly and undid her ridiculous plaidshawl--"not till you give me a bite. Just a mighty little bite--I'mstarving!"

At this Truedale roared with laughter and went hurriedly to his closet. The girl must eat and--_go_. Mechanically he set about placing food uponthe table. Then he sat opposite Nella-Rose while she ate with frankenjoyment the remains of his own noon-day meal. He could not but note, as he often did, the daintiness with which she accomplished the task. Other women, as Truedale remembered, were not prepossessing whenattacking food; but this girl made a gracious little ceremony of theaffair. She placed the small dishes in orderly array before her; shepoised herself lightly on the edge of the chair and nibbled--there wasno other word for it--as a perky little chipmunk might, the morsels sheraised gracefully to her mouth. She was genuinely hungry and for a fewminutes devoted her attention to the matter in hand. 

Then, suddenly, Nella-Rose did something that shattered the last scrapof self-control that was associated with the trusty Kendall and his goodexample. She raised a bit of food on her fork and held it out toTruedale, her lovely eyes looking wistfully into his. 

"Please! I feel so ornery eating alone. I want to--share! Please playparty with me!"

Truedale tried to say "I had my dinner an hour ago"; instead, he leanedacross his folded arms and murmured, as if quite outside his ownvolition:

"I--I love you!"

Nella-Rose dropped the fork and leaned back. Her lids fell over the wideeyes--the smile faded from her lips. 

"Do you belong to any one--else, Nella-Rose?"

"No--oh! no. " This like a frightened cry. 

"But others--some one must have told you--of love. Do you know what lovemeans?"

"Yes. "

"How?"

And now she looked at him. Her eyes were dark, her face deadly pale; herlips were so red that in the whiteness they seemed the only trace ofcolour. 

"How do I know? Why because--nothing else matters. It seems like I'vebeen coming all my life to it--and now it just says: 'Here I am, Nella-Rose--here'!"

"I, too, have been coming to it all my life, little girl. I did notknow--I was driven. I rebelled, because I did not know; but nothing else_does_ matter, when--love gets you!"

"No. Nothing matters. " The girl's voice was rapt and dreamy. Truedaleput his hands across the space dividing them and took hold of hers. 

"You will be--mine, Nella-Rose?"

"Seems like I must be!"

"Yes. Doesn't it? Do you--you must understand, dear? I mean to live therest of my life here in the hills--your hills. You once said one was ofthe hills or one wasn't; will they let me stay?"

"Yes"--almost fiercely--"but--but your folks--off there--will they letyou stay?"

"I have no folks, Nella-Rose. I'm lonely and poor--at least I was untilI found you! The hills have given me--everything; I mean to serve themwell in return. I want you for my wife, Nella-Rose; we'll make ahome--somewhere--it doesn't matter; it will be a shelter for our loveand--" He stopped short. Reality and conventions made a last vainappeal. "I don't want you ever again to go out of my sight. You're mineand nothing could make that different--but" (and this came quickly, desperately) "there must be a minister somewhere--let's go to him! Donot let us waste another precious day. When he makes you mine byhis"--Truedale was going to say "ridiculous jargon" but he modified itto--"his authority, no one in all God's world can take you from me. Come, come _now_, sweetheart!"

In another moment he would have had her in his arms, but she held himoff. 

"I'm mighty afraid of old Jim White!" she said. 

Truedale laughed, but the words brought him to his senses. 

"Then you must go, darling, until White returns. After I have explainedto him I will come for you, but first let me hold you--so! and kissyou--so! This is why--you must go, my love!"

She was in his arms, her lifted face pressed to his. She shivered, butclung to him for a moment and two tears rolled down her cheeks--thefirst he had ever seen escape her control. He kissed them away. 

"Of what are you thinking, Nella-Rose?"

"Thinking? I'm not thinking; I'm--happy!"

"My--sweetheart!" Again Truedale pressed his lips to hers. 

"Us-all calls sweetheart--'doney-gal'!"

"My--my doney-gal, then!"

"And"--the words came muffled, for Truedale was holding her still--"andalways I shall see your face, now. It came to-day like it came long ago. It will always come and make me glad. "

Truedale lifted her from his breast and held her at arms' length. Helooked deep into her eyes, trying to pierce through her ignorance andchildishness to find the elusive woman that could meet and bear its partin what lay before. Long they gazed at each other--then the light inNella-Rose's face quivered--her mouth drooped. 

"I'm going now, " she said, "going till Jim White comes back. "

"Wait--my--"

But the girl had slipped from his grasp; she was gone into the misty, threatening grayness that had closed in about them while love hadcarried them beyond their depths. Then the rain began to fall--heavy, warning drops. The wind, too, was rising sullenly like a monster rousedfrom its sleep and slowly gathering power to vent its rage. 

Into this darkening storm Nella-Rose fled unheedingly. She was notherself--not the girl of the woods, wise in mountain lore; she wasbewitched and half mad with the bewildering emotions that, at one momentfrightened her--the next, carried her closer to the spiritual than shehad ever been. 

CHAPTER VII

Alone in his cabin, Truedale was conscious of a sort of groundlessterror that angered him. The storm could not account for it--he had theadvantage of ignorance there! Certainly his last half-hour could not beresponsible for his sensations. He justified every minute of it by termsas old as man's desires and his resentment of restrictions. "Our livesare our own!" he muttered, setting to work to build a fire and to lightthe lamp. "They will all come around to my way of seeing things when Ihave made good and taken her back to them!"

Still this arguing brought no peace, and more and more Truedale foundhimself relying upon Jim White's opinions. In that troubled hour thesheriff stood like a rugged sign post in the path. One unflinchingfinger pointed to the past; the other--to the future. 

"Well! I've chosen, " thought Truedale; "it's the new way and--thankGod!" But he felt that the future could be made possible or miserable byJim's favour or disapproval. 

Having decided to follow upon White's counsel, Truedale mentally prayedfor his return, and at once. The fact was, Truedale was drugged and hehad just sense enough left to know it! He vaguely realized that thehalf-hour with Nella-Rose had been a dangerous epoch in his life. He wassafe, thank heaven! but he dared not trust himself just now without astronger will to guide him!

While he busied himself at feeding the animals, preparing and clearingaway his own evening meal, he grew calmer. The storm was gaining infury--and he was thankful for it! He was shut away from possibletemptation; he even found it easy to think of Kendall and of Lynda, buthe utterly eliminated his uncle from his mind. Between him and oldWilliam Truedale the gulf seemed to have become impassable!

And while Truedale sank into an unsafe mental calm, Nella-Rose pushedher way into the teeth of the storm and laughed and chattered like a madand lost little nymph. Wind and rain always exhilarated her and the furyof the elements, gaining force every minute, did not alarm her while thememory of her great experience held sway over her. She shook her hairback from her wide, vague eyes. She was undecided where to go for thenight--it did not matter greatly; to-morrow she would go again toTruedale, or he would come to her. At last she settled upon seeking theshelter of old Lois Ann, in Devil-may-come Hollow, and turned in thatdirection. 

It was eight o'clock then and Truedale, with his books and papers onthe table before him, declared: "I am quite all right now, " and fell towork upon the manuscript that earlier had engrossed him. 

As the time sped by he was able to visualize the play; _he_ was sittingin the audience--he beheld the changing scenes and the tense climax. Heeven began to speculate upon the particular star that would be fittedfor the leading part. His one extravagance, in the past, had beencut-rate seats in the best theatres. 

Suddenly the mood passed and all at once Truedale realized that he wastired--deadly tired. The perspiration stood on his forehead--he achedfrom the strain of cramped muscles. Then he looked at his watch; it waseleven o'clock! The stillness out of doors bespoke a sullen break in thestorm. A determined drip-drip from roof and trees was like the tickingof a huge clock running down, but good for some time. The fire had diedout, not a bit of red showed in the ashes, but the room was hot, still. Truedale decided to go to bed without it, and, having come to thatconclusion, he bent his head upon his folded arms and sank into a deepsleep. 

Suddenly he awoke. The room was cold and dark! The lamp had burneditself out and the storm was again howling in its second attack. Chilledand obsessed by an unnerving sense of danger, Truedale waited for--heknew not what! Just then something pressed against his leg and he puthis hand down thinking one of the dogs was crouching close, but awhispered "sh!" set every muscle tense. 

"Nella-Rose?"

"Yes--but, oh! be mighty still. They may be here any minute. "

"They? Who?"

"All of them. Jed Martin, my father, and the others--the ones who arefriends of--of--"

"Whom, Nella-Rose?"

"Burke Lawson! He's back--and they think--oh! they think they are on histrail--here! I--I was trying to get away but the streams were swollenand the big trees were bending and--and I hid behind a rock and--Iheard!

"First it was Jed and father; they said they were going to shoot--they'dgiven up catching Burke alive! Then they went up-stream and the--theothers came--the friends, and they 'lowed that Burke was here and theymeant to get here before Jed and--and da some killing on their side. I--I thought it was fun when they-all meant to take Burke alive, butnow--oh! now can't you see?--they'll shoot and find out afterward! Theymay come any minute! I put the light out. Come, we must leave the cabinempty-looking--like you had gone--and hide!"

The breathless whispering stopped and Truedale collected his senses inthe face of this real danger. 

"But you--you must not be here, Nella-Rose!"

Every nerve was alert now. "This is pure madness. Great heavens! whatam I going to do with you?"

The seriousness of the situation overpowered him. 

"Sh!" The warning was caused by the restlessness of the dogs outside. Their quick ears were sensing danger or--the coming of their master!Either possibility was equally alarming. 

"Oh! you do not understand, " Nella-Rose was pleading by his knee. "Ifthey-all see you, they will have you killed that minute. Burke is theonly one in their minds--they don't even know that you live; they're toofull of Burke, and if they see me--why--they'd kill you anyway. "

"But what can I do with you?" That thought alone swayed Truedale. 

Then Nella-Rose got upon her feet and stood close to him. 

"I'm yours! I gave myself to you. You--you wanted me. Are you sorry?"

The simple pride and dignity went straight to Truedale's heart. 

"It's because I want you so, little girl, that I must save you. "

Somehow Nella-Rose seemed to have lost her fear of the oncoming raiders;she spoke deliberately, and above a whisper:

"Save me?--from what?"

There were no words to convey to her his meaning. Truedale felt almostashamed to hold it in his own mind. They so inevitably belonged to eachother; why should they question?

"I--I shall not go away--again!"

"My darling, you must. "

"Where?"

The word brought him to his senses--where, indeed? With the dark woodsfull of armed men ready to fire at any moving thing in human shape, hecould not let her go! That conclusion reached, and all anchors cut, thedanger and need of the hour claimed him. 

"Yes; you are mine!" he whispered, gathering her to him. "What doesanything matter but our safety to-night? To-morrow; well, to-morrow--"

"Sh!"

No ear but one trained to the secrets of the still places could havedetected a sound. 

"They are coming! Yes, not the many--it is Jed! Come! While you slept Icarried a right many things to the rhododendron slick back of the house!See, push over the chair--leave the door open like you'd gone awaybefore the storm. "

Quickly and silently Nella-Rose suited action to word. Truedale watchedher like one bewitched. "Now!" She took him by the hand and the nextminute they were out on the wet, sodden leaves; the next they werecrouching close under the bushes where even the heavy rain had notpenetrated. Half-consciously Truedale recognized some of his propertynear by--his clothing, two or three books, and--yes--it was hismanuscript! The white roll was safe! How she must have worked while heslept. 

Once only did she speak until danger was past. Nestling close in hisarms, her head upon his shoulder, she breathed:

"If they-all shoot, we'll die together!"

The unreality of the thing gradually wore upon Truedale's tense nerves. If anything was going to happen he wanted it to happen! In anotherhalf-hour he meant to put an end to the farce and move his belongingsback to the cabin and take Nella-Rose home. It was a nightmare--nothingless!

"Sh!" and then the waiting was over. Two dark figures, guns ready, stolefrom the woods behind White's cabin. Where were the dogs? Why did theynot speak out?--but the dogs were trained to be as silent as the men. They were all part and parcel of the secret lawlessness of the hills. Inthe dim light Truedale watched the shadowy forms enter Jim's unlockedcabin and presently issue forth, evidently convinced that the prey wasnot there--had not been there! Then as stealthy as Indians they madetheir way to the other cabin--Truedale's late shelter. They kept to thebushes and the edge of the woods--they were like creeping animals untilthey reached the shack; then, standing erect and close, they went in thedoorway. So near was the hiding place of Truedale and his companionthat they could hear the oaths of the hunters as they became aware thattheir quarry had escaped. 

"He's been here, all right!" It was Jed Martin who spoke. 

"I reckon he's caught on, " Peter Greyson drawled, "he's makin' for JimWhite. White ain't more'n fifteen miles back; we can cut him off, Jed, 'fore he reaches safety--the skunk!"

Then the two emerged from the cabin and strode boldly away. 

"The others!" whispered Truedale--"will they come?"

"Wait!"

There was a stir--a trampling--but apparently the newcomers did not seeMartin and Greyson. There was a crackling of underbrush by feet nolonger feeling need of caution, then another space of silence beforesafety was made sure for the two in the bushes. 

At last Truedale dared to speak. 

"Nella-Rose!" He looked down at the face upon his breast. She wasasleep--deeply, exhaustedly asleep!

Truedale shifted his position. He was cramped and aching; still the evenbreathing did not break. He laid her down gently and put a heavy coatabout her--one that earlier she had carried from the cabin in her effortto save him. He went to the house and grimly set to work. First helighted a fire; then he righted the chairs and brought about some orderfrom the chaos. He was no longer afraid of any man on God's earth; evenJim White was relegated to the non-essentials. Truedale was merely aprimitive creature caring for his own! There was no turning back now--nowaiting upon conventions. When he had made ready he was going out tobring his own to her home!

The sullen, soggy night, with its bursts of fury and periods of calm, had settled down, apparently, to a drenching, businesslike rain. Thenatives knew how to estimate such weather. By daylight the streams wouldbe raging rivers on whose currents trees and animals would be carriedruthlessly to the lowlands. Roads would be obliterated and human beingswould seek shelter wherever they could find it. 

But Truedale was spared the worry this knowledge might have brought him. He concentrated now upon the present and grimly accepted conditions asthey were. All power or inclination for struggle was past; theinheritance of weakness which old William Truedale had feared and withwhich Conning himself had so contended in his barren youth, asserteditself and prepared to take unquestioningly what the present offered. 

At that moment Truedale believed himself arbiter of his own fate andNella-Rose's. Conditions had forced him to this position and he wasready to assume responsibility. There was no alternative; he mustaccept things as they were and make them secure later on. For himselfthe details of convention did not matter. He had always despised them. In his youthful spiritual anarchy he had flouted them openly; they madeno claim upon his attention now, except where Nella-Rose was concerned. Appearances were against him and her, but none but fools would allowthat to daunt them. He, Truedale, felt that no law of man was needed tohold him to the course he had chosen, back on the day when he determinedto forsake the past and fling his fortunes in with the new. Never in hislife was Conning Truedale more sincere or, he believed, more wise, thanhe was at that moment. And just then Nella-Rose appeared coming down therain-drenched path like a little ghost in the grim, gray dawn. She stillwore the heavy coat he had put about her, and her eyes were dreamy andvague. 

Truedale strode toward her and took her in his arms. 

"My darling, " he whispered, "are you able to come with me now--atonce--to the minister? It must be now, sweetheart--now!"

She looked at him like a child trying to understand his mood. 

"Oh!" she said presently, "I 'most forgot. The minister has gone to aburying back in the hills; he'll be gone a right long time. Bill Trim, who carries all the news, told me to-day. "

"Where is he, Nella-Rose?" Something seemed tightening aroundTruedale's heart. 

"Us-all don't know; he left it written on his door. "

"Where is there another minister, Nella-Rose?"

"There is no other. "

"This is absurd--of course there is another. We must start at once andfind him. "

"Listen!" The face upon Truedale's breast was lifted. "You hear that?"

"Yes. What is it?" Truedale was alarmed. 

"It means that the little streams are rivers; it means that the trailsare full of rocks and trees; it means"--the words sank to an awedwhisper--"it means that we must _fight_ for what we-all want to keep. "

"Good God! Nella-Rose, but where can I take you?"

"There is no place--but here. "

It seemed an hour that the silence lasted while Truedale faced this newphase and came to his desperate conclusion. 

Had any one suggested to him then that his decision was the decision ofweakness, or immemorial evil, he would have resented the thought withbitterest scorn. Unknowingly he was being tempted by the devil in him, and he fell; he had only himself to look to for salvation from hismistaken impulses, and his best self, unprepared, was drugged by theoverpowering appeal that Nella-Rose made to his senses. 

Standing with the girl in his arms; listening to the oncoming dangerwhich, he realized at last, might destroy him and her at any moment;bereft of every one--everything that could have held them to the oldideals; Truedale saw but one course--and took it. 

"There is no place but here--no one but you and me!"

The soft tones penetrated to the troubled place where Truedale seemed tostand alone making his last, losing fight. 

"Then, by heaven!" he said, "let us accept it--you and I!"

He had crossed his Rubicon. 

They ate, almost solemnly; they listened to that awful roar growing moreand more distinct and menacing. Nella-Rose was still and watchful, butTruedale had never been more cruelly alive than he was then when, withhis wider knowledge, he realized the step he had taken. Whether it werefor life or death, he had blotted out effectually all that had gone tothe making of the man he once was. Whatever hope he might have had ofmaking Lynda Kendall and Brace understand, had things gone as he oncehad planned, there was no hope now. No--he and Nella-Rose were alone andhelpless in the danger-haunted hills. He and she!

The sun made an effort to come forth later but the rush and roar of theoncoming torrent seemed to daunt it. For an hour it struggled, then gaveup. But during that hour Truedale led Nella-Rose from the house. Silently they made their way to a little hilltop from which they couldsee an open space of dull, leaden sky. There Truedale took the girl'shands in his and lifted his eyes while his benumbed soul sought whateverGod there might be. 

"In Thy sight, " he said slowly, deeply, "I take this woman for my wife. Bless us; keep us; and"--after a pause--"deal Thou with me as I dealwith her. "

Then the earnest eyes dropped to the frightened ones searching his face. 

"You are mine!" Truedale spoke commandingly, with a force that neverbefore had marked him. 

"Yes. " The word was a faint, frightened whisper. 

"My darling, kiss me!"

She kissed him with trembling lips. 

"You love me?"

"I--I love you. "

"You--you trust me?"

"I--oh! yes; yes. "

"Then come, my doney-gal! For life or death, it is you and I, littlewoman, from now on!"

Like a flash his gloom departed. He was gay, desperate, and free of allhampering doubts. In such a mood Nella-Rose lost all fear of him andwalked by his side as complacently as if the one minister in her sordidlittle world had with all his strange authority said his sacred "Amen"over her. 

CHAPTER VIII

There were five days of terrific storm. Truedale and Nella-Rose hadfought to save White's live stock--even his cabin itself; for the delugehad attacked that while leaving safe the smaller cabin near by. All onemorning they had worked gathering debris and placing it so that itturned the course of a rapid stream that threatened the larger house. Ithad been almost a lost hope, but as the day wore on the torrentlessened, the rough barrier held--they were successful! The gate andsnake-fence were carried away, but the rest was saved!

In the strenuous labour, in the dangerous isolation, the ordinary thingsof life lost their importance. With death facing them their love andcompanionship were all that were left to them and neither counted thecost. But on the sixth day the sun shone, the flood was past, and withsafety and the sure coming of Jim White at hand, they sat confrontingeach other in a silence new and potent. 

"Sweetheart, you must go--for a few hours!"

Truedale bent across the table that separated them and took her claspedhands in his. He had burned all his social bridges, but poorNella-Rose's progress through life had not been made over anything sosubstantial as bridges. She had proceeded by scrambling down and upprimitive obstacles; she felt that at last she had come to her Land ofPromise. 

"You are going to send me--away? Where?"

"Only until White returns, little girl. See here, dear, you and I arequite gloriously mad, but others are stupidly sane and we've got tothink of them. "

Truedale was talking over her head, but already Nella-Rose accepted thisas a phase of their new relations. A mountain man might still love hiswoman even if he beat her and, while Nella-Rose would have scorned thesuggestion that she was a mountain woman, she did seriously believe thatmen were different from women and that was the end of the matter!

"You run along, small girl of mine--the skies are clear, the sunwarm--but I want you to meet me at three o'clock at the spot where thetrail joins the road. I will be there and I will wait for you. "

"But why?--why?" The blue-gray eyes were troubled. 

"Sweetheart, we're going to find that minister of yours if we have totravel from one end of the hills to the other!"

"But we-all are married!" This with a little gasp. "Back on the hill, when you told God and said He understood; then we-all were married. "

"And so we were, my sweet, no minister could make you more mine thanyou already are, but the others--your people. Should they try toseparate us they might cause trouble and the minister can make itimpossible for any one to take you away from my love and care. "

And at that moment Truedale actually believed what he said. In his hearthe had always been a rebel--defiant and impotent. He had, in thisinstance, proved his theories; but he did not intend to leave loose endsthat might endanger the safety of others--of this young girl, most ofall. He was only going to carry out his original plans for hersafety--not his own. After the days just past--days of anxiety, relief, and the proving of his love and hers--no doubt remained in Truedale'sheart; he was of the hills, now and forever!

"No one can--_now_!" This came passionately from Nella-Rose as shewatched him. 

"They might make trouble until they found that out. They're too freewith their guns. There's a lot to explain, little doney-gal. " Conningsmiled down her doubts. 

"Until three o'clock!" Nella-Rose pouted, "that's a right long time. ButI'll--just run along. Always and always I'm going to do what you say!"Already his power over her was absolute. She put her arms out with ahappy, wilful gesture and Truedale held her closer. 

"Only until three, sweetheart. "

Nella-Rose drew herself away and turned to pick up her little shawl andhat from the couch by the fire; she was just reaching for her basket, when a shadow fell across the floor. Truedale and the girl turned andconfronted--Jim White! What he had seen and heard--who could tell fromhis expressionless face and steady voice? The door had been on the latchand he had come in!

"Mail, and truck, and rabbits!" he explained, tossing his load upon thetable. Then he turned toward Truedale as if noticing him for the firsttime. 

"How-de?" he said. Finally his gaze shifted to Nella-Rose and seemed toburn into her soul. 

"Goin', p'r'aps, or--comin'?" he questioned. 

"I--I am--going!" Fright and dismay marked the girl's voice. Truedalewent toward her. The covert brutality in White's words shocked andangered him. He gave no thought to the cause, but he resented theinsult. 

"Wait!" he commanded, for Nella-Rose was gone through the open door. "Wait!"

Seeing that she had for the moment escaped him, Truedale turned to Whiteand confronted him with clear, angry eyes. 

"What have you got to say for yourself?" he demanded fiercely. 

The shock had been tremendous for Jim. Three weeks previously he hadleft his charge safe and alone; he had come back and found--But shockalways stiffened Jim White; that was one reason for his success in life. He was never so inflexible and deadly self-possessed as he was when hecould not see the next step ahead. 

"Gawd, but I'm tired!" he said, when he had stared at Truedale as longas he cared to, "I'm going over to my place to turn in. Seems like I'llsleep for a month once I get started. "

"You don't go, White, until you explain what you meant by--"

But Truedale mistook his man. Jim, having drawn his own conclusion, laughed and strode toward the door. 

"I go when I'm damned pleased ter go!" he flung out derisively, "and Icome the same way, young feller. There's mail for yo' in the sack and--atelegram. " White paused by the door a moment while Truedale picked theyellow envelope from the bag and tore it open. 

 "Your uncle died suddenly on the 16th. Come at once. Vitally important. McPHERSON. "

For a moment both men forgot the thing that had driven them wide apart. 

"Bad news?" asked the sheriff. 

Something was happening to Truedale--he felt as if the effect of somenarcotic were losing its power; the fevered unreality was giving placeto sensation but the brain was recording it dully. 

"What date is this?" he asked, dazed. 

"Twenty-fifth, " Jim replied as he moved out of the door. 

"When can I get a train from the station?"

"There's one as leaves anywhere 'twixt nine and ten ter-night. "

"That gives me time to pack. See here, White, while it isn't any of yourbusiness, I want to explain a thing or two--before I go. I'll be back assoon as I can--in a week or ten days at furthest. When I return I intendto stay on, probably for the rest of my life. "

White still held Truedale by the cold, steely gleam of his eyes whichwas driving lucidity home to the dulled brain. By a power as unyieldingas death Jim was destroying the screen Truedale had managed to raiseagainst the homely codes of life and was leaving his guest naked andexposed. 

The shock of the telegram--the pause it evolved--had given Truedale timeto catch the meaning of White's attitude; now that he realized it, heknew he must lay certain facts open--he could not wait until his return. 

Presently Jim spoke from outside the door. 

"I ain't settin' up for no critic. I ain't by nater a weigher or trimmerand I don't care a durn for what ain't my business. When I _see_ mybusiness I settle it in my own way!"--there was almost a warning inthis. "I'm dead tired, root and branch. I'm goin' ter take a bite an'turn in. I may sleep a couple o' days; put off yo' 'splainifyin' 'tilyo' come back ter end yo' days. Take the mare an' leave her by thetrail; she'll come home. Tell old Doc McPherson I was askin' arter him. "

By that time Jim had ceased scorching his way to Truedale's soul and wason the path to his own cabin. 

"Looks like yo' had a tussle with the storm, " he remarked. "Any livin'thing killed?"

"No. "

"Thank yo'!" Then, as if determined not to share any further confidence, White strode on. 

For a moment Truedale stood and stared after his host in impotent rage. Was Jim White such a lily of purity that he presumed to take thatattitude? Was the code of the hills that of the Romany gypsies? How dareany man judge and sentence another without trial?

The effect of the narcotic still worked sluggishly, now that White'sirritating presence was removed. Truedale shrugged his shoulders andturned to his packing. He was feverishly eager to get to Nella-Rose. Before nightfall she would be his before the world; in two weeks hewould be back; the future would shame White and bring him to his senses. Jim had a soft heart; he was just, in his brutal fashion. When heunderstood how matters were, he would feel like the fool he was--a foolwilling to cast a man off, unheard! But Truedale blamed himself for thehesitation that meant so much. The telegram--his fear of making a wrongstep--had caused the grave mistake that could not be righted now. 

At two o'clock Truedale started--on Jim's mare! White's cabin had allthe appearance of being barred against intrusion. Truedale did not meanto test this, but it hurt him like a blow. However, there was nothing todo but remedy, as soon as possible, the error he had permitted to arise. No man on earth could make Nella-Rose more his than his love and goodfaith had made her, still he was eager now to resort to all thetime-honoured safeguards before he left. Once married he would go with aheart almost light. He would confide everything to Kendall and Lynda--atleast he would his marriage--and urge them to return with him to thehills, and after that White and all the others would have an awakening. The possibility thus conceived was like a flood of light and sweet airin a place dark and bewildering but not evil--no, not that!

As he turned from the clearing Truedale looked back at his cabin. Nella-Rose seemed still there. She would always be part of it just asshe was now part of his life. He would try and buy the cabin--it wouldbe sacrilege for others to enter!

So he hurried the mare on, hoping to be at the crossing beforeNella-Rose. 

The crisp autumn air was redolent of pines and the significance ofsummer long past. It had a physical and spiritual power. 

Then turning suddenly from the trail, Truedale saw Nella-Rose sitting ona rock--waiting! She had on a rough, mannish-looking coat, and a coarse, red hood covered her bright head. Nella-Rose was garbed in winterattire. She had worn this outfit for five years and it looked it. 

Never again was Truedale to see a face of such radiant joy and trust asthe girl turned upon him. Her eyes were wide and filled with a lightthat startled him. He jumped from the horse and took her in his arms. 

"What is it?" he asked, fearing some intangible danger. 

"The minister was killed by the flood!" Nella-Rose's tones werethrilling. "He was going through Devil-may-come Hollow and a mighty bigrock struck him and--he's dead!"

"Then you must come with me, Nella-Rose. " Truedale set his lips grimly;there was no time to lose. Between three and nine o'clock surely theycould locate a minister or a justice of the peace. "Come!"

"But why, Mister Man?" She laughed up at him. "Where?"

"It doesn't matter. To New York if necessary. Jump up!" He turned to thehorse, holding the girl close. 

"Me go away--in this? Me shame you before--them-all?"

Nella-Rose stood her ground and throwing the rough coat back displayedher shabby, shrunken dress. 

"I went home--they-all were away. I got my warm things, but I have awhite dress and a pink ribbon--I'll get them to-morrow. Then--But whymust we go--away?"

For the first time this thought caught her--she had been whirled alongtoo rapidly before to note it. 

"I have had word that my uncle is dead. I must go at once, my dear, andyou--you must come with me. Would you let a little thing like a--a dressweigh against our love, and honour?"

Above the native's horror of being dragged from her moorings was thatsubtle understanding of honour that had come to Nella-Rose by deviousways from a source that held it sacred. 

"Honour?" she repeated softly; "honour? If I thought I had to go in ragsto make you sure; if I thought I needed to--I'd--"

Truedale saw his mistake. Realizing that if in the little time yet hishe made her comprehend, he might lose more than he could hope to gain, he let her free while he took a card and pen from his pocket. He wroteclearly and exactly his address, giving his uncle's home as his. 

"Nella-Rose, " he said calmly, "I shall be back in two or three weeks atthe latest, but if at any moment you want me, send word here--telegraphfrom the station--_you_ come first, always! You are wiser than I, mysweet; our honour and love are our own. Wait for me, my doney-galand--trust me. "

She was all joy again--all sweetness. He kissed her, turned, then cameback. 

"Where will you go, my darling?" he asked. 

"Since they-all do not know"--she was lying against his breast, her eyesheavy now with grief at the parting--"I reckon I will go home--to wait. "

Solemnly Truedale kissed her and turned dejectedly away. Once again hepaused and looked back. She stood against the tree, small and shabby, but the late afternoon sun transfigured her. In the gloomy setting ofthe woods, that fair, little face shone like a gleaming star and soTruedale remembered her and took her image with him on his lonely way. 

Nella-Rose watched him out of sight and then she turned and didsomething that well might make one wonder if a wise God or a cruel demoncontrols our fates--she ran away from the home path and took the trailleading far back to the cabin of old Lois Ann!

There was safety; there were compassion and comprehension. The old womancould tell marvellous tales and so could beguile the waiting days. Nella-Rose meant to confide in her and ask her to hide her untilTruedale came for her. It was a sudden inspiration and it broughtrelief. 

And that night--it was past midnight and cold as the north land--BurkeLawson came face to face with Jed Martin! Lawson was issuing from hiscranny behind the old still and Martin was nosing about alone. He, likea hungry thing of the wilds, had found his foe's trail and meant to baghim unaided and have full vengeance and glory. But so unexpectedly, andalarmingly unconcerned, did Burke materialize in the emptiness thatJed's gun was a minute too late in getting into position. Lawson had thedrop on him! They were both very quiet for a moment, then Lawson laughedand did it so boldly that Jed shrank back. 

"Coming to make a friendly call, Martin?"

"Something like that!"

"Well, come in, come right in!"

"I reckon you an' me can settle what we've got ter settle in the open!"Jed stuttered. It seemed a hideous, one-sided settlement. 

"As yo' please, Jed, as yo' please. I have a leanin' to the open myself. I'd just decided ter come out; I was going up ter Jim White's and helphim mete out justice, but maybe you and me can save him the trouble. "

"You--goin' ter shoot me, Burke--like a--like a--hedgehog?"

"No. I'm goin' ter do unto yo' as yo' would have--" Here Burkelaughed--he was enjoying himself hugely. 

"What yo' mean?"

"Well, I'm goin' ter put yer in my quarters and tie yer to a chair. Yo'll be able to wiggle out in time, but it will take yer long enoughfur me to do what I'm set about doin'. Yo' torn down traitor!--yo' were'lowing to put me behind bars, wasn't yer? Yo' meant to let outsiderstake the life out o' me--yo' skunk! Well, instead, Jed--I'm goin' on myweddin' trip--me and lil' Nella-Rose. I've seen her; she done promisedto have me, when I come out o' hidin'. I'm coming out now! Nella-Rosean' me are goin' to find a bigger place than Pine Cone Settlement. Yo'llwiggle yer blasted hide loose by mornin' maybe; but then her an' me'llbe where you-all can't ketch us! Go in there, now, you green lizard;turn about an' get on yer belly like the crawlin' thing yo' are! That'sit--go! the way opens up. "

Jed was crawling through the bushes, Lawson after him with levelled gun. "Now, then, take a seat an' make yerself ter home!" Jed got to the chairand turned a green-white face upon his tormentor. 

"Yer goin' ter let me starve here?" he asked with shaking voice. 

"That depends on yo' power to wiggle. See, I tie you so!" Lawson hadpounced upon Jed and had him pinioned. "I ain't goin' ter turn a key onyer like yo' was aimin' ter do on me! It's up to yo' an' yer wigglin'powers, when yo' get free. The emptier yer belly is, the more roomye'll have fer wiggling. God bless yer! yer dog-gone hound! Bless yeran'--curse yer! I'm off--with the doney-gal!"

And off he was--he and his cruel but gay laugh. 

There was no fire in the cave-like place; no light but the indirectmoonlight which slanted through the opening. It was death or wiggle forJed Martin--so he wiggled!

In the meantime, Burke headed for Jim White's. He meant to play a highgame there--to fling himself on White's mercy--appeal to the liking heknew the sheriff had for him--confess his love for Nella-Rose--make hispromise for future redemption and then go, scot-free, to claim the girlwho had declared he might speak when once again he dared walk uprightamong his fellows. So Lawson planned and went bravely to the doing ofit. 

CHAPTER IX

At Washington, Truedale telegraphed to Brace Kendall. He felt, as hedrew nearer and nearer to the old haunts, like a stranger, and a blind, groping one at that. The noises of the city disturbed and confused him;the crowds irritated him. When he remembered the few weeks that laybetween the present and the days when he was part and parcel of thisso-called life, he experienced a sensation of having died and beencompelled to return to earth to finish some business carelesslyoverlooked. He meant to rectify the omission as soon as possible and getback to the safety and peace of the hills. How different it all would bewith settled ideas, definite work, and Nella-Rose!

While waiting for his train in the Washington station he was startled tofind that, of a sudden, he was adrift between the Old and the New. If herepudiated the past, the future as sternly repudiated him. He could notreconcile his love and desire with his identity. Somehow the man he hadleft, when he went South, appeared now to have been waiting for him onhis return, and while his plans, nicely arranged, seemed feasible theactual readjustment struck him as lurid and impossible. The fact wasthat his experience of life in Pine Cone made him now shrink fromcontact with the outside world as one of its loyal natives might havedone. It could no more survive in the garish light of a city day thanlittle Nella-Rose could have. That conclusion reached, Truedale wascomforted. He could not lure his recent past to this environment, but solong as it lay safe and ready to welcome him when he should return, hecould be content. So he relegated it with a resigned sigh, as he mighthave done the memory of a dear, absent friend, to the time when he couldcall it forth to some purpose. 

It was well he could do this, for with the coming of Brace Kendall uponthe scene all romantic sensation was excluded as though by an icy-clear, north wind. Brace was at the New York station--Brace with the armour offamiliarity and unbounded friendliness. "Old Top!" he called Truedale, and shook hands with him so vigorously that the last remnant of thoughtthat clung to the distant mountains was freed from the present. 

"Well, of all the miracles! Why, Con, I bet you tip the scales at ahundred and sixty. And look at your paw! Why, it's callous and actuallyhorny! And the colour you've got! Lord, man! you're made over. 

"You're to come to your uncle's house, Con. It's rather a shock, but wegot you as soon as we could. In the meantime, we've followed directions. The will has not been read, of course, but there was a letter found inyour uncle's desk that commanded--that's the only word to express it, really--Lynda and you and me to come to the old house right after thefuneral. We waited to hear from you, Con, but since you could not gethere we had to do the best we could. Dr. McPherson took charge. "

"I was buried pretty deep in the woods, Ken, and there was a bad hitchin the delivery of the telegram. Such things do not count down where Iwas. But I'm glad about the old house--glad you and Lynda are there. "

"Con!"--and at this Brace became serious--"I think we rather overdid ourestimate of your uncle. Since his--his going, we've seen him, Lyn and I, in a new light. He was quite--well, quite a sentimentalist! Butsee--here we are!"

"The house looks different already!" Conning said, leaning from the cabwindow. 

"Yes, Lyn's had a lot to do, but she's managed to make a home of theplace in the short time. "

Lynda Kendall had heard the sound of wheels in the quiet street--had setthe door of welcome open herself, and now stood in the panel of lightwith outstretched hands. Like a revelation Truedale seemed to take inthe whole picture at once. Behind the girl lay the warm, bright hallthat had always been so empty and drear in his boyhood. It was furnishednow. Already it had the look of having been lived in for years. Therewere flowers in a tall jar on the table and a fire on the broad hearth. And against this background stood the strong, fine form of the youngmistress. 

"Welcome home, Con!"

Truedale, for a moment, dared not trust his voice. He gripped her handsand felt as if he were emerging from a trance. Then, of a sudden, a deepresentment overpowered him. They could not understand, of course, butevery word and tone of appropriation seemed an insult to the realitythat he knew existed. He no longer belonged to them, to the life intowhich they were trying to draw him. To-morrow he would explain; he waseager to do so and end the restraint that sprang into being the momenthe touched Lynda's hands. 

Lynda watched the tense face confronting her and believed Conning wassuffering pangs of remorse and regret. She was filled with pity andsympathy shone in her eyes. She led him to the library and therefamiliarity greeted him--the room was unchanged. Lynda had respectedeverything; it was as it always had been except that the long, low chairwas empty. 

They talked together softly in the quiet place until dinner--talked ofindifferent things, realizing that they must keep on the surface. 

"This room and his bedchamber, Con, " Lynda explained, "are the same. For the rest? Well, I hope you will like it. "

Truedale did like it. He gave an exclamation of delight when later theyentered the dining room, which had never been furnished in the past;like much of the house it had been a sad tribute to the emptiness anddisappointment that had overcome William Truedale's life. Now it shonewith beauty and cheer. 

"It is not merely a place in which to eat, " explained Lynda; "a diningroom should be the heart of the home, as the library is the soul. "

"Think of living up to that!"--Brace gave a laugh--"and not having itinterfere with your appetite!" They were all trying to keep cheerfuluntil such time as they dared recall the recent past without restraint. 

Such an hour came when they gathered once more in the library. Braceseized his pipe in the anticipation of play upon his emotions. By tacitconsent the low chair was left vacant and by a touch of imagination italmost seemed as if the absent master were waiting to be justified. 

"And now, " Truedale said, huskily, "tell me all, Lynda. "

"He and I were sitting here just as we all are sitting now, that lastnight. He had forgiven me for--for staying away" (Lynda's voice shook), "and we were very happy and confidential. I told him some things--quiteintimate things, and he, well, he came out of his reserve and gruffness, Con--he let me see the real man he was! I suppose while he had beenalone--for I had neglected him--he had had time to think, to regret hismistakes; he was very just--even with himself. Con"--and here Lynda hadto pause and get control of herself--"he--he once loved my mother! Hebought this house hoping she would come and, as its mistress, make itbeautiful. When my mother married my father, nothing mattered--nothingabout the house, I mean. Before my mother died she told me--to be kindto Uncle William. She, in a sacred way, left him to me; me to him. Thatwas one of the things I told him that last night. I wish I had told himlong ago!" The words were passionate and remorseful. "Oh, it might haveeased his pain and loneliness. When shall we ever learn to say the rightthing when it is most needed? Well, after I had told him he--he grewvery still. It was a long time before he spoke--the joy was sinking in, I saw that, and it carried the bitterness away. When he did speak hemade me understand that he could not trust himself further on thatsubject, but he tried to--to explain about you, Con. Poor man! Herealized that he had made a failure as a guide; but in his own way hehad endeavoured to be a guardian. You know his disease developed justbefore you came into his life. Con, he lived all through the years justfor you--just to stand by!"

From out the shadow where he sat, Brace spoke unevenly:

"Too bad you don't--smoke, old man!" It was the only suggestion he hadto offer in the tense silence that gripped them all. 

"It's all right!" Truedale said heavily. "Go on when you can, Lynda. "

"Do you--remember your father, Con?"

"Yes. "

"Well, your uncle feared that too much ease and money might--"

"I--I begin to understand. "

"So he went to the other extreme. Every step of your well-fought way wasjoy to him--the only joy he knew. From his detachment and loneliness heplanned--almost plotted--for you, but he did not tell you. It would allhave been so different--oh! so different if we had all known. Then hetold me a little--about his will. "

No one saw the sudden crimson that dyed Lynda's white face and throat. "He was very fantastic about that. He made certain arrangements thatwere to take effect at once. He has left you three thousand a year, Con, without any restrictions whatever. He told me that. He left his servantsand employees generous annuities. He left me this house--for my mother'ssake. He insisted that it should be a home at last. A large sum isprovided for its furnishing and upkeep--I'm a trustee! The mostbeautiful thing, perhaps, was the thought expressed in these words ofhis, 'I want you to do your mother's work and mine, while stillfollowing your own rightful desires. Make this house a place of welcome, peace, and friendliness!' I mean to do my best, Con. "

"And he's left me"--Brace found relief in the one touch of humour thatpresented itself--"he's left me a thousand dollars as a token of hisappreciation of my loyalty to you, when you most needed it. "

But Truedale hardly heeded. His eyes were fixed upon the empty chairand, since he had not understood in the past, he could not expresshimself now. He was suffering the torture that all feel when, too late, revealment makes clear what never should have been hidden. 

"And then"--Lynda's low, even voice went on--"he sent me away and Thomasput him to bed. He asked for some medicine that it seems he always hadin case of need; he took too much--and--"

"So it was suicide!" Truedale broke in desperately. "I feared that. GoodGod!" The tragedy and loneliness clutched his imagination--he seemed tosee it all, it was unbearable!

"Con!" Lynda laid her firm hand upon his arm, "I have learned to call itsomething else. It has helped me; perhaps it will help you. He hadwaited wearily on this side of the door of release; he--he told me thathe was going on a long journey he had often contemplated--I did notunderstand then! I fancy the--the journey was very short. There was nosuffering. I wish you could have seen the peace and majesty of his face!He could wait no longer. Nothing mattered here, and all that he yearnedfor called loudly to him. He simply opened the door himself--and wentout!"

Truedale clasped the hand upon his arm. "Thank you, Lynda. I did notrealize how kind you could be, " was all he said. 

The logs fell apart and filled the room with a rich glow. Brace shookthe ashes from his pipe upon the hearth--he felt now that he could trusthimself. 

"For the future, " Lynda's calm voice almost startled the two men by itspracticability and purpose, "this is home--in the truest, biggest sense. No one shall even enter here and feel--friendless. This is my trust; itshall be as _he_ wished it, and I mean to have my own life, too! Why, the house is big enough for us all to live our lives and not interferewith each other. I mean to bring my private business here in the roomsover the extension. I'll keep the uptown office for interviews. And you, Con?"

Truedale almost sprang to his feet, then, hands plunged in pockets, hesaid:

"There does not seem to be anything for me to do; at least not until thewill is read. I think I shall go back--I left things at loose ends;there will be time to consider--later. "

"But, Con, there is something for you to do. You will understand afteryou see the lawyers in the morning. There is a great deal of business:many interests of your uncle's that he expected you to represent in hisname--to see that they were made secure. Dr. McPherson has told mesomething about the will--enough to help me to begin. "

Truedale looked blankly at Lynda. "Very well, after that--I will goback, " he spoke almost harshly. "I will arrange affairs somehow. I'm nobusiness man, but I daresay Uncle William chose wise assistants. "

"What's the matter with you, Con?" Brace eyed his friend critically;"you look fit as a fellow can. This has demanded a good deal ofself-denial and faith from us all, but somehow this duty was the biggestthing in sight; we rather owe him that, I fancy. You know you cannot runto cover just now, old man. This has been a jog, but by morning you'llreconsider and play your part. " There was a new note in Kendall's voice. It was a call to something he hoped was in his friend, but which he hadnever tested. There was a sudden fear, too, of the change that had cometo Truedale. It was not all physical. There was a baffling suggestion ofunreality about him that made him almost a stranger. 

"I dare say you are right, Ken. " Truedale walked the length of the roomand back. "I own to being cut up over this. I never did my part--I seethat now--and of course I'll endeavour to do what I should. My body'sall right but my nerves still jangle at a shock. To-morrow the wholething will settle into shape. You and Lynda have been--well--I cannotexpress what I feel. " He paused. The hour was late, and for the firsttime he seemed to realize that the old home was not his in the sense itonce had been. Lynda understood the moment's hesitation and smiledslightly. 

"Con, there's one other thing in the house that remains as it was. Underthe eaves the small room that was yours is yours still. I saw to itmyself that not a book or picture was displaced. There are other roomsat your disposal--to share with us--but that room is yours, always. "

Truedale stood before Lynda and put out his hands in quite the old way. His eyes were dim and he said hoarsely: "That's about the greatest thingyou've done yet, Lyn. Thank you. Good-night. "

At the door he hesitated--he felt he must speak, but to bring his ownaffairs into the tense and new conditions surrounding him seemedimpossible. To-morrow he would explain everything. It was this slownessin reaching a decision that most defeated Truedale's best interest. While he deplored it--he seemed incapable of overcoming it. 

Alone in the little room, later, he let himself go. Burying his tiredhead upon his folded arms he gave himself up to waves of recollectionthat threatened to engulf him. Everything was as it always had been--aglance proved that. When he had parted from his uncle he had taken onlysuch articles as pertained to his maturer years. The pictures on thewalls--the few shabby books that had drifted into his lonely andmisunderstood childhood--remained. There was the locked box containing, Conning knew full well, the pitiful but sacred attempts atself-expression. The key was gone, but he recollected every scrap ofpaper which lay hidden in the old, dented tin box. Presently he went tothe dormer window and opened it wide. Leaning out he tried to find hisway back to Pine Cone--to the future that was to be free of all thesecramping memories and hurting restrictions--but the trail was toocluttered; he was lost utterly!

"It is because they do not know, " he thought. "After to-morrow it willbe all right. "

Then he reflected that the three thousand dollars Lynda had mentionedwould clear every obstacle from his path and Nella-Rose's. He no longerneed struggle--he could give his time and care to her and his work. Hedid not consider the rest of his uncle's estate, it did not matter. Lynda was provided for and so was he. And then, for the first time inmany days, Truedale speculated upon bringing Nella-Rose away from herhills. He found himself rather insisting upon it, until he broughthimself to terms by remembering her as he had seen her last--clinging toher own, vehemently, passionately. 

"No, I've made my choice, " he finally exclaimed; "the coming backunsettled me for the moment but her people shall be my people. "

Below stairs Lynda was humming softly an old tune--"The Song ofTo-morrow, " it was called. It caught and held Truedale's imagination. Hetried to recall the lines, but only the theme was clear. It was theeverlasting Song of To-morrow, always the one tune set to changingideals. 

It was the same idea as the philosophy about each man's "interpretation"of the story already written, which Conning had reflected upon so often. 

At this time Truedale believed he firmly accepted the principle offoreordination, or whatever one chose to call it. One followed the pathupon which one's feet had been set. One might linger and wander, withincertain limits, but always each must return to his destined trail!

A distant church clock struck one; the house was still at last--deathlystill. Two sounded, but Truedale thought on. 

He finally succeeded in eliminating the entangling circumstances thatseemed to lie like a twisted skein in the years stretching between hisgoing forth from his uncle's house to this night of return. He tried tounderstand himself, to estimate the man he was. In no egotistical sensedid he do this, but sternly, deliberately, because he felt that thefuture demanded it. He must account to others, but first he must accountto himself. 

He recalled his boyhood days when his uncle's distrust and apparentdislike of him had driven him upon himself, almost taking self-respectwith it. He re-lived the barren years when, longing for love andcompanionship, he found solace in a cold pride that carried him alongthrough school and into college, with a reputation for hard, unyieldingwork, and unsocial habits. 

How desperately lonely he had been--how cruelly underestimated--but hehad made no outcry. He had lived his years uncomplainingly--not evenvoicing his successes and achievements. Through long practise inself-restraint, his strength lay in deliberate calculation--notindifferent action. He hid, from all but the Kendalls, his privateambitions and hopes. He studied in order that he might shake himselffree from his uncle's hold upon him. He meant to pay every cent he hadborrowed--to secure, by some position that would supply the barenecessities of life, time and opportunity for developing the talent hesecretly believed was his. He was prepared, once loose from obligationto old William Truedale, to starve and prove his faith. And then--hisbreakdown had come!

Cast adrift by loss of health, among surroundings that appealed to allthat was most dangerous in his nature--believing that his formerambitions were defeated--old longings for love, understanding andself-revealment arose and conquered the weak creature he was. But theyhad appealed to the best in him--not the evillest--thank God! And now?Truedale raised his head and looked about in the dim room, as if to findthe boy he once had been and reassure him. 

"There is no longer any excuse for hesitation and the damnable weaknessof considering the next step, " thought Truedale. "I have chosen my owncourse--chosen the simple and best things life has to offer. No man inGod's world has a right to question my deeds. If they cannot understand, more's the pity. "

And in that hour and conclusion, the indifference and false pride thathad upheld Truedale in the past fell from him as he faced the demands ofthe morrow. He was never again to succumb to the lack of confidence hisdesolate youth had developed; physically and spiritually he roused toaction now that exactions were made upon him. 

CHAPTER X

The following day Truedale heard the will read. Directly after, he feltlike a man in a quicksand. Every thought and motion seemed but to sinkhim deeper until escape appeared impossible. 

He had felt, for a moment, a little surprise that the bulk of hisuncle's great fortune had gone to Dr. McPherson--an already rich andprosperous man; then he began to understand. Although McPherson was leftfree to act as he chose, there had evidently been an agreement betweenhim and William Truedale as to the carrying out of certain affairs and, what was more startling and embarrassing, Conning was hopelesslyinvolved in these. Under supervision, apparently, he was to berecognized as his uncle's representative and, while not his direct heir, certainly his respected nephew. 

Truedale was confounded. Unless he were to disregard his uncle's wishes, there was no way open for him but to follow--as he was led. Far frombeing dissatisfied with the distribution of the fortune, he had beenrelieved to know that he was responsible for only a small part of it;but, on the other hand, should he refuse to cooperate in the schemesoutlined by McPherson, he knew that he would be miserablymisunderstood. 

Confused and ill at ease he sought McPherson later in the day and thatgenial and warm-hearted man, shrinking always behind so stern anexterior that few comprehended him, greeted him almost affectionately. 

"I ordered six months for you, Truedale, " he exclaimed, viewing theresult of his prescription keenly, "and you've made good in a few weeks. You're a great advertisement for Pine Cone. And White! Isn't he God'sown man?"

"I hadn't thought of him in just that way"--Conning reverted to his lastmemory of the sheriff--"but he probably showed another side to you. Hehas a positive reverence for you and I imagine he accepted me as a dutyyou had laid upon him. "

"Nonsense, boy! his health reports were eulogies--he was your friend. 

"But isn't he a freebooter with all his other charms? His contempt forgovernment, as we poor wretches know it, is sublime; and yet he is thesafest man I know. The law, he often told me, was like a lie; usefulonly to scoundrels--torn-down scoundrels, he called them. 

"I tell you it takes a God's man to run justice in those hills! White'sas simple and direct as a child and as wise as a judge ought to be. Iwouldn't send some folk I know to White, they might blur his vision;but I could trust him to you. "

Silently Truedale contemplated this image of White; then, as McPhersontalked on, the dead uncle materialized so differently from the stupidestimate he had formed of him that a sense of shame overpowered him. Lynda had somewhat opened Truedale's eyes, but Lynda's love andcompassion unconsciously coloured the picture she drew. Here was ahard-headed business man, a man who had been close to William Truedaleall his life, proving him now, to his own nephew, as a far-sighted, wise, even patient and merciful friend. 

Never had Truedale felt so small and humble. Never had his pastindifference and false pride seemed so despicable and egotistical--hisreturn for the silent confidence reposed in him, so pitifully shameful. 

He must bear his part now! There was no way but that! If he were ever toregain his own self-respect or hope to hold that of others, he must, tothe exclusion of private inclination, rise as far as in him lay to thedemands made upon him. 

"Your uncle, " McPherson was saying, "tied hand and foot as he was, looked far and wide during his years of illness. I thought I knew, thought I understood him; but since his death I have almost felt that hewas inspired. It's a damnable pity that our stupidity and callousnessprevent us realizing in life what we are quick enough to perceive indeath--when it is too late! Truedale's faith in me, when I gave him solittle to go by, is both flattering and touching. He knew he could trustme--and that knowledge is the best thing he bequeathed to me. But Iexpect you to do your part, boy, and by so doing to justify much thatmight, otherwise, be questioned. To begin with, as you have just heard, the sanatorium for cases like your uncle's is to be begun at once. Nowthere is a strip of land, which, should it suit our purpose, can be hadat great advantage if taken at once, and for cash. We will run down tosee it this week and then we'll know better where we stand. "

"I'd like, " Truedale coloured quickly, "to return to Pine Cone for a fewdays. I could start at once. You see I left rather suddenly andbrought--"

But McPherson laughed and waved his hand in the wide gesture thatdisposed of hope and fear, lesser business and even death itself, attimes. 

"Oh! Jim won't tamper with anything. Certainly your traps are safeenough there. Such things can wait, but this land-deal cannot. Besidesthere are men to see: architects, builders, etc. The wishes of youruncle were most explicit. The building, you recall, was to be begunwithin three months of his death. Having all the time there was, himself, he has left precious little for others. "

Again the big laugh and wide gesture disposed of Pine Cone and thetragic affairs of little Nella-Rose. Unless he was ready to lay bare hisprivate reasons, Truedale saw he must wait a few days longer. And hecertainly had no intention of confiding in McPherson. 

"Very well, doctor, " he said after a slight pause, "set me to work. Iwant you to know that as far as I can I mean--too late, as you say--toprove my good intentions at least to--my uncle. "

"That's the way to talk!" McPherson rose and slapped Conning on theback. "I used to say to old Truedale, that if he had taken you more intohis confidence, he might have eased life for us all; but he was timid, boy, timid. In many ways he was like a woman--a woman hurt andsensitive. "

"If I had only known--only imagined"; Conning was walking toward thedoor; "well, at least I'm on the job now, Dr. McPherson. "

And then for an hour or two Truedale walked the city streets perplexedand distraught. He was being absorbed without his own volition. By asubtle force he was convinced that he was part of a scheme bigger andstronger than his own desires and inclinations. Unless he was preparedto play a coward's role he must adjust his thoughts and ideas tocoincide with the rules and regulations of the game of life and men. With this knowledge other and more blighting convictions held part. Inhis defiance and egotism he had muddled things in a desperate way. Inthe cold, clear light of conventional relations the past few weeks, shorn of the glamour cast by his romantic love and supposed contempt forsocial restrictions, stood forth startlingly significant. At the momentTruedale could not conceive how he had ever been capable of playing thefool as he had! Not for one instant did this realization affect his loveand loyalty to Nella-Rose; but that he should have been swept from hismoorings by passion, reduced him to a state of contempt for the folly hehad perpetrated. And, he thought, if he now, after a few days, could socontemplate his acts how could he suppose that others would view themwith tolerance and sympathy?

No; he must accept the inevitable results of his action. His love, hisearnest intention of some day living his own life in his own way, wereto cost him more than he, blinded by selfishness and passion in thehills, had supposed. 

Well, he was ready to pay to the uttermost though it cost him thedeepest heart-ache. As he was prepared to undertake the burden hisuncle's belief in him entailed, so he was prepared, now that he sawthings clearly, to forego the dearest and closest ties of his old life. 

He wondered how he could ever have dreamed that he could go to Lynda andBrace with his amazing confession and expect them, in the first momentof shock, to open their hearts and understand him. He almost laughed, now, as he pictured the absurdity. And just then he drew himself upsharply and came to his conclusion. 

He could not lay himself bare to any one as a sentimental ass; he mustarrange things as soon as possible to return South; he would, justbefore starting, tell Lynda and Brace of his attachment for Nella-Rose. They would certainly understand why, in the stress and strain of recentevents, he had not intruded his startling news before. He would neitherask nor expect sympathy or cooperation. He must assume that they couldnot comprehend him. This was going to be the hardest wrench of his life, Truedale recognized that, but it was the penalty he felt he must pay. 

Then he would go--for his wife! He would secure her privately, by allthe necessary conventions he had spurned so madly--he would bring her tohis people and leave to her sweetness and tender charm the winning ofthat which he, in his blindness, had all but lost. 

So, in this mood, he returned to his uncle's house and wrote a longletter to Nella-Rose. He phrased it simply, as to a little child. Hereminded her of the old story she had once told him of her belief thatsome day she was to do a mighty big thing. 

"And now you have your chance!" he pleaded. "I cannot live in yourhills, dear, though often you and I will return to them and be happy inthe little log house. But you must come with me--your husband. Comedown the Big Road, letting me lead you, and you must trust me and oh! mydoney-gal, by your blessed sweetness and power you must win for me--forus both--what I, alone, can never win. "

There was more, much more, of love and longing, of tender loyalty andpassionate reassurance, and having concluded his letter he sealed it, addressed it, and putting it in an envelope with a short note ofexplanation to Jim White as to its delivery, etc. , he mailed it withsuch a sense of relief as he had not known in many a weary day. 

He prepared himself for a period of patient waiting. He knew with whatcarelessness mail matter was regarded in the hills, and winter hadalready laid its hold upon Pine Cone, he felt sure. So while he waitedhe plunged eagerly into each day's work and with delight saw howeverything seemed to go through without a hitch. It began to look as if, when Nella-Rose's reply came, there would be no reason for delay inbringing her to the North. 

But this hope and vision did not banish entirely Truedale's growingsorrow for the part he must inevitably take when the truth was known toLynda and Brace. Harder and harder the telling of it appeared as thetime drew near. Never had they seemed dearer or more sacred to him thannow when he realized the hurt he must cause them. There were momentswhen he felt that he could not bear the eyes of Lynda--those friendly, trusting eyes. Would she ever be able, in the years to come, to forgiveand forget? And Brace--how could that frank, direct nature comprehendthe fever of madness that had, in the name of love, betrayed theconfidence and faith of a lifetime? Well, much lay in the keeping of thelittle mountain girl whose fascination and loveliness would pleadmightily. Of Nella-Rose's power Truedale held no doubt. 

Then came White's devastating letter at the close of an exhausting daywhen Conning was to dine with the Kendalls. 

That afternoon he had concluded the immediate claims of business, hadarranged with McPherson for a week's absence, and meant in the eveningto explain to Brace and Lynda the reason for his journey. He was goingto start South on the morrow, whether a letter came or not. He hadsteeled himself for the crucial hour with his friends; had already, inhis imagination, bidden farewell to the relations that had held themclose through the past years. He believed, because he was capable ofpaying this heavy price for his love, that no further proof would benecessary to convince even Lynda of its intensity. 

They dined cheerfully and alone and, as they crossed the hall afterward, to the library, Lynda asked casually:

"Did you get the letters for you, Con? The maid laid them on the standby the door. "

Then she went on into the bright room with its long, vacant chair, singing "To-morrow's Song" in that sweet contralto of hers that deservedbetter training. 

There were three letters--one from a man whose son Truedale had tutoredbefore he went away, one from the architect of the new hospital, and abulky one from Dr. McPherson. Truedale carried them all into the librarywhere Brace sat comfortably puffing away before the fire; and Lynda, some designs for interior decoration spread out before her on a lowtable, still humming, rocked gently to and fro in a very femininerocker. Conning drew up a chair opposite Kendall and tore open theenvelope from his late patron. 

"I tell you, Brace, " he said, "if any one had told me six weeks ago thatI should ever be indifferent to a possible offer to tutor, I would havelaughed at him. But so it is. I must turn down the sure-paying Mr. Smithfor lack of time. "

Lynda laughed merrily. "And six weeks ago if any one had come to me inmy Top Shelf where I carried on my profession, and outlined this forme"--she waved her hand around the room--"I'd have called the janitor toput out an unsafe person. Hey-ho!" And then the brown head was bent overthe problem of an order which had come in that day. 

"Oh! I say, Lyn!" Truedale turned from his second letter. "Morgansuggests that _you_ attend to the decorating and furnishing of thehospital. I told him to choose his man and he prefers you if I have noobjection. Objection? Good Lord, I never thought of you. I somehowconsidered such work out of your line, but I'm delighted. "

"Splendid!" Lynda looked up, radiant. "How I shall revel in those broad, clean spaces! How I shall see Uncle William in every room! Thank him, Con, and tell him I accept--on his terms!"

Then Truedale opened the third envelope and an enclosed letter fell out, bearing the postmark of the Junction near Pine Cone!

There was a small electric reading lamp on the arm of Truedale's chair;he turned the light on and, while his face was in shadow, the wordsbefore him stood out illumined. 

"Sir--Mister Truedale. " The sheriff had evidently been sorely perplexedas to the proper beginning of the task he had undertaken. 

"I send this by old Doc McPherson, not knowing any better way. "

(Jim's epistle was nearly innocent of punctuation, his words ran onalmost unbroken and gave the reader some trouble in following. )

 Your letter to a certain young person has come and been destroyed owing to my thinking under the present circumstances, some folks what don't know about you, better not hear now. I took the letter to Lone Dome as you set down for me to do meaning to give it to Nella-Rose like what you said, but she wasn't there. Pete was there and Marg--she's Nella-Rose's sister, and getting ready to marry that torn-down scamp Jed Martin which to my way of thinking is about the best punishment what could be dealt out to him. Pete was right sober for him and spruced up owing to facts I am now coming to and when Pete's sober there ain't a more sensible cuss than what he is nor a gentlemaner. Well, I asked natural like for Nella-Rose and Marg scrooged up her mouth, knowing full well as how I knew Jed was second choice for her--but Pete he done tell me that Nella-Rose had married Burke Lawson and run to safer parts and when I got over the shock I was certainly thankful for being a sheriff ain't all it might be when your ideas of justice and liking gets crossed. I didn't ask any more questions. Peter was sober--he only lies when he's drunk and not having any wish to rouse Marg I just come away and burned the letter what you sent. But I've done some thinking on my own 'count since your letter came and I reckon I've studied the thing clear on circumstantial evidence which is what I mostly have to go on in the sticks. I certainly done you a black insult that day I came upon you and Nella-Rose. I didn't let on, and I never will, about her being to my place, but no wonder the poor child was terrible upset when I came in. She had come to me, so I study out, and found you--stark stranger! How you ever soothed the poor little thing I don't know--her being wild as a flea--but on top of that, in I slam and lit out on you both and 'corse she couldn't 'splain about Burke before you and that's plain enough what she had come to do, and I didn't leave either one of you a leg to stand on. I've been pretty low in my spirits I can tell you and I beg your pardon humble, young feller, and if ever I can do Nella-Rose a turn by letting Burke free, no matter what he does--I will! But 'tain't likely he'll act up for some time. Nella-Rose always could tame him and he's been close on her trail ever since she was a toddler. I'm right glad they took things in their own hands and left. She didn't sense the right black meaning I had in my heart that day when she ran--but you did and I sure am ashamed of the part I done played. 

 If you can overlook what no man has a call to overlook in another--your welcome is red hot here for you at any time. 

 JIM WHITE

 Sheriff. 

Truedale read and reread this amazing production until he began to feelhis way through the tangle of words and catch a meaning--false, ridiculously false of course, but none the less designed as anexplanation and excuse. Then the non-essentials dropped away and onebald fact remained! Truedale sank back in his chair, turned off theelectric light, and closed his eyes. 

"Tired, old man?" Kendall asked from across the hearth. 

"Yes. Dead tired. "

"You'll travel easier when you get the gait. "

"Undoubtedly. "

"Take a bit of a nap, " Lynda suggested. 

"Thanks, Lyn, I will. " Then Truedale, safe from intrusion, tried to makehis way out of the maze into which he had been thrown. Slowly herecovered from the effect of the staggering blow and presently got tothe point where he felt it was all a cruel lie or a stupid jest. Therehe paused. Jim was not the kind to lie or joke about such a thing. Itwas a mistake--surely a mistake. He would go at once to Pine Cone andmake everything right. Nella-Rose could not act alone. Tradition, training, conspired to unfit her for this crisis; but that she had gonefrom his love and faith into the arms of another man was incredible. No;she was safe, probably in hiding; she would write him. She had theaddress--she was keen and quick, even though she was helpless to copewith the lawlessness of her mountain environment. Truedale saw thenecessity of caution, not for himself, but for Nella-Rose. He could notgo, unaided, to search for her. Evidently there had been wild doingsafter he left; no one but White and Nella-Rose knew of his actualexistence--he must utilize White in assisting him, but above all he mustexpect that Nella-Rose would make her whereabouts known. Never for amoment did he doubt her or put any credence in the conclusions White haddrawn. How little Jim really knew! By to-morrow word would come fromNella-Rose; somehow she would manage, once she was safe from beingfollowed, to get to the station and telegraph. But there could be noleaving the girl in the hills after this; he must, as soon as he locatedher, bring her away; bring her into his life--to his home and hers!

A cold sweat broke out on Truedale's body as he lashed himselfunmercifully in the still room where his two friends, one believing himasleep, waited for his awakening. 

Well, he was awake at last, thank God! The only difference between himand a creature such as good men and women abhor was that he meant toretrieve, as far as in him lay, the past error and injustice. All hisfuture life should prove his purpose. And then, like a sweet fragranceor a spirit touch, his love pleaded for him. He had been weak, but notvicious. The unfettered life had clouded his reason, and his senses hadplayed him false, but love was untarnished--and it _was_ love. That girlof the hills was the same now as she had always been. She would accepthim and his people and he would make her life such that, once thehomesickness for the hills was past, she would have no regrets. 

Then another phase held Truedale's thought. In that day when Nella-Roseaccepted, in the fullest sense, his people and his people's code--howwould he stand in her eyes? A groan escaped him, then another, and hestarted nervously. 

"Con, what is it--a bad dream?" Lynda touched his arm to arouse him. 

"Yes--a mighty bad one!"

"Tell it to me. Tell it while it is fresh in your mind. They say onceyou have put a dream in words, its effect is killed forever. "

Truedale turned dark, sorrowful eyes upon Lynda. 

"I--I wish I could tell it, " he said with a seriousness that made herlaugh, "but it was the kind that eludes--words. The creeping, eatingimpression--sort of nightmare. Good Lord! how nerves play the deuce withyou. "

Brace Kendall did not speak. From his place he had been watchingTruedale, for the firelight had betrayed the truth. Truedale had notbeen sleeping: Truedale had been terribly upset by that last letter ofhis!

And just then Conning leaned forward and threw his entire mail upon theblazing logs!

CHAPTER XI

For Truedale to await, calmly, further developments was out of thequestion. He did, however, force himself to act as sanely as possible. He felt confident that Nella-Rose, safely hidden and probably enjoyingit in her own elfish way, would communicate with him in a few days atthe latest, now that things had, according to White, somewhat settledinto shape after the outlaw Lawson had taken himself off the scene. 

To get to the station and telegraph would mean quite a feat forNella-Rose at any time, and winter was in all likelihood alreadygripping the hills. To write and send a letter might be even moredifficult. So Truedale reasoned; so he feverishly waited, but he was notidle. He rented a charming little suite of rooms, high up in a newapartment house, and begged Lynda to set them in order at once. Somehowhe believed that in the years ahead, after she understood, Lynda wouldbe glad that he had asked this from her. 

"But why the hurry, Con?" she naturally questioned; "if people are goingto be so spasmodic I'll have to get a partner. It may be all right, looked at financially, but it's the ruination of art. "

"But this is a special case, Lyn. "

"They're all special cases. "

"But this is a--welcome. "

"For whom?"

"Well, for me! You see I've never had a real home, Lyn. It's one of theluxuries I've always dreamed of. "

"I had thought, " Lynda's clear eyes clouded, "that your uncle's housewould be your home at last. It is big enough for us all--we need not runagainst each other. "

"Keep my room under the roof, Lyn. " Truedale looked at her yearninglyand she--misunderstood! "I shall often come to that--to you andBrace--but humour me in this fancy of mine. "

So she humoured him--working early and late--putting more of her ownheart in it than he was ever to know, for she believed--poor girl--thathe would offer it to her some day and then--when he found out about themoney--how exactly like a fairy tale it all would be! And Lynda had hadso few fairy tales in her life. 

And while she designed and Conning watched and suggested, they talked ofhis long-neglected work. 

"You'll have time soon, Con, to give it your best thought. Did you domuch while you were away?"

"Yes, Lyn, a great deal!" Truedale was sitting by the tiny hearth in hisdiminutive living room. He and Lynda had demanded, and finallysucceeded in obtaining an open space for real logs; disdaining, much tothe owner's amazement, an asbestos mat or gas monstrosity. "I really putblood in the thing. "

"And when may I hear some of it? I'm wild to get back to our beatentracks. "

Truedale raised his eyes, but he was looking beyond Lynda; he was seeingNella-Rose in the nest he was preparing for her. 

"Soon, Lyn. Soon. And when you do--you, of all the world, willunderstand, sympathize, and approve. "

"Thank you, Con, thank you. Of course I will, but it is good to have youknow it! Let me see, what colour scheme shall we introduce in the livingroom?"

"Couldn't we have a sort of blue-gray; a rather smoky tint with sunshinein it?"

"Good heavens, Con! And it is a north room, too. "

"Well, then, how about a misty, whitish--"

"Worse and worse. Con, in a north room there must be warmth and realcolour. "

"There will be. But put what you choose, Lyn, it will surely be allright. "

"Suppose, then, we make it golden brown, or--dull, soft reds?"

Truedale recalled the shabby little shawl that Nella-Rose had wornbefore she donned her winter disguise. 

"Make it soft dull red, Lyn--but not _too_ dull. "

Truedale no longer meant to lay his secret bare before departing for theSouth. While he would not acknowledge it to his anxious heart, herealized that he must base the future on the outcome of his journey. Once he laid hands upon Nella-Rose, he would act promptly and hopefully, but--he must be sure, now, before he made a misstep. There had beenmistakes enough, heaven knew; he must no longer play the fool. 

And then when the little gilded cage was ready, Truedale conceived hisbig and desperate idea. Two weeks had passed since Jim White's letterand no telegram or note had come from Nella-Rose. Neither love norcaution could wait longer. Truedale decided to go to Pine Cone. Not as areturned traveller, certainly not--at first--to White, but to Lone Dome, and there, passing himself off as a chance wayfarer, he would gather asmuch truth as he could, estimate the value of it, and upon it take hisfuture course. In all probability, he thought--and he was almost gay nowthat he was about to take matters into his own hands--he would ferretout the real facts and be back with his quarry before another week. Itwas merely a matter of getting the truth and being on the spot. 

Nella-Rose's family might, for reasons of their own, have deceived JimWhite. Certainly if they did not know at the time of Nella-Rose'swhereabouts they would, like others, voice the suspicion of the hills;but by now they would either have her with them or know positively whereshe was. For all his determination to believe this, Truedale had hismoments of sickening doubt. The simple statement in White's letter, burned, as time went on, into his very soul. 

But, whatever came--whatever there was to know--he meant to go at onceto headquarters. He would remain, too, until Peter Greyson was soberenough to state facts. He recalled clearly Jim's estimate of Greyson andhis dual nature depending so largely upon the effect of the mountainwhisky. 

It was late November when Truedale set forth. No one made any objectionto his going now. Things were running smoothly and if he had to go atall to straighten out any loose ends, he had better go at once. 

To Lynda the journey seemed simple enough. Truedale had left, amongother belongings, his manuscript and books. Naturally he would not trustthem to another's careless handling. 

At Washington, Truedale bought a rough tramping rig and continued hisjourney with genuine enjoyment of the adventure. Now that he was nearingthe scene of his past experience he could better understand the delay. Things moved so slowly among the hills and naturally Nella-Rose, trusting and fond, was part of the sluggish life. How she would show hersmall, white teeth when, smiling in his arms, she told him all about it!It would not take long to make her forget the weary time of absence andWhite's misconception. 

Truedale proceeded by deliberate stages. He wanted to gather all hepossibly could as a foundation upon which to build. The first day afterhe left the train at the station--and it had bumped at the end of therails just as it had on his previous trip--he walked to the Centre andthere encountered Merrivale. 

"Well, stranger, " the old man inquired, "whar yer goin', if it ain'taskin' too much?"

And Truedale expansively explained. He was tramping through themountains for pure enjoyment; had heard of the hospitality he mightexpect and meant to test it. 

Merrivale was pleased but cautious. He was full of questions himself, but ran to cover every time his visitor ventured one. Truedale soonlearned his lesson and absorbed what was offered without openly claimingmore. He remained over night with Merrivale and stocked up the nextmorning from the store. 

He had heard much, but little to any purpose. He carried away with him apretty clear picture of Burke Lawson who, by Merrivale's high favour, appeared heroic. The storm, the search, Lawson's escape and supposedcarrying off of Nella-Rose, were the chief topics of conversation. Merrivale chuckled in delight over this. 

The afternoon of the second day Truedale reached Lone Dome and came uponPeter, sober and surprisingly respectable, sunning himself on the westside of the house. 

The first glance at the stately old figure, gone to decay like a treewith dead rot, startled and amazed Truedale and he thanked heaven thatthe master of Lone Dome was himself and therefore to be relied upon; noone could possibly suspect Peter of cunning or deceit in his presentcondition. 

Greyson greeted the stranger cordially. He was in truth desperatelyforlorn and near the outer edge of endurance. An hour more and he wouldhave defied the powers that had recently taken control of him, and madefor the still in the deep woods; but the coming of Truedale saved himfrom that and diverted his tragic thoughts. 

The fact was Marg and Jed had gone away to be married. Owing to thedeath of the near-by minister in the late storm, they had to travel aconsiderable distance in order to begin life according to Marg's strictideas of propriety. Before leaving she had impressed upon her father thenecessity of his keeping a clear head in her absence. 

"We-all may be gone days, father, " she had said, "and yo' certainly dodrop in owdacious places when you're drunk. Yo' might freeze or starve. Agin, a lurking beast, hunting fo' food, might chaw yo' fo' yo' got yo'senses. "

Something of this Greyson explained to his guest while setting forth theevening meal and apologizing for the lack of stimulant. 

"Being her marriage trip I let Marg have her way and a mind free o'worry 'bout me. But women don't understand, God bless 'em! What's a dropin yo' own home? But fo' she started forth Marg spilled every jug ontothe wood pile. When I see the flames extry sparkling I know the reason!"

Greyson chuckled, walking to and fro from table to pantry, with steady, almost dignified strides. 

"That's all right, " Truedale hastened to say, "I'm rather inclined toagree with your daughter; and--" raising the concoction Peter hadevolved--"this tea--"

"Coffee, sir. "

"Excuse me! This coffee goes right to the spot. "

They ate and grew confidential. Edging close, but keeping under cover, Truedale gained the confidence of the lonely, broken man and, late inthe evening, the hideous truth, as Truedale was compelled to believe, was in his keeping. 

For an hour Greyson had been nodding and dozing; then, apologetically, rousing. Truedale once suggested bed, but for some unexplainable reasonPeter shrank from leaving his guest. Then, risking a great deal, Truedale asked nonchalantly:

"Have you other children besides this daughter who is on her weddingtrip? It's rather hard--leaving you alone to shift for yourself. "

Greyson was alert. Not only did he share the mountain dweller's warinessof question, but he instantly conceived the idea that the stranger hadheard gossip and he was in arms to defend his own. His ancestors, wholong ago had shielded the recreant great-aunt, were no keener than Peternow was to protect and preserve the honour of the little girl who, byher recent acts--and Greyson had only Jed's words and the mountain talkto go by--had aroused in him all that was fine enough to suffer. AndGreyson was suffering as only a man can who, in a rare period ofsobriety, views the wrecks of his own making. 

Ordinarily, as White truly supposed, Peter lied only when he was drunk;but the sheriff could not estimate the vagaries of blood and so, atTruedale's question, the father of Nella-Rose, with the gestureinherited from a time of prosperity, rallied his forces and lied! Liedlike a gentleman, he would have said. Broken and shabby as Greyson was, he appeared, at that moment, so simple and direct, that his listener, holding to the sheriff's estimate, was left with little doubt concerningwhat he heard. He, watching the weak and agonized face, believed Greysonwas making the best of a sad business; but that he was weaving fromwhole cloth the garment that must cover the past, Truedale in his ownmisery never suspected. While he listened something died within himnever to live again. 

"Yes, sir. I have another daughter--lil' Nella-Rose. "

Truedale shaded his face with his hand, but kept his eyes on Greyson'sdistorted face. 

"Lil' Nella-Rose. I have to keep in mind her youth and enjoying ways orI'd be right hard on Nella-Rose. Yo' may have heard, while travellingabout--o' Nella-Rose?" This was asked nervously--searchingly. 

"I've--I've heard that name, " Truedale ventured. "It's a namethat--somehow clings and, being a writer-man, everything interests me. "

Then Greyson gave an account of the trap episode tallying so exactlywith White's version that it established a firm structure upon which tolay all that was to follow. 

"And there ain't nothing as can raise a woman's tenderness and loyaltyto a man, " Greyson went on, "like getting into a hard fix, and sho'Burke Lawson was in a right bad fix. 

"I begin to see it all now. Nella-Rose went to Merrivale's and he toldher Burke had come back. Merrivale told me that. Naturally it upset herand she followed him up to warn him. Think o' that lil' girl tracking'long the hills, through all that storm, to--to save the man she hadplayed with and flouted but loved, without knowing it! Nella-Rose waslike that. She lit on things and took her fun--but in the big parts shealways did come out strong. "

Truedale shifted his position. 

"I reckon I'm wearying you with my troubles?" Greyson spokeapologetically. 

"No, no. Go on. This interests me very much. "

"Well, sir, Burke Lawson and Jed Martin came on each other in the deepwoods the night of the big storm and Burke and Jed had words and ascene. Jed owned up to that. It was life and death and I ain't blamingany one and I have one thing to thank Burke for--he might have donedifferent and left a stain on a lady's name, sir! He told Jed how he hadseen Nella-Rose and how she had scorned him for being a coward, but howshe would take her words back if he dared come out and show his head. And he 'lowed he was going to come out then and there, which he did, andhe and Nella-Rose was going off to Cataract Falls where the Lawsonshailed from, on the mother's side. "

"But--how do you know that your daughter kept her word? This Lawson mayhave been obliged to make away with himself--alone. " Truedale grew moredaring. He saw that Greyson, absorbed by his trouble, was less on guard. But Greyson was keenly observant. 

"He's heard the gossip, " thought the old man, "it's ringing through thehills. Well, a dog as can fetch a bone can carry one!" With thatconclusion reached, Peter made his master stroke. 

"I've heard from her, " he half whispered. 

"Heard from her?" gasped Truedale, and even then Greyson seemed unawareof the attitude of the stranger. "How--did you hear from her?"

"She wrote and sent the letter long of--of Bill Trim, a half-wit--buttrusty. Nella-Rose went with Lawson--she 'lowed she had to. He came onher in the woods and held her to her word. She said as how she wantedto--to come home, but Lawson set forth as how an hour might mean hislife--and put it up to lil' Nella-Rose! He--he swore as how he'd shoothimself if she didn't go with him--and it was like Burke to do it. Hewas always crazy mad for Nella-Rose, and there ain't anything hewouldn't do when he got balked. She--she had ter go--or see Lawson killhimself; so she went--but asked my pardon fo' causing the deep trouble. Lawson married her at the first stopping place over the ridge. He ain'tworthy o' my lil' Nella-Rose--but us-all has got to make the best o'it. Come spring--she'll be back, and then--I'll forgive her--my lil'Nella-Rose!"

From the intensity of his emotions Greyson trembled and the weak tearsran down his lined face. Taking advantage of the tense moment Truedaleasked desperately:

"Will you show me that letter, Mr. Greyson?"

So direct was the request, so apparently natural to the old man'sunguarded suffering, that it drove superficialities before it and merelyconfirmed Greyson in his determination to save Nella-Rose's reputationat any cost. Ignoring the unwarrantable curiosity, alert to thenecessity of quick defense, he said:

"I can't. I wish to Gawd I could and then I could stop any tongue whatdares to tech my lil' gal's name. "

"Why can you not show me the letter?" Truedale was towering above theold man. By some unknown power he had got control of the situation. "Ihave a reason for--asking this, Mr. Greyson. "

"Marg burned it! It was allus Marg or lil' Nella-Rose for Lawson, andNella-Rose got him! When Marg knew this fur certain, there was no lengthto which she--didn't go! This is my home, sir; I'm old--Marg is a goodgirl and the trouble is past now; her and Jed is making me comfortable, but we-all don't mention Nella-Rose. It eases me, though, to tell thetruth for lil' Nella-Rose. I know how the tongues are wagging and I haveto sit still fo'--since Marg and Jed took up with each other--my futurelies 'long o' them. I'm an old man and mighty dependent; time waswhen--" Greyson rose unsteadily and swayed toward the fireplace. 

"Gawd a'mighty!" he flung out desperately, "how I want--whisky!"

Truedale saw the wildness in the old man's eyes--saw the trembling andtwitching of the outstretched hands, and feared what might be the resultof trouble and enforced sobriety. He pulled a large flask from hispocket and offered it. 

"Here!" he said, "take a swallow of this and pull yourself together. "

Greyson, with a cry, seized the liquor and drained every drop beforeTruedale could control him. 

"God bless yo'!" whined Greyson, sinking back into his chair, "blessand--and keep yo'!"

Truedale dared not leave the house though his soul recoiled from thesight before him. He waited an hour, watching the effect of thestimulant. Greyson grew mellow after a time--at peace with the world; hesmiled foolishly and became maudlinly familiar. Finally, Truedaleapproached him again. He bent over him and shook him sharply. 

"Did you tell me--the truth--about--Nella-Rose?" he whispered to thesagging, blear-eyed creature. 

"Yes, sir!" moaned Peter, "I sho' did!"

And Truedale did not reflect that when Greyson was-drunk--he lied!

Truedale never recalled clearly how he spent the hours between the timehe left Greyson's until he knocked on the door of White's cabin; but itwas broad daylight and bitingly cold when Jim flung the door open andlooked at the stranger with no idea, for a moment, that he had ever seenhim before. Then, putting his hand out wonderingly, he muttered:

"Gawd!" and drew Truedale in. Breakfast was spread on the table; thedogs lay before the blazing fire. 

"Eat!" commanded Jim, "and keep yer jaws shet except to put in food. "

Conning attempted the feat but made a pitiful showing. 

"Come to stay on?"

White's curiosity was betraying him and the sympathy in his eyes filledTruedale with a mad desire to take this "God's man" into his confidence. 

"No, Jim. I've come to pack and go back to--to my job!"

"Gosh! it can't be much of a job if you can tackle it--lookin' like whatyou do!"

"I've been tramping for--for days, old man! Rather overdone the thing. I'm not so bad as I look. "

"Glad to hear it!" laconically. 

"I'll put up with you to-night, Jim, if you'll take me in. " Truedalemade an effort to smile. 

"Provin' there ain't any hard feeling?"

"There never was, White. I--understood. "

"Shake!"

They got through the day somehow. The crust was forming over Truedale'ssuffering; he no longer had any desire to let even White break throughit. Once, during the afternoon, the sheriff spoke of Nella-Rose andwithout flinching Truedale listened. 

"That gal will have Burke eatin' out o' her hand in no time. Lawson isall right at the kernel, all he needed was some one ter steady him. OnceI made sure he'd married the gal, I felt right easy in my mind. "

"And you--did make sure, Jim? There was no doubt? I--I remember thepretty little thing; it would have been damnable to--to hurt her. "

"I scrooged the main fact out o' old Pete, her father. There was amighty lot o' talk in the hills, but I was glad ter get the facts andshut the mouths o' them that take ter--ter hissin' like all-firedscorpions! Nella-Rose had writ to her father, but Marg, the sister, torethe letter up in stormin' rage 'cause Nella-Rose had got the man she hadsot her feelin's on. Do you happen to call ter mind what I once told you'bout those two gals and a little white hen?"

Truedale nodded. 

"Same old actin' up!" Jim went on. "But when Greyson let out what war inthe letter--knowin' Burke like what I do--I studied it out cl'ar enough. Nella-Rose was sure up agin blood and thunder whatever way yo' putit--so she ran her chances with Burke. There ain't much choosin' fo'women in the hills and Burke is an owdacious fiery feller, an' he ain'tever set his mind to no woman but Nella-Rose. "

That night Truedale went to his old cabin. He built a fire on thehearth, drew the couch before it, and then the battle was on--thefierce, relentless struggle. In it--Nella-Rose escaped. Like a bit ofthe mist that the sun burns, so she was purified--consumed by the fireof Truedale's remorse and shame. Not for a moment did he let the girlbear a shadow of blame--he was done with that forever!--but he heldhimself before the judgment seat of his own soul and he passed sentenceupon himself in terms that stern morality has evolved for its ownprotection. But from out the wreck and ruin Truedale wrenched one sacredtruth to which he knew he must hold--or sink utterly. He could notexpect any one in God's world to understand; it must always be hidden inhis own soul, but that marriage of his and Nella-Rose's in the gray dawnafter the storm had been holy and binding to him. From now on he mustlook upon the little mountain girl as a dear, dead wife--one whosechildish sweetness was part of a time when he had learned to laugh andplay, and forget the hard years that had gone to his un-making, not hisupbuilding. 

CHAPTER XII

Truedale travelled back to the place of his new life bearing his books, his unfinished play, and his secret sorrow with him. His books andpapers were the excuse for his journey; for the rest, no one suspectednor--so thought Truedale--was any one ever to know. That part of hislife-story was done with; it had been interpreted bunglingly andignorantly to be sure, but the lesson, learned by failure, had sunk deepin his heart. 

He arranged his private work in the little room under the eaves. Heintended, if time were ever his again, to begin where he had left offwhen broken health interrupted. 

In the extension room over William Truedale's bedchamber Lynda carriedon her designing and her study; her office, uptown, was reserved forinterviews and outside business. Her home workshop had the femininetouch that the other lacked. There were her tea table by the hearth, work bags of dainty silk, and flowers in glass vases. The dog and thecats were welcome in the pleasant room and sedately slept or rolledabout while the mistress worked. 

But Truedale, while much in the old home, still kept his five-roomflat. He bought a good, serviceable dog that preferred a bachelor lifeto any other and throve upon long evening strolls and erratic feeding. There were plants growing in the windows--and these Conning looked afterwith conscientious care. 

When the first suffering and sense of abasement passed, Truedalediscovered that life in his little apartment was not only possible, butalso his salvation. All the spiritual essence left in him survived bestin those rooms. As time went by and Nella-Rose as an actuality receded, her memory remained unembittered. Truedale never cast blame upon her, though sometimes he tried to view her from the outsider's position. No;always she eluded the material estimate. 

"Not more than half real, " so White had portrayed her, and as such shegradually became to Truedale. 

He plunged into business, as many a man had before him, to fill the gapsin his life; and he found, as others had, that the taste of power--thediscovery that he could meet and fulfil the demands made uponhim--carried him out of the depths and eventually secured a place forhim in the world of men that he valued and strove to prove himselfworthy of. He wisely went slowly and took the advice of such men asMcPherson and his uncle's old lawyer. He grew in time to enjoy theposition of trust as his duties multiplied, and he often wondered howhe could ever have despised the common lot of his fellows. Hedeliberately, and from choice, set his personal tastes aside--timeenough for his reading and writing when he had toughened his mentalmuscles, he thought. Lynda deplored this, but Truedale explained:

"You see, Lyn, when I began to carve the thing out--the play, youknow--I had no idea how to handle the tools; like many fools with atouch of talent, I thought I could manage without preparation. I'velearned better. You cannot get a thing over to people unless you knowsomething of life--speak the language. I'm learning, and when I feelthat I cannot _help_ writing--I'll write. "

"Good!" Lynda saw his point; "and now let's haunt the theatres--see themachinery in running order. We'll find out what people want and _why_. "

So they went to the theatre and read plays. Brace made the wholesomethird and their lives settled into calm enjoyment that was charming butwhich sometimes--not often, but occasionally--made Lynda pause andconsider. It would not do--for Con--to fall into a pace that mightdefeat his best good. 

But this thought brought a deep crimson to the girl's cheeks. 

And then something happened. It was so subtle that Lynda Kendall, leastof all, realized the true significance. 

Once in the early days of her secured self-support, William Truedale hadsaid to her:

"You give too much attention, girl, to your tailor and too little toyour dressmaker. "

Lynda had laughingly called her friend frivolous and defended herwardrobe. 

"One cannot doll up for business, Uncle William. "

"Is business your whole life, Lynda? If so you had better reform it. Ifwomen are going to pattern their lives after men's they must go thewhole way. A sensible man recognizes the need of shutting the officedoor sometimes and putting on his dress suit. "

"Well, but Uncle William, what is the matter with this perfectly builtsuit? I always slip a fresh blouse on when I am off duty. I hate to bealways changing. "

"If you had a mother, Lynda, she would make you see what I mean. An oldfungus like me cannot be expected to command respect from such anup-to-date humbug as you!"

They had laughed it off and Lynda had, once or twice, donned a housegown to please her critical friend, but eventually had slipped back intosuits and blouses. 

All of a sudden one day--it was nearing holiday time--she left herworkroom at midday and, almost shamefacedly, "went shopping. " As thefever got into her blood she became reckless, and by five o'clock hadbought and ordered home more delicate and exquisite finery than she hadever owned in all her life before. 

"It's scandalous!" she murmured to her gay, young heart, "an awful wasteof good money, but for the first time, I see how women can getclothes-mad. "

She devoted the hour and a half before dinner to locating an artisticdressmaker and putting herself in her hands. 

The result was both startling and exciting. The first gown to come homewas a dull, golden-brown velvet thing so soft and clinging andindividual that it put its wearer into quite a flutter. She "did" andundid her hair, and, in the process, discovered that if she pulled the"sides" loose there was a tendency to curl and the effect was distinctlycharming--with the strange gown, of course! Then, marshalling all hercourage, she trailed down to the library and thanked heaven when shefound the room empty. It would be easier to occupy the stage than tomake a late entrance when the audience was in position. So Lynda satdown, tried to read, but was so nervous that her eyes shone and hercheeks were rosy. 

Brace and Conning came in together. "Look who's here!" was Kendall'sbrotherly greeting. "Gee! Con, look at our lady friend!" He held hissister off at arms' length and commented upon her "points. "

"I didn't know your hair curled, Lyn. "

"I didn't, myself, until this afternoon. You see, " she trembled a bit, "now that I do not have to go in the subway to business there's noreason for excluding--this sort of thing" (she touched the pretty gown), "and once you let yourself go, you do not know where you will land. Curls go with these frills; slippers, too--look!"

Then she glanced up at Conning. 

"Do you think I'm very--frivolous?" she asked. 

"I never knew"--he was gazing seriously at her--"how handsome you are, Lyn. Wear that gown morning, noon and night; it's stunning. "

"I'm glad you both like it. I feel a little unusual in it--but I'llsettle down. I have been a trifle prim in dress. "

Like the giant's robe, Lynda Kendall's garments seemed to transform herand endow her with the attributes peculiar to themselves. So gradually, that it caused no wonder, she developed the blessed gift of charm and itcoloured life for herself and others like a glow from a hidden fire. 

All this did not interfere with her business. Once she donned herworking garb she was the capable Lynda of the past. A little moresentiment, perhaps, appeared in her designs--a wider conception; butthat was natural, for happiness had come to her--and a delicious senseof success. She, womanlike, began to rejoice in her power. She heard ofJohn Morrell's marriage to a young western girl, about this time, withgenuine delight. Her sky was clearing of all regrets. 

"Morrell was in the office to-day, " Brace told his sister one evening, "it seemed to me a bit brash for him to lay it on so thick about hishappiness and all that sort of rot. "

"Brace!"

"Well, it might be all right to another fellow, but it sounded out oftune, somehow, to me. He says she is the kind that has flung herselfbody and soul into love; I wager she's a fool. "

Lynda looked serious at once. 

"I hope not, " she said thoughtfully, "and she'll be happier with John, in the long run, if she has some reservations. I did not think thatonce; I do now. "

"But--you, Lyn? You had reservations to burn. "

"I had--too many. That was where the mistake began. "

"You--do not regret?"

Lynda came close to him. 

"Brace, I regret nothing. I am learning that every step leads to thenext--if you don't stumble. If you do--you have to pick yourself up andgo back. If John learned from me, I, too, have learned from him. I'mgoing to try to--love his wife. "

"I bet she's a cross, somehow, between a cowboy and an idiot. Johnprotested too much about her charms. She's got a sister--sounds a bit tome as if Morrell had married them both. She's coming to live with themafter awhile. When I fall in love, it's going to be with an orphan outof an asylum. "

Lynda laughed and gave her brother a hug. Then she said:

"Our circle is widening and, by the way Brace, I'm going to begin toentertain a little. "

"Good Lord, Lyn!"

"Oh! modestly--until I can use my stiff little wings. A dinner now andthen and a luncheon occasionally when I know enough nice women to make adecent showing. Clothes and women, when adopted late in life, aredifficult. But oh! Brace, it is great--this blessed home life of mine!The coming away from my beloved work to something even better. "

 * * * * *

The pulse of a city throbs faster in the winter. All the vitality ofwell-nourished men and women is at its fullest, while for them who fallbelow the normal, the necessity of the struggle for existence keys themto a high pitch. Not so in the deep, far mountain places. There, theinhabitants hide from the elements and withdraw into themselves. Forweeks at a time no human being ventures forth from the shelter andcomparative comfort of the dull cabins. Families, pressed thus close anddebarred from the freedom of the open, suffer mentally and spirituallyas one from the wider haunts of men can hardly conceive. 

When Nella-Rose turned away from Truedale that golden autumn day, shefaced winter and the shut-in terrors of the cold and loneliness. In twoweeks the last vestige of autumn would be past, and the girl could notcontemplate being imprisoned with Marg and her father while waiting forlove to return to her. She paused on the wet, leafy path and considered. She had told Truedale that she would go home, but what did it matter. She would go to Miss Lois Ann's. She would know when Truedale returned;she could go to him. In the meantime no human being would annoy her orquestion her in that cabin far back in the Hollow. And Lois Ann wouldwhile away the long hours by story and song. It seemed to her there wasbut one thing to do--and Nella-Rose did it! She fled to the woman whosename Truedale had barely heard. 

It took her three good hours to make the distance to the Hollow and itwas quite dark when she tapped on the door of the little cabin. To allappearances the place was deserted; but after the second knock a shutterto the right of the door was pushed open and a long, lean hand appearedholding a lighted candle, while a deep, rich voice called:

"Who?"

"Jes' Nella-Rose!"

The hand withdrew, the shutter was closed, and in another minute thedoor was flung wide and the girl drawn into the warm, comfortable room. Supper, of a better sort than most hill-women knew, was spread out on aclean table, and in the cheer and safety Nella-Rose expanded and decidedto take the old woman into her confidence at once and so secure presentcomfort until Truedale came back to claim her. 

This Lois Ann, in whose sunken eyes eternal youth burned and glowed, wasa mystery in the hills and was never questioned. Long ago she had come, asked no favours, and settled down to fare as best she could. There wasbut one sure passport to her sanctuary. That was--trouble! Oncemisfortune overtook one, sex was forgotten, but at other times it wasunderstood that Miss Lois Ann had small liking or sympathy for men, while on the other hand she brooded over women and children with theeverlasting strength of maternity. 

It was suspected, and with good reason, that many refugees from justicepassed through Miss Lois Ann's front door and escaped by other exits. Officers of the law had, more than once, traced their quarry to thedreary cabin and demanded entrance for search. This was always promptlygiven, but never had a culprit been found on the premises! Whiteunderstood and admired the old woman; he always halted justice, ifpossible, outside her domain, but, being a hill-man, Jim had hissuspicions which he never voiced. 

"So now, honey, what yo' coming to me fo' this black night?" said LoisAnn to Nella-Rose after the evening meal was cleared away, the firereplenished, and "with four feet on the fender" the two were content. "Trouble?" The wonderful eyes searched the happy, young face and at theglance, Nella-Rose knew that she was compelled to confide! There was nochoice. She felt the power closing in about her, she found it not soeasy as she had supposed, to explain. She sparred for time. 

"Tell me a right, nice story, Miss Lois Ann, " she pleaded, "and ofcourse it's no trouble that has brought me here! Trouble! Huh!"

"What then?" And now Nella-Rose sank to the hearthstone and bent herhead on the lap of the old woman. It was more possible to speak when shecould escape those seeking eyes. She closed her own and tried to callTruedale to the dark space and to her support--but he would not come. 

"So it is trouble, then?"

"No, no! it's--oh! it's the--joy, Miss Lois Ann. "

"Ha! ha! And you've found out that the young scamp is back--thatLawson?" Lois Ann, for a moment, knew relief. 

"It--it isn't Burke, " the words came lingeringly. "Yes, I know he'sback--is he here?" This affrightedly. 

"No--but he's been. He may come again. His maw's always empty, but Iwill say this for the scoundrel--he gives more than he takes, in thelong run. But if it isn't Lawson, who then? Not that snake-in-the-grass, Jed?" Love and trouble were synonymous with Lois Ann when one was youngand pretty and a fool. 

"Jed? Jed indeed!"

"Child, out with it!"

"I--I am going to tell you, Miss Lois Ann. "

Then the knotted old hand fell like a withered leaf upon the softhair--the woman-heart was ready to bear another burden. Not a word didthe closed lips utter while the amazing tale ran on and on in the gentledrawl. Consternation, even doubt of the girl's sanity, held part in theold woman's keen mind, but gradually the truth of the confessionestablished itself, and once the fact was realized that a stranger--and_such_ a one--had been hidden in the hills while this thing, that thegirl was telling, was going on--the strong, clear mind of the listenerinterpreted the truth by the knowledge gained through a long, hard life. 

"And so, you see, Miss Lois Ann, it's like he opened heaven for me; andI want to hide here till he comes to take me up, up into heaven withhim. And no one else must know. "

Lois Ann had torn the cawl from Nella-Rose's baby face--had felt, in hersuperstitious heart, that the child was mysteriously destined to seewide and far; and now, with agony that she struggled to conceal, sheknew that to her was given the task of drawing the veil from the soul ofthe girl at her feet in order that she might indeed see far and wideinto the kingdom of suffering women. 

For a moment the woman fenced, she would put the cup from her if shecould, like all humans who understand. 

"You--are yo' lying to me?" she asked faintly, and oh, but she wouldhave given much to hear the girl's impish laugh of assent. Instead, shesaw Nella-Rose's eyes grow deadly serious. 

"It's no lie, Miss Lois Ann; it's a right beautiful truth. "

"And for days and nights you stayed alone with this man?"

The lean hand, with unrelenting strength, now gripped the drooping faceand held it firmly while the firelight played full upon it, meanwhilethe keen old eyes bored into Nella-Rose's very soul. 

"But he--he is my man! You forget the--marrying on the hill, Miss LoisAnn!"

The voice was raised a bit and the colour left the trembling lips. 

"Your man!" And a bitter laugh rang out wildly. 

"Stop, Miss Lois Ann! Yo' shall not look at me like that!"

The vision was dulled--Nella-Rose shivered. 

"You shall not look at me like that; God would not--why should you?"

"God!"--the cracked voice spoke the word bitterly. "God! What does Godcare for women? It's the men as God made things for, and us-all has tofend them off--men and God are agin us women!"

"No, no! Let me free. I was so happy until--Oh! Miss Lois Ann, youshall not take my happiness away. "

"Yo' came to the right place, yo' po' lil' chile. "

The eyes had seen all they needed to see and the hand let drop thepretty, quivering face. 

"We'll wait--oh! certainly we-all will wait a week; two weeks; thenthree. An' we-all will hide close and see what we-all shall see!" Ahard, pitiful laugh echoed through the room. "And now to bed! Take thecloset back o' my chamber. No one can reach yo' there, chile. Sleep anddream and--forget. "

And that night Burke Lawson, after an hour's struggle, determined tocome forth among his kind and take his place. Nella-Rose had decidedhim. He was tired of hiding, tired of playing his game. One look at theface he had loved from its babyhood had turned the tide. Lawson hadnever before been so long shut away from his guiding star. And she hadsaid that he might ask again when he dared--and so he came forth fromhis cave-place. Once outside, he drew a deep, free breath, turned hishandsome face to the sky, and _felt_ the prayer that another might havevoiced. 

He thought of Nella-Rose, remembered her love of adventure, hersplendid courage and spirit. Nothing so surely could win her as theproposal he was about to make. To ask her to remain at Pine Cone andsettle down with him as her hill-billy would hold small temptation, butto take her away to new and wider fields--that was another matter! Andgo they would--he and she. He would get a horse somewhere, somehow. WithNella-Rose behind him, he would never stop until a parson was reached, and after that--why the world would be theirs from which to choose. 

And it was at that point of Lawson's fervid, religious state that JedMartin had materialized and made it imperative that he be dealt withsummarily and definitely. 

After confiding his immediate future to the subjugated Martin--havingforced him to cover at the point of a pistol--Burke, with his big, wholesome laugh, crawled again out of the cave. Then, raising himself tohis full height, he strode over the sodden trail toward White's cabinwith the lightest, purest heart he had carried for many a day. But Fatehad an ugly trick in store for him. He was half way to White's when heheard steps. Habit was strong. He promptly climbed a tree. The moon cameout just then and disclosed the follower. "Blake's dawg, " mutteredLawson and, as the big hound took his stand under the tree, heunderstood matters. Blake was his worst enemy; he had a score to settleabout the revenue men and a term in jail for which Lawson wasresponsible. While the general hunt was on, Blake had entered in, thinking to square things, while not bringing himself into too muchprominence. 

"Yo' infernal critter!" murmured Lawson, "in another minute you'll howl, yo' po' brute. I hate ter shoot yo'--yo' being what yo' are--but heregoes. "

After that White's was impossible for a time and Nella-Rose must wait. In a day or so, probably--so Burke quickly considered--he could make adash back, get White to help him, and bear off his prize, but for themoment the sooner he reached safety beyond the ridge, the better. Shooting a dog was no light matter. 

Lawson reached safety but with a broken leg; for, going down-stream, hehad met with misfortune and, during that long, hard winter, unable tofend for himself, he was safely hidden by a timely friend and served bya doctor who was smuggled to the scene and well paid for his help andsilence. 

And in Lois Ann's cabin Nella-Rose waited, at first with serene hope, and then, with pitiful longing. She and the old woman never referred tothe conversation of the first night but the girl was sure she was beingwatched and shielded and she felt the doubt and scorn in the attitude ofLois Ann. 

"I'll--I'll send for my man, " at last she desperately decided at theend of the second week. But she dared not risk a journey to the farstation in order to send a telegram. So she watched for a chance to senda letter that she had carefully and painfully written. 

 "I'm to Miss Lois Ann's in Devil-may-come Hollow. I'm trusting and loving you, but Miss Lois Ann--don't believe! So please, Mister Man come and tell her and then go back and I will wait--most truly

 Your Nella-Rose. "

then she crossed the name out and scribbled "Your doney-gal. "

It was early in the third week that Bill Trim came whistling down thetrail, on a cold, bitterly cold, November morning. He bore a load of"grateful gifts" to Lois Ann from men and women whom she had succouredin times of need and who always remembered her, practically, when winter"set. "

Bill was a half-wit but as strong as an ox; and, once set upon a task, managed it in a way that had given him a secure position in thecommunity. He carried mail into the remotest districts--when there wasany to carry. He "toted" heavy loads and gathered gossip and spilled itliberally. He was impersonal, ignorant, and illiterate, but he did hispoor best and grovelled at the feet of any one who showed him the leastaffection. He was horribly afraid of Lois Ann for no reason that hecould have given; he was afraid of her eyes--her thin, claw-like hands. As he now delivered the bundles he had for her he accepted the food shegave and then darted away to eat it in comfort beyond the reach of thoseglances he dreaded. 

And there Nella-Rose sought him and sat beside him with a choice morselshe had saved from her finer fare. 

"Trim, " she whispered when he was about to start, "here is aletter--Miss Lois Ann wants you to mail. "

The bright eyes looked yearningly into the dull, hopeless face. 

"I--hate the ole 'un!" confided Bill. 

"But yo' don't hate me, Bill?"

"No. "

"Well, then, do it for me, but don't tell a living soul that you saw me. See, Bill, I have a whole dollar--I earned it by berry-picking. Pay forthe letter and then keep the rest. And if you ever see Marg, and sheasks about me--and whether you've seen me--tell her" (and hereNella-Rose's white teeth gleamed in the mischievous smile), "tell heryou saw me walking in the Hollow with Burke Lawson!"

The dull fellow shook with foolish laughter. "I sho' will!" he said, andthen tucked the letter and dollar bill in the breast of his shirt. "Andnow, lil' doney-gal, let me touch yo' hand, " he pleaded, "this--er--way. " And like a poor frayed, battered knight he pressed hislips to the small, brown hand of the one person who had always been kindto him. 

At sunset Bill halted to eat his supper and warm his stiffened body. Hetried to build a fire but the wood was wet and in desperation he took, at last, the papers from inside his thin coat, they had helped to shieldhim from the cold, and utilized them to start the pine cones. He restedand feasted and later went his way. At the post office he searched amonghis rags for the letter and the money. Then his face went white asashes:

"Gawd a'mighty!" he whimpered. 

"What's wrong?" Merrivale came from behind the counter. 

"I done burn my chest protector. I'll freeze without the papers. " ThenBill explained the fire building but, recalling Lois Ann, withheld anyfurther information. 

"Here, you fool, " Merrivale said not unkindly, "take all the papers youwant. And take this old coat, too. And look, lad, in yo' wandering haveyo' seen Greyson's lil' gal?"

Bill looked cunning and drawing close whispered:

"Her--and him, I seed 'im, back in the sticks! Her--and him!" Then helaughed his foolish laugh. 

"I thought as much!" Merrivale nodded, with the trouble a good man knowsat times in his eyes; but his faith in Burke coming to his aid. "Youmean--Lawson?" he asked. 

Bill nodded foolishly. 

"Then keep yo' mouth shut!" warned Merrivale. "If I hear yo'gabbing--I'll flax the hide o' yo', sure as I keep store. "

CHAPTER XIII

A month, then two, passed in the desolate cabin in the Hollow. Winterclutched and held Pine Cone Settlement in a deadly grip. Old people diedand little children were born. Lois Ann, when it was physicallypossible, got to the homes of suffering and eased the women, while sheberated the men for bringing poor souls to such dread passes. But alwaysNella-Rose hid and shrank from sight. No need, now, to warn her. A newand terrible look had come into her eyes, and when Lois Ann saw thatcreeping terror she knew that her hour had come. To save Nella-Rose, shebelieved, she must lay low every illusion and, with keen and deliberateforce, she pressed the apple of the knowledge of life between thegirlish lips. The bitter truth at last ate its way into the girl's souland gradually hate, such as she had never conceived, grew and consumedher. 

"She will not die, " thought the old woman watching her day by day. 

And Nella-Rose did not die, at least not outwardly, but in her, as inTruedale, the fine, first glow of pure faith and passion, untouched bythe world's interpretation, faded and shrivelled forever. 

The long winter hid the secret in the dreary cabin. The roads andtrails were closed; none drew near for shelter or succour. 

By springtime Nella-Rose was afraid of every living creature except thefaithful soul who stood guard over her. She ran and trembled at theleast sound; she was white and hollow-eyed, but her hate was strongerand fiercer than ever. 

Early summer came--the gladdest time of the year. The heat was broken bysoft showers; the flowers bloomed riotously, and in July the world-oldmiracle occurred in Lois Ann's cabin--Nella-Rose's child was born! Withits coming the past seemed blotted out; hate gave place to reverent aweand tenderness. In the young mother the woman rose supreme and she wouldnot permit her mind to hold a harmful thought. 

Through the hours of her travail, when Lois Ann, desperate andfrightened, had implored, threatened, and commanded that she should tellthe name of the father of her child, she only moaned and closed her lipsthe firmer. But when she looked upon her baby she smiled radiantly andwhispered to the patient old creature beside her:

"Miss Lois Ann, this lil' child has no father. It is my baby and Godsent it. I shall call her Ann--cuz you've been right good to me--yousholy have. "

So it was "lil' Ann" and, since the strange reticence and misunderstoodjoyousness remained, Lois Ann, at her wit's end, believing that deathor insanity threatened, went secretly to the Greyson house to confessand get assistance. 

Peter was away with Jed. The two hung together now like burrs. Whateverof relaxation Martin could hope for lay in Greyson; whatever of materialcomfort Peter could command, must come through Jed, and so theylaboured, in slow, primitive fashion, and edged in a little pleasuretogether. Marg, having achieved her ambition, was content and, for thefirst time in her life, easy to get along with. And into thiscomparative Eden Lois Ann came with words that shattered the peace andcalm. 

In Marg's private thought she had never doubted that her sister hadoften been with Burke Lawson in the Hollow. When he disappeared, shebelieved Nella-Rose was with him, but she had supported and embellishedher father's story concerning them because it secured her ownself-respect and covered the tracks of the degenerate pair with a shieldthat they in no wise deserved, but which put their defenders in a trulyChristian attitude. 

Marg was alone in the cabin when Lois Ann entered. She looked up flushedand eager. 

"How-de, " she said genially. "Set and have a bite. "

"I ain't got no time, " the old woman returned pantingly. "Nella-Rose isdown to my place. "

The warm, sunny room grew stifling to Marg. 

"What a-doing?" she said, half under her breath. 

"She's got a--lil' baby. "

The colour faded from Marg's face, leaving it pasty and heavy. 

"Burke--thar?"

"He ain't been thar all winter. I hid Nella-Rose and her shame but Idare not any longer. I reckon she's going off. "

"Dying?"

"May be; or--" and here Lois Ann tapped her head. 

"And he--he went and left her?" groaned Marg--"the devil!"

Lois Ann watched the terrible anger rising in the younger woman and of asudden she realized how useless it would be to voice the wild taleNella-Rose held to. So she only nodded. 

"I'll come with you, " Marg decided at once, "and don't you let on tofather or Jed--they'd do some killing this time, sure!"

Together the two made their way to the Hollow and found Nella-Rose inthe quiet room with her baby nestling against her tender breast. Thelook on her face might well stay the reproaches on Marg's lips--shealmost reeled back as the deep, true eyes met hers. All the smotheredsisterliness came to the surface for an instant as she trembled and drewnear to the two in the old chintz-covered rocker. 

"See! my baby, Marg. She is lil' Ann. "

"Ann--what?" whispered Marg. 

"Just lil' Ann for--Miss Lois Ann. "

"Nella-Rose" (and now Marg fell on her knees beside her sister), "tellme where he is. Tell me and as sure as God lives I'll bring him back!I'll make him own you and--and the baby or he'll--he'll--"

And then Nella-Rose laughed the laugh that drove Lois Ann todistraction. 

"Send Marg away, Miss Lois Ann, " Nella-Rose turned to her only friend, "she makes me so--so tired and--I do not want any one but you. "

Marg got upon her feet, all the tenderness and compassion gone. 

"You are--" she began, but Lois Ann was between her and Nella-Rose. 

"Go!" she commanded with terrible scorn. "Go! You are not fit to touchthem. Go! Dying or mad--the girl belongs to me and not to such as hasviper blood in their veins. Go!" And Marg went with the sound ofNella-Rose's crooning to her child ringing in her ears. 

Things happened dramatically after that in the deep woods. Marg kept thesecret of the Hollow cabin in her seething heart. She was frightened, fearing her father or Jed might discover Nella-Rose. But she was, attimes, filled with a strange longing to see her sister and touch thatwonderful thing that lay on the guilty mother-breast. 

Was Nella-Rose forever to have the glory even in her shame, while she, Marg, with all the rights of womanhood, could hold no hope of maternity?

For one reason or another Marg often stole to the woods as near theHollow as she dared to go. She hoped for news but none came; and it waslate August when, one sunny noon, she confronted Burke Lawson!

Lawson's face was strange and awful to look on. Marg drew away from himin fear. She could not know but Burke had had a terrific experience thatday and he was on the path for revenge and any one in his way mustsuffer. Freed at last from his captivity, he had travelled across therange and straight to Jim White. And the sheriff, ready for therecreant, greeted him without mercy, judging him guilty until he provedhimself otherwise. 

"What you done with Nella-Rose?" he asked, standing before Burke withslow fire in his deep eyes. 

Lawson could never have been the man he was if he were not capable ofholding his own council and warding off attack. 

"What makes you think I've done anything with her?" he asked. 

"None o' that, Burke Lawson, " Jim warned. "I've been yo' friend, but Iswear I'll toss yo' ter the dogs, as is after you, with as littlefeelin' as I would if yo' were a chunk o' dead meat--if you've harmedthat lil' gal. "

"Well, I ain't harmed her, Jim. And now let's set down and talk itover. I want to--to bring her home; I want ter live a decent life 'mongyo'-all. Jim, don't shoot 'til yo' make sure yo' ought ter shoot. "

Thus brought to reason Jim sat down, shared his meal with his reinstatedfriend, and gave him the gossip of the hills. Lawson ate because he waswell-nigh starved and he knew he had some rough work ahead; he listenedbecause he needed all the guiding possible and he shielded the name andreputation of Nella-Rose with the splendid courage that filled his youngheart and mind. And then he set forth upon his quest with these words:

"As Gawd A'mighty hears me, Jim White, I'll fetch that lil' Nella-Rosehome and live like a man from now on. Wipe off my sins, Jim; make aplace for me, old man, and I'll never shame it--or God blast me!"

White took the strong young hand and felt his eyes grow misty. 

"Yo' place is here, Burke, " he said, and then Lawson was on his way. 

A half hour later he encountered Marg. In his own mind Burke had apretty clear idea of what had occurred. Not having heard any suggestionof Truedale, he was as ignorant of him as though Truedale had neverexisted. Jed, then, was the only man to hold guilty. Jed had, in passionand revenge, wronged Nella-Rose and had after, like the sneak andcoward he was, sought to secure his own safety by marrying Marg. Butwhat had they done with Nella-Rose? She had, according to White, disappeared the night that Jed had been tied in the cave. Well, Jed mustconfess and pay!--pay to the uttermost. But between him and Jed Marg nowstood!

"You!" cried Marg. "You! What yo' mean coming brazen to us-all?"

"Get out of my way!" commanded Burke, "Where's Jed?"

"What's that to you?"

"You'll find out soon enough. Let me by. "

But Marg held her ground and Lawson waited. The look in his eyes awedMarg, but his presence enraged her. 

"What you-all done with Nella-Rose?" Lawson asked. 

"You better find out! You've left it long enough. "

"Whar is she, I say? And I tell you now, Marg--every one as has wrongedthat lil' girl will answer to me. Whar is she?"

"She--she and her young-un are up to Lois Ann's. They've been hid allwinter. No one but me knows; you've time to make good--before--beforefather and Jed get yo'. "

Lawson took this like a blow between the eyes. He could not speak--for amoment he could not think; then a lurid fire of conviction burned intohis very soul. 

"So--that's it!" he muttered, coming so close to Marg that she shrankback afraid. "So that's it! Yo'-all have damned and all but killed thepo' lil' girl--then flung her to--to the devil! You've taken theleavings--you! 'cause yo' couldn't get anything else. Yo' and Jed" (hereLawson laughed a fearless, terrifying laugh), "yo' and Jed is honourablymarried, you two, and she--lil' Nella-Rose--left to--" Emotion chokedLawson; then he plunged on: "He--he wronged her--the brute, and you tookhim to--to save him and yourself you--! And she?--why, she's the onlyholy thing in the hills; you couldn't damn her--you two!"

"For the love o' Gawd!" begged Marg, "keep yo' tongue still and off us!We ain't done her any wrong; every one, even Jed, thinks she is withyou. Miss Lois Ann hid her--I only knew a week ago. I ain't told asoul!"

A look of contempt grew upon Burke's face and hardened there. He wasthinking quick and desperately. In a vague way he realized that he hadthe reins in his hands; his only concern was to know whither he shoulddrive. But, above and beyond all--deep true, and spiritual--were hislove and pity for Nella-Rose. 

They had all betrayed and deserted her. Not for an instant did Lawsondoubt that. Their cowardice and duplicity neither surprised nor dauntedhim; but his pride--his sense of superiority--bade him pause and reflectbefore he plunged ahead. Finally he said:

"So you-all depend upon her safety for your safety! Take it--and bedamned! She's been with me--yo' followin' me? She's been with me, rightful married and happy--happy! From now on I'll manage lil'Nella-Rose's doings, and the first whisper from man or woman agin herwill be agin me--and God knows I won't be blamed for what I do then!Tell that skunk of yours, " Lawson glared at the terrified Marg, "I'mstrong enough to outbid him with the devil, but from now on him andyou--mind this well, Marg Greyson--him and you are to be our lovingbrother and sister. See?"

With a wild laugh Burke took to the woods. 

CHAPTER XIV

Two years and a half following William Truedale's death found thingsmuch as the old gentleman would have liked. Often Lynda Kendall, sittingbeside the long, low, empty chair, longed to tell her old friend allabout it. Strange to say, the recluse in life had become very vital indeath. He had wrought, in his silent, lonely detachment, better eventhan he knew. His charities, shorn of the degrading elements of manysimilar ones, were carried on without a hitch. Dr. McPherson, under hiscrust of hardness, was an idealist and almost a sentimentalist; butabove all he was a man to inspire respect and command obedience. Nohospital with which he had to deal was unmarked by his personality. Neglect and indifference were fatal attributes for internes and nurses. 

"Give the youngsters sleep enough, food and relaxation enough, " he wouldsay to the superintendents, "but after that expect--and get--faithful, conscientious service with as much humanity as possible thrown in. "

The sanatorium for cases such as William Truedale's was alreadyattracting wide attention. The finest men to be obtained were on thestaff; specially trained nurses were selected; and Lynda had put herbest thought and energy into the furnishing of the small rooms andspacious wards. 

Conning, becoming used to the demands made upon him, was at lastdependable, and grew to see, in each sufferer the representative of theuncle he had never understood; whom he had neglected and, too late, hadlearned to respect. He was almost ashamed to confess how deeplyinterested he was in the sanatorium. Recalling at times the lonelinessand weariness of William Truedale's days--picturing the sad night whenhe had, as Lynda put it, opened the door himself, to release andhope--Conning sought to ease the way for others and so fill the waitinghours that less opportunity was left for melancholy thought. Heintroduced amusements and pastimes in the hospital, often shared themhimself, and still attended to the other business that WilliamTruedale's affairs involved. 

The men who had been appointed to direct and control these interestseventually let the reins fall into the hands eager to grasp them and, inthe endless labour and sense of usefulness, Conning learned to knowcontent and comparative peace. He grew to look upon his present life asa kind of belated reparation. He was not depressed; with surprisingadaptability he accepted what was inevitable and, while reserving, inthe personal sense, his past for private hours, he managed to constructa philosophy and cheerfulness that carried him well on the tide ofevents. 

It was something of a shock to him one evening, nearly three years afterhis visit to Pine Cone, to find himself looking at Lynda Kendall as ifhe had never seen her before. 

She was going out with Brace and was in evening dress. Truedale hadnever seen her gowned so, and he realized that she was extremelyhandsome and--something more. She came close to him, drawing on herlong, loose, white gloves. 

"I cannot bear to go and leave you--all alone!" she said, raising hereyes to his. 

"You see, John Morrell is showing us his brand-new wife to-night--and Icouldn't resist; but I'll try to break away early. "

"You are eager to see--Mrs. Morrell?" Truedale asked, and suddenlyrecalled the relation Lynda had once held to Morrell. He had not thoughtof it for many a day. 

"Very. You see I hope to be great friends with her. I want--"

"What, Lynda?"

"Well, to help her understand--John. "

"Let me button your glove, Lyn"--for Truedale saw her hands weretrembling though her eyes were peaceful and happy. And then as the long, slim hand rested in his, he asked:

"And you--have never regretted, Lyn?"

"Regretted? Does a woman regret when she's saved from a mistake andgets off scot-free as well?"

They looked at each other for a moment and then Lynda drew away herhand. 

"Thanks, Con, and please miss us a little, but not too much. What willyou do to pass the time until we return?"

"I think"--Truedale pulled himself up sharply--"I think I'll go up underthe eaves and get out--the old play!"

"Oh! how splendid! And you will--let me hear it--some day, soon?"

"Yes. Business is going easier now. I can think of it without neglectingbetter things. Good-night, Lyn. Tuck your coat up close, the night'sbad. "

And then, alone in the warm, bright room, Truedale had a distinct senseof Lynda having taken something besides herself away. She had left theroom hideously lonely; it became unbearable to remain there and, like aboy, Conning ran up to the small room next the roof. 

He took the old play out--he had not unpacked it since he came from PineCone! He laid it before him and presently became absorbed in reading itfrom the beginning. It was after eleven when he raised his tired eyesfrom the pages and leaned back in his chair. 

"I'm like--all men!" he muttered. "All men--and I thought things hadgone deeper with me. "

What he was recognizing was that the play and the subtle influence thatNella-Rose had had upon him had both lost their terrific hold. He couldcontemplate the past without the sickening sense of wrong and shock thathad once overpowered him. Realizing the full meaning of all that hadgone into his past experience, he found himself thinking of Lynda as shehad looked a few hours before. He resented the lesser hold the paststill had upon him--he wanted to shake it free. Not bitterly--not withcontempt--but, he argued, why should his life be shadowed always by amistake, cruel and unpardonable as it was, when she, that littleignorant partner in the wrong, had gone her way and had doubtless by nowput him forever from her mind?

How small a part it had played with her, poor child. She had beenbetrayed by her strange imagination and suddenly awakened passion; shehad followed blindly where he had led, but when catastrophe hadthreatened one who had been part of her former life--familiar with allthat was real to her--how readily the untamed instinct had reverted toits own!

And he--Truedale comforted himself--he had come back to _his_ own, andhis own had made its claim upon him. Why should he not have his secondchance? He wanted love--not friendship; he wanted--Lynda! All else fadedand Lynda, the new Lynda--Lynda with the hair that had learned to curl, the girl with the pretty white shoulders and sweet, kind eyes--stoodpleadingly close in the shabby old room and demanded recognition. "Shethinks, " and here Truedale covered his eyes, "that I am--as I was when Ibegan my life--here! What would she say--if she knew? She, God blessher, is not like others. Faithful, pure, she could not forgive the_truth_!"

Truedale, thinking so of Lynda Kendall, owned to his best self thatbecause the woman who now filled his life held to her high ideals--wouldnever lower them--he could honour and reverence her. If she, like him, could change, and accept selfishly that which she would scorn inanother, she would not be the splendid creature she was. Andyet--without conceit or vanity--Truedale believed that Lynda felt forhim what he felt for her. 

Never doubting that he could bring to her an unsullied past, she was, delicately, in finest woman-fashion, laying her heart open to him. Sheknew that he had little to offer and yet--and yet--she was--willing!Truedale knew this to be true. And then he decided he must, even at thislate day, tell Lynda of the past. For her sake he dare not venture anyfurther concealment. Once she understood--once she recovered from hersurprise and shock--she would be his friend, he felt confident of that;but she would be spared any deeper personal interest. It was Lynda'smagnificent steadfastness that now appealed to Truedale. With thepassing of his own season of madness, he looked upon this calm serenityof her character with deepest admiration. 

"The best any man should hope for, " he admitted--turning, as he thought, his back upon his yearning--"any man who has played the fool as I have, is the sympathetic friendship of a good woman. What right has a man tofall from what he knows a woman holds highest, and then look to her tochange her ideals to fit his pattern?"

Arriving at this conclusion, Truedale wrapped the tattered shreds of hisself-respect about him and accepted, as best he could, the prospect ofLynda's adjustment to the future. 

Brace and Lynda did not return in time to see Truedale that night. Attwelve, with a resigned sigh, he put away his play and went to hislonely rooms in the tall apartment farther uptown. His dog was waitingfor him with the reproachful look in his faithful eyes that remindedTruedale that the poor beast had not had an outing for twenty-fourhours. 

"Come on, old fellow, " he said, "better late than never, " and the twodescended to the street. They walked sedately for an hour. The doglonged to gambol; he was young enough to associate outdoors withlicense; but being a friend as well as a dog, he felt that this wasrather a time for close comradeship, so he pattered along at hismaster's heels and once in a while pushed his cold nose into the limphand swinging by Truedale's side. "Thank God!" Conning thought, reaching down to pat the sleek head, "I can keep you without--confession!"

For three days and nights Truedale stayed away from the old home. Business was his excuse--he offered it in the form of a note and a bunchof violets. Lynda telephoned on the second day and asked him if he werequite well. The tone of her voice made him decide to see her at once. 

"May I come to dinner to-night, Lyn?" he asked. 

"Sorry, Con, but I must dine with some people who have bought a hideoushouse and want me to get them out of the scrape by remodelling theinside. They're awfully rich and impossible--it's a sort of duty to thepublic, you know. "

"To-morrow then, Lyn?"

"Yes, indeed. Only Brace will be dining with the Morrells; by the way, she's a dear, Con. "

The next night was terrifically stormy--one of those spring storms thatsweep everything before them. The bubbles danced on the pavements, thegutters ran floods, and fragments of umbrellas and garments floatedincongruously on the tide. 

Battling against the wind, Conning made his way to Lynda's. As he drewnear the house the glow from the windows seemed to meet and touch himwith welcome. 

"I'll economize somewhere, " Lynda often said, "but when darkness comesI'm always going to do my best to get the better of it. "

Just for one blank moment Truedale had a sickening thought: "Supposethat welcome was never again for him, after this night?" Then he laughedderisively. Lynda might have her ideals, her eternal reservations, butshe also had her superb faithfulness. After she knew _all_, she wouldstill be his friend. 

When he went into the library Lynda sat before the fire knitting a longstrip of vivid wools. Conning had never seen her so employed and it hadthe effect of puzzling him; it was like seeing her--well, smoking, assome of her friends did! Nothing wrong in it--but, inharmonious. 

"What are you making, Lyn?" he asked, taking the ottoman and drawingclose to her. 

"It--it isn't anything, Con. No one wants trash like this. It fulfilsits mission when it is ravelled and knitted, then unravelled. You knowwhat Stevenson says: 'I travel for travel's sake; the great affair is tomove. ' I knit for knitting's sake; it keeps my hands busy while my--mysoul basks. "

She looked up with a smile and Truedale saw that she was ill at ease. Itwas the one thing that unnerved him. Had she been her old, self-contained self he could have depended upon her to bear her partwhile he eased his soul by burdening hers; but now he caught in her theappealing tenderness that had always awakened in old William Truedalethe effort to save her from herself--from the cares others laid uponher. 

Conning, instead of plunging into his confession, looked at her in sucha protecting, yearning way that Lynda's eyes fell, and the soft colourslowly crept in her cheeks. 

In the stillness, that neither knew how to break, Truedale noticed thegown Lynda wore. It was blue and clinging. The whiteness of her slimarms showed through the loose sleeves; the round throat was bare andgirlish in its drooping curve. 

For one mad moment Truedale tried to stifle his conscience. Why shouldhe not have this love and happiness that lay close to him? In what washe different from the majority of men? Then he thought--as others beforehim had thought--that, since the race must be preserved, the primalimpulses should not be denied. They outlived everything; they ralliedfrom shock--even death; they persisted until extinction; and here wasthis sweet woman with all her gracious loveliness near him. He lovedher! Yes, strange as it seemed even then to him, Truedale acknowledgedthat he loved her with the love, unlike yet like the love that had beentoo rudely awakened in the lonely woods when he had been still incapableof understanding it. 

Then the storm outside reached his consciousness and awakened memoriesthat hurt and stung him. 

No. He was not as many men who could take and take and find excuse. Thevery sincerity of the past and future must prove itself, now, in thisthrobbing, vital present. Only so could he justify himself and hisbelief in goodness. He must open his heart and soul to the woman besidehim. There was no other alternative. 

But first they dined together across the hall. Truedale noted everyspecial dish--the meal was composed of his favourite viands. Theintimacy of sitting opposite Lynda, the smiling pleasure of old Thomaswho served them, combined to lure him again from his stern sense ofduty. 

Why? Why? his yearning pleaded. Why should he destroy his own futurehappiness and that of this sweet, innocent woman for a whim--that waswhat he tried to term it--of conscience? Why, there were men, thousandsof them, who would call him by a harsher name than he cared to own, ifhe followed such a course; and yet--then Truedale looked across atLynda. 

"A woman should have clear vision and choice, " his reason commanded, andto this his love agreed. 

But alone with Lynda, in the library later, the conflict was renewed. Never had she been so sweet, so kind. The storm beat against the houseand instead of interfering, seemed to hold them close and--together. Itno longer aroused in Truedale recollections that smarted. It was like anold familiar guide leading his thought into ways sacred and happy. Thensuddenly, out of a consciousness that knew neither doubt nor fear, hesaid:

"You and I, Lyn, were never afraid of truth, were we?"

"Never. "

She was knitting again--knitting feverishly and desperately. 

"Lyn--I want to tell you--all about it! About something you must know. "

Very quietly now, Lynda rolled her work together and tossed it, needlesand all, upon the glowing logs. She was done, forever, with subterfugeand she knew it. The wool curled, blackened, and gave forth a scorchedsmell before the red coals subdued it. Then, with a straight, upliftedlook:

"I'm ready, Con. "

"Just before I broke down and went away, Brace once told me that my lifehad no background, no colour. Lynda, it is of that background aboutwhich you do not know, that I want to speak. " He waited a moment, thenwent on:

"I went away--to the loneliest, the most beautiful place I had everseen. For a time there seemed to be nobody in the world but the man withwhom I lived and me. He liked and trusted me--I betrayed his trust!"

Lynda caught her breath and gave a little exclamation of dissent, wonder. 

"You--betrayed him, Con! I cannot believe that. Go on. "

"Yes. I betrayed his trust. He left me and went into the deep woods tohunt. He put everything in my care--everything. He was gone nearly threeweeks. No one knew of my existence. They are like that down there. Ifyou are an outsider you do not matter. I had arrived at dark; I was sentfor a certain purpose; that was all that mattered. I began and endedwith the man who was my host and who had been told to--to keep mesecret. " Truedale was gripping the arms of his chair and his words camepunctuated by sharp pauses. 

"And then, into that solitude, came a young girl. Remember, she did notknow of my existence. We--discovered each other like creatures in a newworld. There are no words to describe her--I cannot even attempt it, Lynda. I ruined her life. That's all!"

The bald, crushing truth was out. For a moment the man Lynda Kendallknew and loved seemed hiding behind this monster the confession hadcalled forth. A lesser woman would have shrunk in affright, but notLynda. 

"No. That is not all, " she whispered hoarsely, putting her hands out asthough pushing something tangible aside until she could reach Conning. "I demand the rest. "

"What matters it?" Truedale spoke bitterly. "If I tell how and why, canthat alter the--fact? Oh! I have had my hours of explaining andjustifying and glossing over; but I've come at last to the point whereI see myself as I am and I shall never argue the thing again. "

"Con, you have shown me the man as man might see him; I must--I musthave him as a woman--as his God--must see him!"

"And you think it possible for me to grant this? You--you, Lynda, wouldyou have me put up a defense for what I did?"

"No. But I would have you throw all the light upon it that you can. Iwant to see--for myself. I will not accept the hideous skeleton you havehung before me. Con, I have never really known but five men in my life;but women--women have lain heart deep along my way ever since--I learnedto know my mother! Not only for yourself, but for that girl who driftedinto your solitude, I demand light--all that you can give me!"

And now Truedale breathed hard and the muscles of his face twitched. Hewas about to lay bare the inscrutable, the holy thing of his life, fearing that even the woman near him could not be just. He had acceptedhis own fate, so he thought; he meant not to whine or complain, but howwas he to live his life if Lynda failed to agree with him--whereNella-Rose was concerned?

"Will you--can you--do what I ask, Con?"

"Yes--in a minute. "

"You--loved her? She loved you--Con?" Lynda strove to smooth the way, not so much for Truedale as for herself. 

"Yes! I found her in my cabin one day when I returned from a long tramp. She had decked herself out in my bathrobe and the old fez. Not knowinganything about me, she was horribly frightened when I came upon her. Atfirst she seemed nothing but a child--she took me by storm. We met inthe woods later. I read to her, taught her, played with her--I, who hadnever played in my life before. Then suddenly she became a woman! Sheknew no law but her own; she was full of courage and daring and asplendid disregard for conventions as--as we all know them. For her, they simply did not exist. I--I was willing and eager to cast my futurehopes of happiness with hers--God knows I was sincere in that!

"Then came a night of storm--such as this. Can you imagine it in theblack forests where small streams become rivers in a moment, carryingall before them as they plunge and roar down the mountain sides? Dangersof all sorts threatened and, in the midst of that storm, somethingoccurred that involved me! I had sent Nella-Rose--that was hername--away earlier in the day. I could not trust myself. But she cameback to warn me. It meant risking everything, for her people were abroadthat night bent on ugly business; she had to betray them in order tosave me. To have turned her adrift would have meant death, or worse. She remained with me nearly a week--she and I alone in that cabin andcut off from the world--she and I! There was only myself to dependupon--and, Lynda, I failed again!"

"But, Con--you meant to--to marry her; you meant that--from the first?"Lynda had forgotten herself, her suffering. She was struggling to savesomething more precious than her love; she was holding to her faith inTruedale. 

"Good God! yes. It was the one thing I wanted--the one thing I planned. In my madness it did not seem to matter much except as a safeguard forher--but I had no other thought or intention. We meant to go to aminister as soon as the storm released us. Then came the telegram aboutUncle William, and the minister was killed during the storm. Lynda, Iwanted to bring Nella-Rose to you just as she was, but she would notcome. I left my address and told her to send for me if she needed me--Imeant to return as soon as I could, anyway. I would have left anythingfor her. She never sent for me--and the very day I left--she--"

"What, Con? I must know all. "

"Lynda, before God I believe something drove the child to it; you mustnot--you shall not judge her. But she went, the very night I left, to aman--a man of the hills--who had loved her all his life. He was indanger; he escaped, taking her with him!"

"I--I do _not_ believe it!" The words rang out sharply, defiantly. Woman was in arms for woman. The loyalty that few men admit confrontedTruedale now. It seemed to glorify the darkness about him. He had nofurther fear for Nella-Rose and he bowed his head before Lynda's blazingeyes. 

"God bless you!" he whispered, "but oh! Lyn, I went back to make sure. Ihad the truth from her own father. And with all--she stands to this day, in my memory, guiltless of the monstrous wrong she seemed to commit; andso she will always stand. 

"Since then, Lynda, I have lived a new piece of life; the past lies backthere and it is dead, dead. I would not have told you this but for onegreat and tremendous thing. You will not understand this; no womancould. A man could, but not a woman. 

"As I once loved--in another way--that child of the hills, I love you, the one woman of my manhood's clearer vision. Because of that love--Ihad to speak. "

Truedale looked up and met the eyes that searched his soul. 

"I believe you, " Lynda faltered. "I do not understand, but I believeyou. Go away now, Con, I want to think. "

He rose at once and bent over her. "God bless you, Lyn, " was all hesaid. 

CHAPTER XV

Two days, then three passed. Lynda tried to send for Truedale--tried tobelieve that she saw clearly at last, but having decided that she wasready she was again lost in doubt and plunged into a new struggle. 

She neglected her work and grew pale and listless. Brace was worried andbewildered. He had never seen his sister in like mood and, missingConning from the house, he drew, finally, his own conclusions. 

One day, it was nearly a week after Truedale's call, Brace came upon hissister in the workshop over the extension. She was sitting on thewindow-ledge looking out into the old garden where a magnolia tree wasin full bloom. 

"Heigho, boy!" she said, welcoming him with her eyes. "I've justdiscovered that spring is here. I've always been ready for it before. This year it has taken me by surprise. "

Brace came close to her and put his hands on her shoulders. 

"What's the matter, girl?" he asked in his quick, blunt way. 

The tears came to Lynda's eyes, but she did not shrink. 

"Brother, " she said slowly, "I--I want to marry Con and--I do notdare. "

Kendall dropped in the nearest chair, and stared blankly at his sister. 

"Would you mind being a bit more--well, more explicit?" he faltered. 

"I'm going to ask you--some questions, dear. Will you--tell me true?"

"I'll do my best. " Kendall passed his hand through his hair; it seemedto relieve the tension. 

"Brace, can a man truly love many times? Perhaps not many--buttwice--truly?"

"Yes--he can!" Brace asserted boldly. "I've been in love a dozen timesmyself. I always put it to the coffee-urn test--that settles it. "

"Brace, I am in earnest. Do not joke. "

"Joke? Good Lord! I tell you, Lyn, I am in _deadly_ earnest--deadlierthan you know. When a man puts his love three hundred and sixty-fivetimes a year, in fancy, behind his coffee-urn, he gets his bearings. "

"You've never grown up, Brace, and I feel as old--as old as both yourgrandmothers. I do not mean--puppy-love; I mean the love that cuts deepin a man's soul. Can it cut twice?"

"If it couldn't, it would be good-bye to the future of the race!" Andnow Kendall had the world's weary knowledge in his eyes. 

"A woman--cannot understand that, Lyn. She must trust if she loves. "

"Yes. " The universal language of men struck Lynda like a strangetongue. Had she been living all her life, she wondered, like aforeigner--understanding merely by signs? And now that she wasclose--was confronting a situation that vitally affected herfuture--must she, like other women, trust, trust?

"But what has all this to do with Con?" Kendall's voice roused Lyndasharply. 

"Why--everything, " she said in her simple, frank way, "he--he isoffering me a second love, Brace. "

For a moment Kendall thought his sister was resorting to sarcasm orfrivolity. But one look at her unsmiling face and shadow-touched eyesconvinced him. 

"You hardly are the woman to whom dregs should be offered, " he saidslowly, and then, "But Con! Good Lord!"

"Brace, now I am speaking the woman's language, perhaps you may not beable to understand me, but I know Con is not offering me dregs--I do notthink he has any dregs in his nature; he is offering me the best, thetruest love of his life. I know it! I know it! The love that would bringmy greatest joy and his best good and--yet I am afraid!"

Kendall went over and stood close beside his sister again. 

"You know that?" he asked, "and still are afraid? Why?"

The clear eyes looked up pathetically. "Because Con may not know, and Imay not be able to make him know--make him--forget!"

There was a moment's silence. Kendall was never to forget the magnoliatree in its gorgeous, pink bloom; the droop of his strong, fine sister!Sharply he recalled the night long ago when Truedale groaned and threwhis letters on the fire. 

"Lyn, I hardly dare ask this, knowing you as I do--you are not the sortto compromise with honour selfishly or idiotically--but, Lyn, the--theother love, it was not--an evil thing?"

The tears sprang to Lynda's eyes and she flung her arms around herbrother's neck and holding him so whispered:

"No! no! At least I can understand that. It was the--the most beautifuland tender tragedy. That is the trouble. It was so--wonderful, that Ifear no man can ever quite forget and take the new love without abackward look. And oh! Brace, I must have--my own! Men cannot alwaysunderstand women when they say this. They think, when we say we want ourown lives, that it means lives running counter to theirs. This is notso. We want, we must choose--but the best of us want the common lifethat draws close to the heart of things; we want to go with our men andalong their way. Our way and theirs are the _same_ way, when love is bigenough. "

"Lyn--there isn't a man on God's earth worthy of--you!"

"Brace, look at me--answer true. Am I such that a man could really wantme?"

He looked long at her. Bravely he strove to forget the blood tie thatheld them. He regarded her from the viewpoint that another man mighthave. Then he said:

"Yes. As God hears me, Lyn--yes!"

She dropped her head upon his shoulder and wept as if grief instead ofjoy were sweeping over her. Presently she raised her tear-wet face andsaid:

"I'm going to marry Con, dear, as soon as he wants me. I hate to saythis, Brace, but it is a little as if Conning had come home to me froman honourable war--a bit mutilated. I must try to get used to him and Iwill! I will!"

Kendall held her to him close. "Lyn, I never knew until this moment howmuch I have to humbly thank God for. Oh! if men only could see ahead, young fellows I mean, they would not come to a woman--mutilated. Ihaven't much to offer, heaven knows, but--well, Lyn, I can offer a clearrecord to some woman--some day!"

All that day Lynda thought of the future. Sitting in her workshop withthe toy-like emblems of her craft at hand she thought and thought. Itseemed to her, struggling alone, that men and women, after all, walkedthrough life--largely apart. They had built bridges with love andnecessity and over them they crossed to touch each other for a space, but oh! how she longed for a common highway where she and Con could walkalways together! She wanted this so much, so much!

At five o'clock she telephoned to Truedale. She knew he generally wentto his apartment at that hour. 

"I--I want to see you, Con, " she said. 

"Yes, Lyn. Where?"

She felt the answer meant much, so she paused. 

"After dinner, Con, and come right up to--to my workshop. "

"I will be there--early. "

Lynda was never more her merry old self than she was at dinner; but shewas genuinely relieved when Brace told her he was going out. 

"What are you going to do, Lyn?" he asked. 

"Why--go up to my workshop. I've neglected things horribly, lately. "

"I thought that night work was taboo?"

"I rarely work at night, Brace. And you--where are you going?"

"Up to Morrell's. "

Lynda raised her eyebrows. 

"Mrs. Morrell's sister has come from the West, Lyn. She's veryinteresting. She's _voted_, and it hasn't hurt her. "

"Why should it? And"--Lynda came around the table and paused as she wasabout to go out of the room "I wonder if she could pass the coffee-urntest, on a pinch?"

Kendall coloured vividly. "I've been thinking more of my end of thetable since I saw her than I ever have before in my life. It isn't allcoffee-urn, Lyn. "

"Indeed it isn't! I must see this little womanly Lochinvar at once. Isshe pretty--pretty as Mrs. John?"

"Why--I don't know. I haven't thought. She's so different from--everyone. She's little but makes you think big. She's always saying thingsyou remember afterward, but she doesn't talk much. She's--she's gotlight hair and blue eyes!" This triumphantly. 

"And I hope she--dresses well?" This with a twinkle, for Kendall waskeen about the details of a woman's dress. 

"She must, or I would have noticed. " Then, upon reflection, "or perhapsI wouldn't. "

"Well, good-night, Brace, and--give Mrs. John my love. Poor dear! shecame up to ask me yesterday if I could make a small room _look_spacious! You see, John likes to have everything cluttered--close to histouch. She wants him to have his way and at the same time she wants tobreathe, too. Her West is in her blood. "

"What are you going to do about it, Lyn?" Kendall lighted a cigar andlaughed. 

"Oh, I managed to give a prairie-like suggestion of openness to herliving-room plan and I told her to make John reach for a few things. Itwould do him good and save her soul alive. "

"And she--what did she say to that?"

"Oh, she laughed. She has such a pretty laugh. Good-night, brother. "

And then Lynda went upstairs to her quiet, dim room. It was a warmishnight, with a moon that shone through the open space in the rear. Thelot had not been built upon and the white path that had seemed to lureold William Truedale away from life now stretched before Lynda Kendall, leading into life. Whatever doubts and fears she had known were putaway. In her soft thin dress, standing by the open window, she was thegladdest creature one could wish to see. And so Truedale found her. Heknew that only one reason had caused Lynda to meet him as she was nowdoing. It was--surrender! Across the moon-lighted room he went to herwith opened arms, and when she came to meet him and lifted her face hekissed her reverently. 

"I wonder if you have thought?" he whispered. 

"I have done nothing else in the ages since I last saw you, Con. "

"And you are not--afraid? You, who should have the best the world has tooffer?"

"I am not afraid; and I--have the best--the very best. "

Again Truedale kissed her. 

"And when--may I come home--to stay?" he asked presently, knowing fullwell that the old home must be theirs. 

Lynda looked up and smiled radiantly. "I had hoped, " she said, "that Imight have the honour of declining the little apartment. I'm so glad, Con, dear, that you want to come home to stay and will not have tobe--forced here!" And at that moment Lynda had no thought of the money. Bigger, deeper things held her. 

"And--our wedding day, Lyn? Surely it may be soon. "

"Let me see. Of course I'm a woman, Con, and therefore I must think ofclothes. And I would like--oh! very much--to be married in a certainlittle church across the river. I found it once on a tramp. There arevines running wild over it--pink roses. And roses come in early June, Con. "

"But, dearest, this is only--March. "

"I must have--the roses, Con. "

And so it was decided. 

Late that night, in the stillness of the five little rooms of the bigapartment, Truedale thought of his past and his future. 

How splendid Lynda had been. Not a word of all that he had told her, andyet full well he realized how she had battled with it! She had acceptedit and him! And for such love and faith his life would be only tooshort to prove his learning of his hard lesson. The man he now wassternly confronted the man he had once been, and then Truedale renouncedthe former forever--renounced him with pity, not with scorn. His onlychance of being worthy of the love that had come into his life now, wasto look upon the past as a stepping stone. Unless it could be that, itwould be a bottomless pit. 

CHAPTER XVI

The roses came early that June. Truedale and Lynda went often on theirwalks to the little church nestling deep among the trees in the Jerseytown. They got acquainted with the old minister and finally they settheir wedding day. They, with Brace, went over early on the morning. Lynda was in her travelling gown for, after a luncheon, she and Truedalewere going to the New Hampshire mountains. It was such a day as revivedthe reputation of June, and somehow the minister, steeped in theconventions of his office, could not let things rest entirely in thehands of the very eccentric young people who had won his consent tomarry them. An organist, practising, stayed on, and always Lynda was torecall, when she thought of her wedding day, those tender notes thatrose and fell like a stream upon which the sacred words of the simpleservice floated. 

"The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden" was what the unseen musician played. He seemed detached, impersonal, and only the repeated strains gaveevidence of his sympathy. An old woman had wandered into the church andsat near the door with a rapt, wistful look on her wrinkled face. Nearthe altar was a little child, a tiny girl with a bunch of waysideflowers in her fat, moist hand. 

Lynda paused and whispered something to the little maid and then, as shewent forward, Truedale noticed that the child was beside Lynda, ashabby, wee maid of honour!

It was very quaint, very touchingly pretty, but the scene overawed thebaby and when the last words were said and Truedale had kissed his wifethey noticed that the little one was in tears. Lynda bent over her fullof tenderness. 

"What is it, dear?" she whispered. 

"I--I want--my mother!"

"So do I, sweetheart; so do I!"

The wet eyes were raised in wonder. 

"And where is your mother, baby?"

"Up--up--the hill!"

"Why, so is mine, but you will find yours--first. Don't cry, sweetheart. See, here is a little ring. It is too large for you now, but let yourmother keep it, and when you are big enough, wear it--and remember--me. "

Dazzled by the gift, the child smiled up radiantly. "Good-bye, " shewhispered, "I'll tell mother--and I won't forget. "

Later that same golden day, when Kendall bade his sister and Truedalegood-bye at the station he had the look on his face that he used to havewhen, as a child, he was wont to wonder why he had to be brave becausehe was a boy. 

It made Lynda laugh, even while a lump came in her throat. Then, as inthe old days, she sought to recompense him, without relenting as to thecode. 

"Of course you'll miss us, dear old fellow, but we'll soon be backand"--she put her lips to his ear and whispered--"there's the littlesister of the Morrells; play with her until we come home. "

There are times in life that stand forth as if specially designed, andcause one to wonder, if after all, a personal God isn't directingaffairs for the individual. They surely could not have just happened, those weeks in the mountains. So warm and still and cloudless they werefor early June. And then there was a moon for a little while--a calm, wonderful moon that sent its fair light through the tall trees like abenediction. After that there were stars--millions of them--each in itsplace surrounded by that blue-blackness that is luminous and unearthly. Securing a guide, Truedale and Lynda sought their own way and slept, atnight, in wayside shelters by their own campfires. They had no definitedestination; they simply wandered like pilgrims, taking the day's dolewith joyous hearts and going to their sleep at night with healthyweariness. 

Only once during those weeks did they speak of that past of Truedale'sthat Lynda had accepted in silence. 

"My wife, " Truedale said--she was sitting beside him by the outdoorfire--"I want you always to remember that I am more grateful than wordscan express for your--bigness, your wonderful understanding. I did notexpect that even you, Lyn, could be--so!"

She trembled a little--he remembered that afterward--he felt her againsthis shoulder. 

"I think--I know, " she whispered, "that women consider the _effect_ ofsuch--things, Con. Had the experience been low, it would have left itsmark; as it is I am sure--well, it has not darkened your vision. "

"No, Lyn, no!"

"And lately, I have been thinking of her, Con--that little Nella-Rose. "

"You--have? You _could_, Lyn?"

"Yes. At first I couldn't possibly comprehend--I do not now, really, butI find myself believing, in spite of my inability to understand, thatthe experience has cast such a light upon her way, poor child, that--offin some rude mountain home--she has a little fairer space than some. Con, knowing you, I believe you could not have--lowered her. She wentback to her natural love--it must have been a strong call--but I shallnever believe her depraved. "

"Lyn, " Truedale's voice was husky, "once you made me reconciled to myuncle's death--it was the way you put it--and now you have made me dareto be--happy. "

"Men never grow up!" Lynda pressed her face to his shoulder, "they makea bluff at caring for us and defending us and all the rest--but weunderstand, we understand! I think women mother men always even whenthey rely upon them most, as I do upon you! It's so splendid to think, when we go home, of the great things we are going to do--together. "

A letter from Brace, eventually, made them turn their faces homeward. Itwas late July then. 

 LYN, DEAR:

 When you can conveniently give me a thought, do. And when are you coming back? I hope I shall not shock you unduly--but it's that little sister of the Morrells that is the matter, Elizabeth Arnold--Betty we call her. I've got to marry her as soon as I can. I'll never be able to do any serious business again until I get her behind the coffee-urn. She haunts me day and night and then when I see her--she laughs at me! We've been over to look at that church where you and Con were married. Betty likes it, but prefers her own folk to stray old women and lost kids. We think September would be a jolly month to be married in, but Betty refuses to set a day until she finds out if she approves of my people! That's the way _she_ puts it. She says she wants to find out if you believe in women's voting, for if you don't, she knows she never could get on with you. She believes that the thing that makes women opposed, does other things to them--rather unpleasant, unfriendly things. 

 I told her your sentiments and then she asked about Con. She says she wouldn't trust the freest woman in the East if she were married to a slave-believing man. 

 By all this you will judge what a comical little cuss Betty is, but all the same I am quite serious in urging you to come home before I grow desperate. 

 BRACE. 

Truedale looked at Lynda in blank amazement. "I'd forgotten about thesister, " he said, inanely. 

"I think, dear, we'll _have_ to go home. I remember once when we werequite little, Brace and I, mother had taken me for a visit and left himat home. He sent a letter to mother--it was in printing--'You bettercome back, ' he said; 'You better come in three days or I'll dosomething. ' We got there on the fourth day and we found that he hadbroken the rocking chair in which mother used to put him to sleep whenhe was good!"

"The little rowdy!" Truedale laughed. "I hope he got a walloping. "

"No. Mother cried a little, had the chair mended, and always said shewas sorry that she had not got home on the third day. "

"I see. Well, Lyn, let's go home to him. I don't know what he mightbreak, but perhaps we couldn't mend it, so we'll take no chances. "

Truedale and Lynda had walked rather giddily upon the heights; thesplendour of stars and the warm touch of the sun had been very nearthem; but once they descended to the paths of plain duty they were notsurprised to find that they lay along a pleasant valley and were warmedby the brightness of the hills. 

"It's--home, now!" whispered Truedale as he let himself and Lynda in atthe front door, "I wish Uncle William were here to welcome us. How heloved you, Lyn. "

Like a flood of joy memory overcame Lynda. This was how William Truedalehad loved her--this luxury of home--and then she looked at Truedale andalmost told him of the money, the complete assurance of the old man'slove and trust. But of a sudden it became impossible, though why, Lyndacould not have said. She shrank from what she had once believed would beher crowning joy; she decided to leave the matter entirely with Dr. McPherson. 

After all, she concluded, it should be Con's right to bring to her thislast touching proof of his uncle's love and desire. How proud he wouldbe! How they would laugh over it all when they both knew the secret!

So the subject was not referred to and a day or so later Betty Arnoldentered their lives, and so intense was their interest in her and heraffairs that personal matters were, for the moment, overlooked. 

Lynda went first to call upon Betty alone. If she were to bedisappointed, she wanted time to readjust herself before she encounteredother eyes. Betty Arnold, too, was alone in her sister's drawing roomwhen Lynda was announced. The two girls looked long and searchingly ateach other, then Lynda put her hands out impulsively:

"It's really too good to be true!" was all she could manage as shelooked at the fair, slight girl and cast doubt off forever. 

"Isn't it?" echoed Betty. "Whew! but this is the sort of thing that agesone. "

"Would it have mattered, Betty, whether I was pleased or not?"

"Lynda, it would--awfully! You see, all my life I've been independentuntil I met Brace and now I want everything that belongs to him. Hislove and mine collided but it didn't shock us to blindness, it awakenedus--body and soul. When that happens, everything matters--everythingthat belongs to him and me. I knew you liked Mollie, and John is an oldfriend; they're all I've got, and so you see if you and I hadn't--likedeach other, it would have been--tragic. Now let's sit down and have tea. Isn't it great that we won't have to choke over it?"

Betty presided at the small table so daintily and graciously that heroccasional lapses into slang were like the dartings of a particularlyfrisky little animal from the beaten track of conventions. She and Lyndagrew confidential in a half hour and felt as if they had known eachother for years at the close of the call. Just as Lynda was reluctantlyleaving, Mrs. Morrell came in. She was darker, more dignified than hersister, but like her in voice and laugh. 

"Mollie, I wish I had told you to stay another hour, " Betty exclaimed, going to her sister and kissing her. "And oh! Mollie, Lynda likes me!I'll confess to you both now that I have lain awake nights dreading thisordeal. "

When Lynda met Brace that evening she was amused at his drawn face andtense voice. 

"How did you like her?" he asked feebly and at that moment Lyndarealized how futile a subterfuge would have been. 

"Brace, I love her!"

"Thank God!"

"Why, Brace!"

"I mean it. It would have gone hard with me if you hadn't. "

To Truedale, Betty presented another aspect. 

"You can trust women with your emotions about men, " she confided toLynda, "but not men! I wouldn't let Brace know for anything how my lovefor him hobbles me; and if your Con--by the way, he's a great deal nicerthan I expected--should guess my abject state, he'd go to Brace and--puthim wise! That's why men have got where they are to-day--standingtogether. And then Brace might begin at once to bully me. You see, Lynda, when a husband gets the upper hand it's often because he'sreinforced by all the knowledge his male friends hand out to him. "

Truedale met Betty first at the dinner--the little family dinner Lyndagave for her. Morrell and his wife. Brace and Betty, himself and Lynda. 

In a trailing blue gown Betty looked quite stately and she carried herblond head high. She sparkled away through dinner and proved her happyfaculty of fitting in, perfectly. It was a very merry meal, and later, by the library fire, Conning found himself tete-a-tete with his futuresister-in-law. She amused him hugely. 

"I declare, " he said teasingly, "I can hardly believe that you believein the equality of the sexes. " They were attacking that problem at themoment. 

"I--don't!" Betty looked quaintly demure. "I believe in the superiorityof men!"

"Good Lord!"

"I do. That's why I want all women to have the same chance that men havehad to get superior. I--I want my sisters to get there, too!"

"There? Just where?" Truedale began to think the girl frivolous; but hercharm held. 

"Why, where their qualifications best fit them to be. I'm going to tellyou a secret--I'm tremendously religious! I believe God knows, betterthan men, about women; I want--well, I don't want to seem flippant--buttruly I'd like to hear God speak for himself!"

Truedale smiled. "That's a common-sense argument, anyway, " he said. "ButI suppose we men are afraid to trust any one else; we don't wantto--lose you. "

"As if you could!" Betty held her small, white hand out to the doglying at her feet. "As if we didn't know, that whatever we don't want, we do want you. Why, you are our--job. "

Truedale threw his head back and laughed. "You're like a whiff of yourbig mountain air, " he said. 

"I hope I always will be, " Betty replied softly and earnestly, "I mustkeep--free, no matter what happens. I must keep what I am, or how can Iexpect to keep--Brace? He loved _this_ me. Marriage doesn't perform amiracle, does it--Conning? please let me call you that. Lynda has toldme how she and you believe in two lives, not one narrow little life. It's splendid. And now I am going to tell you another secret. I'll haveto let Lynda in on this, too, she must help me. I have a little money ofmy very own--I earned every cent of it. I am going to buy a tiny bit ofground, I've picked it out--it's across the river in the woods. I'mgoing to build a house, not much of a one, a very small one, and I'mgoing to call it--The Refuge. When I cannot find myself, when I getlost, after I'm married, and am trying to be everything to Brace, I'mgoing to run away to--The Refuge!" The blue eyes were shining "Andnobody can come there, not even Brace, except by invitation. Ithink"--very softly--"I think all women should have a--a Refuge. "

Truedale found himself impressed. "You're a very wise little woman, " hesaid. 

"One has to be, sometimes, " came the slow words. And at that moment alldoubt of Betty's serious-mindedness departed. 

Brace joined them presently. He looked as if he had been straining at aleash since dinner time. 

"Con, " he said, laying his hand on the light head bending over the dog, "now that you have talked and laughed with Betty, what have you got tosay?"

"Congratulations, Ken, with all my heart. "

"And now, Betty"--there was a new tone in Kendall's voice--"Mollie hassaid you may walk back with me. The taxi would stifle us. There's amoon, dear, and a star or two--"

"As if that mattered!" Betty broke in. "I'm very, very happy. Brace, you've got a nice, sensible family. They agree with me in everything. "

The weeks passed rapidly. Betty's affairs absorbed them all, though shelaughingly urged them to leave her alone. 

"It's quite awful enough to feel yourself being carried along by adeluge, " she jokingly said, "without hearing the cheers from the banks. "

But Mollie Morrell flung herself heart and soul into the arranging ofthe wardrobe--playing big sister for the first and only time in herlife. She was older than Betty, but the younger girl had always swayedthe elder. 

And Lynda became fascinated with the little bungalow across the river, known as The Refuge. 

The original fancy touched her imagination and she put other work asidewhile she vied with Betty for expression. 

"I've found an old man and woman, near by, " Betty said one day, "theywere afraid they would have to go to the poor-house, although both areable to do a little. I'm going to put them in my bungalow--the twolittle upstair rooms shall be theirs. When I run down to find myself itwill be homey to see the two shining, old faces there to greet me. Theyare not a bit cringing; I think they know how much they will mean to me. They consider me rather immoral, I know, but that doesn't matter. "

And then in early October Brace and Betty were married in the churchacross the river. Red and gold autumn leaves were falling where earlierthe roses had clambered; it was a brisk, cool day full of sun and shadeand the wedding was more to the old clergyman's taste. The organist wasin his place, his music discriminately chosen, there were guests andflowers and discreet costumes. 

"More as it should be, " thought the serene pastor; but Lynda missed thekindly old woman who had drifted in on her wedding day, and the small, tearful girl who had wanted her mother. 

CHAPTER XVII

There are spaces in all lives that seem so surrounded by safety andestablished conditions that one cannot conceive of change. Thoseparticular spots may know light and shade of passing events but it seemsthat they cannot, of themselves, be affected. So Truedale and Lynda hadconsidered their lives at that period. They were supremely happy, theywere gloriously busy--and that meant that they both recognizedlimitations. They took each day as it came and let it go at the end witha half-conscious knowledge that it had been too short. 

Then one late October afternoon Truedale tapped on the door of Lynda'sworkshop and to her cheery "come, " entered, closed the door after him, and sat down. He was very white and sternly serious. Lynda looked at himquestioningly but did not speak. 

"I've seen Dr. McPherson, " Conning said presently, "he sent for me. He'sbeen away, you know. "

"I had not known--but--" Then Lynda remembered!

"Lynda, did you know--of my uncle's--will before his death?"

"Why, yes, Con. "

Something cold and death-like clutched Lynda's heart. It was as if anicy wave had swept warmth and safety before it, leaving her aghast andafraid. 

"Yes, I knew. "

"Will you tell me--I could not go into this with McPherson, somehow; hedidn't see it my way, naturally--will you tell me what would have becomeof the--the fortune had I not married you?"

The deathly whiteness of Lynda's face did not stay Truedale's hardwords; he was not thinking of her--even of himself; he was thinking ofthe irony of fate in the broad sense. 

"The money would have--come to me. " Then, as if to divert any furthermisunderstanding. "And when I refused it--it would have reverted tocharities. "

"I see. And you did this for me, Lyn! How little even you understood. Now that I have the cursed money I do not know what to do with it--howto get rid of it. Still it was like you, Lynda, to sacrifice yourself inorder that I might have what you thought was my due. You always didthat, from girlhood. I might have known no other woman could have donewhat you have done, no such woman as you, Lyn, without a mighty motive;but you did not know me, really!"

And now, looking at Lynda, it was like looking at a dead face--a facefrom which warmth and light had been stricken. 

"I--do not know what you--mean, Con, " she said, vaguely. 

"Being you, Lyn, you couldn't have taken the money, yourself, particularly if you had declined to marry me. A lesser woman would havedone it without a qualm, feeling justified in outwitting so cruel athing as the bequest; but not you! You saw no other way, so you--youwith your high ideals and clear beliefs--you married the man I am--inorder to--to give me--my own. Oh, Lyn, what a sacrifice!"

"Stop!" Lynda rose from her chair and, by a wide gesture, swept themarks of her trade far from her. In so doing she seemed to make space tobreathe and think. 

"Do you think I am the sort of girl who would sell herself foranything--even for the justice I might think was yours?"

"Sell yourself? Thank God, between us, Lynda, that does not enter in. "

"It would have, were I the woman your words imply. I had nothing to gainby marrying you, nothing! Nothing--that is--but--but--what you areunable to see. " And then, so suddenly that Truedale could not stop her, Lynda almost ran from the room. 

For an hour Truedale sat in her empty shop and waited. He dared not seekher and he realized, at last, that she was not coming back to him. Hisframe of mind was so abject and personal that he could not get Lynda'spoint of view. He could not, as yet, see the insult he had offered, because he had set her so high and himself so low. He saw her only asthe girl and woman who, her life through, had put herself aside andconsidered others. He saw himself in the light such a woman as hebelieved Lynda to be would regard him. He might have known, he bitterlyacknowledged, that Lynda could not have overlooked in her pure womansoul the lapse of his earlier life. He remembered how, that night of hisconfession, she had begged to be alone--to think! Later, hersilence--oh! he understood it now. It was her only safeguard. And thatonce, in the woods, when he had blindly believed in his great joy--howshe had solemnly made the best of the experience that was too deep inboth hearts to be resurrected. What a fool he had been to dream that sowrong a step as he had once taken could lead him to perfect peace. Thinking these thoughts, how could he, as yet, comprehend the wrong hewas doing Lynda? Why, he was grieving over her, almost breaking hisheart in his desire to do something--anything--to free her from theresults of her useless sacrifice. 

At six o'clock Truedale went downstairs, but the house was empty. Lyndahad gone, taking all sense of home with her. He did not wait to see whatthe dinner hour might bring about; he could not trust himself justthen. Indeed--having blasted every familiar landmark--he was utterly andhopelessly lost. He couldn't imagine how he was ever to find his wayback to Lynda, and yet they would have to meet--have to consider. 

Lynda, after leaving her workshop, had only one desire--she wanted Bettymore than she wanted anything else. She put on her hat and coat andstarted headlong for her brother's apartment farther uptown. She feltshe must get there before Brace arrived and lay her trouble before theastoundingly clear, unfaltering mind and heart of the little woman who, so short a time ago, had come into their lives. But after a few blocks, Lynda's steps halted. If this were just her own trouble--but whattrouble is just one's own?--she need not hesitate; but how could shereveal what was deepest and most unfailing in her soul to any livingperson--even to Betty of the unhesitating vision?

Presently Lynda retraced her steps. The calm autumn night soothed andprotected her. She looked up at the stars and thought of the old words:"Why so hot, little man, why so hot?" Why, indeed? And then in the stilldimness--for she had turned into the side streets--she let Truedale comeinto her thoughts to the exclusion, for the moment, of her own bitterwrong. She looked back at his strange, lonely boyhood with so little init that could cause him to view justly his uncle's last deed. Sheremembered his pride and struggle--his reserve and almost abnormalsensitiveness. Then--the experience in the mountain! How terribly deepthat had sunk into Truedale's life; how unable he had been to see in itany wrong but his own. Lynda had always honoured him for that. It hadmade it possible for her to trust him absolutely. She had respected hisfine position and had never blurred it by showing him how she, as awoman, could see the erring on the woman's part. No, she had leftNella-Rose to him as his high-minded chivalry had preserved her--she haddared do all that because she felt so secure in the love and sincerityof the present. 

"And now--what?"

The bitterness was past. The shock had left her a bit weak and helplessbut she no longer thought of the human need of Betty. She went home andsat down before the fire in the library and waited for light. At teno'clock she came to a conclusion. Truedale must decide this thing forhimself! It was, after all, his great opportunity. She could not, withhonour and self-respect, throw herself upon him and so complicate themisunderstanding. If her life with him since June had not convinced himof her simple love and faith--her words, now, could not. He must seekher--must realize everything. And in this decision Lynda left herself sostranded and desolate that she looked up with wet eyes and saw--WilliamTruedale's empty chair! A great longing for her old friend rose in herbreast--a longing that not even death had taken from her. The clockstruck the half-hour and Lynda got up and with no faltering went towardthe bedroom door behind which the old man had started forth on hisjourney to find peace. 

And just as she went, with blinded eyes and aching heart, to shutherself away from the dreariness of the present, Truedale entered thehouse and, from the hall, watched her. He believed that she had heardhim enter, he hoped she was going to turn toward him--but no! she wentstraight to the never-used room, shut the door, and--locked it!

Truedale stood rooted to the spot. What he had hoped--what trusted--hecould hardly have told. But manlike he was the true conservative andwith the turning of that key his traditions and established positioncrumbled around him. 

Lynda and he were married and, unless they decided upon an open break, they must live their lives. But the turning of the key seemed toproclaim to the whole city a new dispensation. A declaration ofindependence that spurned--tradition. 

For a moment Truedale was angry, unsettled, and outraged. He strode intothe room with stern eyes; he walked half way to the closed--andlocked--door; he gazed upon it as if it were a tangible foe which hemight overcome and, by so doing, reestablish the old ideals. Then--andit was the saving grace--Truedale smiled grimly. "To be sure, " hemuttered. "Of course!" and turned to his room under the eaves. 

But the following day had to be faced. There were several things thathad to be dealt with besides the condition arising from the locking ofthe door of William Truedale's room. 

Conning battled with this fact nearly all night, little realizing thatLynda was feeling her way to the same conclusion in the quiet roombelow. 

"I'm not beaten, Uncle William, " she whispered, kneeling beside the bed. "If I could only see how to meet to-morrow I would be all right. "

And then a queer sort of comfort came to her. The humour with which herold friend would have viewed the situation pervaded the room, bringingstrength with it. 

"I know, " she confided to the darkness in which the old man seemedpresent, in a marvellously real way, "I know I love Conning. Amake-believe love couldn't stand this--but the true thing can. And heloves _me!_ I know it through and through. The other love of hiswasn't--what this is. But he must find this out for himself. I've alwaysbeen close when he needed me; he must come to me now--for his sake evenmore than for mine. I am deserving of that, am I not, Uncle William?"

The understanding friendship did not fail the girl kneeling by the emptybed. It seemed to come through the rays of moonlight and rest like ahelpful touch upon her. 

"Little mother!"--and in her soul Lynda believed William Truedale andher mother had come together--"little mother, you did your best withoutlove; I will do mine--with it! And now I am going to bed and I am goingto sleep. "

The next morning Truedale and Lynda were both so precipitate aboutattacking the situation that they nearly ran into each other at thedining-room door. They both had the grace to laugh. Then they talked ofthe work at hand for the morning. 

"I have a studio to evolve, " Lynda said, passing a slice of toast toTruedale from the electric contrivance before her, "a woman wants astudio, she feels it will be an inspiration. She's a nice little societywoman who is bored to death. She's written an article or two for afashion paper and she believes she has discovered herself. I wish I knewwhat to put in the place. She'd scorn the real thing and I hate tocompromise when it comes to such things. And you, Con, what have youthat must be done?"

Truedale looked at her earnestly. "I must meet the lawyer andMcPherson, " he said, "but may I come--for a talk, Lyn, afterward?"

"I shall be in my workshop all day, Con, until dinner time to-night. "

The day was a hard one for them both, but womanlike Lynda accepted itand came to its close with less show of wear and tear than didTruedale. She was restless and nervous. She worked conscientiously untilthree and accomplished something in the difficult task the society womanhad entrusted her with; then she went to her bedroom and, removing everysign of her craft, donned a pretty house dress and went back to hershop. She meant to give Truedale every legitimate assistance, but shewas never prouder or firmer in her life. She called the dogs and thecats in; she set the small tea table by the hearth and lighted just fireenough to take the chill from the room and yet leave it sweet and fresh. 

At five there was a tap on the door. 

"Just in time, Con, for the tea, " she called and welcomed him in. 

To find her so calm, cheerful, and lovely, was something of a shock toTruedale. Had she been in tears, or, had she shown any trace of thesuffering he had endured, he would have taken her in his arms andrelegated the unfortunate money to the scrap-heap of non-essentials. Butthe scene upon which he entered had the effect of chilling him andbringing back the displeasing thought of Lynda's sacrifice. 

"Have you had a hard day, Con?"

"Yes. "

"Drink the tea, and--let me see, you like bread and butter, don't you, instead of cakes?"

They were silent for a moment while they sipped the hot tea. Then, raising their eyes, they looked suddenly at each other. 

"Lyn, I cannot do without you!"

She coloured deeply. She knew he did not mean to be selfish--but he was. 

"You would be willing even to--accept my sacrifice?" she asked so softlythat he did not note the yearning in the tones--the beseeching of him toabdicate the position that, for her, was untenable. 

"Anything--anything, Lynda. The day without you has been--hell. We'llget rid of the money somehow. Now that we both know how little it means, we'll begin again and--free from Uncle William's wrong conceptions--Lyn--"He put his cup down and rose quickly. 

"Wait!" she whispered, shrinking back into her low armchair and holdinghim off by her smile of detachment more than by her word of command. 

"I--I cannot face life without you, " Truedale spoke hoarsely, "I neverreally had to contemplate it before. I need you--must have you. "

He came a step nearer, but Lynda shook her head. 

"Something has happened to us, Con. Something rather tremendous. We mustnot bungle. "

"One thing looms high. Only one, Lyn. "

"Many things do, Con. They have been crowding thick around me all day. There are worse things than losing each other!"

"No!" Truedale denied, vehemently. 

"Yes. We could lose ourselves! This thing that makes you fling asidewhat went before, this thing that makes me long--oh! how I long, Con--tocome to you and forget, this thing--what is it? It is the holiest thingwe know, and unless we guard it sacredly we shall hurt and kill it andthen, by and by, Con, we shall look at each other with frightenedeyes--over a dead, dead love. "

"Lynda, how--can you? How dare you say these things when youconfess--Oh! my--wife!"

"Because"--and she seemed withdrawing from Truedale as headvanced--"because I have confessed! You and I, Con, have reachedto-day, by different routes, the most important and vital problem. Allmy life I have been pushing doors open as I came along. Sometimes I haveonly peered in and hurried on; sometimes I have stayed and learned alesson. It will always be so with me. I must know. I think you arewilling not to know unless you are forced. "

Truedale winced and went back slowly to his chair. 

"Con, dear, unless you wish it otherwise, I want, as far as possible, tobegin from to-day and find out just how much we do mean to each other. Let us push open the doors ahead until we make sure we both want thesame abiding place. Should you find a spot better, safer for you thanthis that we thought we knew, I will never hold you by a look or word, dear. "

"And you--Lyn?" Truedale's voice shook. 

"For myself I ask the same privilege. "

"You mean that we--live together, yet apart?"

"Unless you will it otherwise, dear. In that case, we will close thisdoor and say--good-bye, now. "

Her strength, her tenderness, unmanned Truedale. Again he felt that callupon him which she had inspired the night of his confession. Again herallied to defend her--from her own pitiless sense of honour. 

"By heaven!" he cried. "It shall not be good-bye. I will accept yourterms, live up to them, and dare the future. "

"Good, old Con! And now, please, dear, go. I think--I think I am goingto cry--a little and"--she looked up quiveringly--"I mustn't have redeyes at dinner time. Brace and Betty are coming. Thank heaven, Con, Betty will make us laugh. "

CHAPTER XVIII

Having agreed upon this period of probation both Lynda and Truedaleentered upon it with characteristic determination. There were times whenConning dejectedly believed that no woman could act as Lynda was doing, if she loved a man. No, it was not in woman's power to forego all Lyndawas foregoing if she loved deeply. Not that Lynda could be said to becold or indifferent; she had never been sweeter, truer; but she was soamazingly serene!

Perhaps she was content, having secured his rights for him, to go on andbe thankful that so little was actually exacted from her. 

But such reasoning eventually shamed Truedale, and he acknowledged thatthere was something superb in a woman who, while still loving a man, wasable to withhold herself from him until both he and she had sounded thedepths of their natures. 

In this state of mind Truedale devoted himself to business, and Lynda, with a fresh power that surprised even herself, resumed her own tasks. 

"And this is _love_, " she often thought to herself, "it is the realthing. Some women think they have love when _love has them_. Thisbeautiful, tangible something that is making even these days sacred hasproved itself. I can rely upon it--lean heavily upon it. "

Sometimes she wondered what she was waiting for. Often she feared, inher sad moments, that it might last forever--be accepted this poorcounterfeit for the real--and the full glory escape her and Truedale. 

But at her best she knew what she was waiting for--what was coming. Itwas something that, driving all else away, would carry her and Conningtogether without reservations or doubts. They would _know!_ He wouldknow the master passion of his life; she, that she could count all lostunless she made his life complete and so crown her own. 

The money was never mentioned. In good and safe investments it lay, awaiting a day, so Truedale told McPherson, when it could be got rid ofwithout dishonour or disgrace. 

"But, good heavens! haven't you any personal ambitions--you and Lynda?"McPherson had learned to admire Conning, and Lynda had always been oneof his private inspirations. 

"None that Lynda and I cannot supply ourselves, " Truedale replied. "Tohave our work, and the necessity for our work, taken from us would be noadvantage. "

"But haven't you a duty to the money?"

"Yes, we have, and I'm trying to find out just what it is. "

And living this strange, abnormal life--often wondering why, andfearing much--three, then four years, passed them by. 

It is one thing for two proud, sensitive natures to enter upon adeliberate course, and quite another for them to abandon it when thesupposed need is past. There was now no doubt in Truedale's heartconcerning Lynda's motive for marrying him; nor did Lynda for one momentquestion Truedale's deep affection for her. Yet they waited--quitesubconsciously at first, then with tragic stubbornness--for something tosweep obstacles aside without either surrendering his position. 

"He must want me so that nothing can sway him again, " thought Lynda. 

"She must know that my love for her can endure anything--even this!"argued Conning, and his stand was better taken than hers as she was tofind out one day. 

It seemed enough, in the beginning, to live their lives close andconfidentially--to feel the tie of dependence that held them; but theknot cut in deep at times and they suffered in foolish but proudsilence. 

Many things occurred during those years that widened the horizon forthem all. Betty's first child came and went, almost taking the life ofthe young mother with it. Before the possible calamity Brace stoodappalled, and both Conning and Lynda realized how true a note the girlwas in their lives. She seemed to belong to them in a sense strongerthan blood could have made her. They could not imagine life without hersunny companionship. Never were they to forget the grim dreariness ofthe once cheerful apartment during those days and nights when Deathhovered near, weighing the chances. But Betty recovered and came backwith a yearning look in her eyes that had never been there before. 

"You see, " she confided to Lynda, "there will always be moments when Imust listen to hear if my baby is calling. At times, Lyn, it seems as ifhe were just on ahead--keeping me from forgetting. It doesn't make mesad, dear, it's really beautiful that he didn't quite escape me. "

"And do you go to The Refuge to think and look and listen?" Lynda asked. For they all worried now when Betty betook herself to the little house. 

"Not much!" And here Betty twinkled. "I go there to meet Betty Arnoldface to face, and ask her if she would rather trade back. And then Icome trotting home, almost out of breath, to precious old Brace; I'm soafraid he won't know he's still the one big thing in the world for me. "

This little child of Betty's and Brace's had made a deep impression uponthem all. It had lived only three days and while it stayed the blackshadow hanging over the mother had made the baby seem of less account;but later, they all recalled the pretty, soft mite with the strange, old look in its wide eyes. He had been beautiful as babies who are notgoing to stay often are. There were to be no years for him to change andgrow and so loveliness came with him. 

"I reckon the little chap thought we didn't want him, " Brace choked ashe spoke over the small, cold body of his first-born, "so he turned backhome before he forgot the way. "

"Don't, brother!" Lynda pleaded as she stood with Truedale beside him. "You know the way home might have been longer and harder, by and by. "

"I wish Betty and I might have helped to make it easier; for a time, anyway. " The eternal revolt against seemingly useless suffering rang inthe words. 

And that night Truedale had kissed Lynda lingeringly. 

"Such things, " he said, referring to the day's sad duties, "such thingsdo drag people together. "

After that something new throbbed in their lives--something that had notheld sway before. If Betty looked and listened for the little creaturewho had gone on ahead, Lynda listened and looked into what had been avoid in her life before. 

She had always loved children in a kindly, detached way, but she hadnever appropriated them. But now she could not forget the feeling ofthat small, downy head that for a day or so nestled on her breast whilethe young mother's feet all but slipped over the brink. She rememberedthe strange look in the child's deep eyes the night it died. Thelonely, aged look that, in passing, seemed trying to fix one familiarobject. And when the dim light went out in the little face and only adead baby lay in her arms, maternity had been called forth from itsslumber and in following Betty's child, became vitalized and definite. 

"I--I think I shall adopt a child. " So she had thought while the coldlittle head yet lay in the hollow of her arm. She never let go thisthought and only hesitated before voicing it to Truedale because shefeared he could not understand and might cruelly misunderstand. Life washard enough and difficult enough for them both just then, and often, coming into the quiet home at the day's end, Lynda would say, to cheerher faint heart:

"Oh, well, it's really like coming to a hearth upon which the fire isnot yet kindled. But, thank heaven! it is a clean hearth, not clutteredwith ashes--it is ready for the fire. "

But was it? More and more as the time went on and Truedale kept hisfaith and walked his way near hers--oh! they were thankful for that--butstill apart, Lynda wondered. It was all so futile, so utterly selfishand childish--yet neither spoke. Then suddenly came the big thing thatdrove them together and swept aside all the barrier of rubbish they haderected. Like many great and portentous things it seemed very like thestill, small voice in the burning bush--the tiny star in the blacknight. 

Truedale had had an enlightening conversation with McPherson in theafternoon. The old doctor was really a soft-hearted sentimentalist andoccasionally he laid himself bare to the eye of some trustworthy friend. This time it was Truedale. 

Up and down the plain, businesslike office McPherson was tramping whenConning was announced. 

"Oh! come in, come in!" called McPherson. "You can better understandthis than some. I've had a devil of a day. One confounded thing afteranother to take the soul out of me. And now this letter from old JimWhite!"

Conning started. It had now been years since Pine Cone had touched histhought sharply. 

"What's the matter with White?" he asked. 

"Look out of the window!"

Truedale did so, and into the wall-like snow which had been falling allday. 

"They've been having that in the mountains for weeks. Trails blottedout, folk hiding like beasts, and that good old chap, White, took thistime to break his leg. There he lay for a whole week, damn it all! Twoof his dogs died--he, himself, almost starved. Managed to crawl to thefood while there was any, and then some one ploughed through to get Jimto organize a hanging or some other trifling thing, and found him! GoodLord, Truedale, what they need down there is roads! roads! Roads overwhich folk can travel to one another and become human. That's all theworld needs anyway!" Here McPherson stopped in front of Truedale andglared as if about to put the blame of impeded traffic up to him. "Roadsover which folk can travel to one another. See here, you're looking forsome excuse to get rid of your damned money. Why don't you build roads?"

"Roads?" Truedale did not know whether to laugh or take his manseriously. 

"Yes, roads. I'm going down to Jim. I haven't much money; I've made agood deal, but somehow I never seem able to be caught with the goods onme. But what little I've got now goes to Jim for the purpose of forginga connecting link between him and the Centre. But here's a job for you. You can grasp this need. I've got a boy in the hospital; he caved infrom over-study. Trying to get an education while starving himself todeath and doing without underclothes. You ought to know how to hew ashort cut to him, Truedale; you did some hacking through underbrushyourself. If I didn't believe folk would travel to one another overroads, if there _were_ roads, I'd go out and cut my throat. "

The big man, troubled and as full of sympathy as a tender woman, pausedin his strides and ejaculated:

"Damn it all, Truedale!" Had he been a woman he would have dissolved intears. 

Truedale at last caught his meaning. Here was a possible chance to setthe accumulating money free. For two hours, while the sun travelled downto the west, the men talked over plans and projects. 

"Of course I'll look after the boy in the hospital, Dr. McPherson. Iknow the short cut to him and he probably can lead me to others, but Iwant"--and here Truedale's eyes grew gloomy--"I want you to take withyou down to Pine Cone some checks signed in blank. I know the need ofroads down there, " did he not? and for an instant his brows grewfurrowed as he reflected how different his own life might have been, hadtravelling been easy, back in the time when he was at the mercy of thestorm. 

"I'd like to do something for Pine Cone. Make the roads, of course, butback up those men and women who are doing God's work down there withlittle help or money. They know the people--Jim has explained them tome. They're not 'extry polite, ' Jim says, but they understand the needs. I don't care to have my name known--I'm rather poor stuff for aphilanthropist--but I want to do something as a starter, and this seemsan inspiration. "

McPherson had been listening, and gradually his long strides became lessnervous. 

"Until to-day, I haven't wished your uncle back, Truedale, since hewent. He was a poor, inarticulate fellow, but I've learned to realizethat he had a wide vision. "

"Thank you, Dr. McPherson, but I have often wished him back. "

Once outside McPherson's house, Truedale raised his head and sniffed theclear, winter air with keen enjoyment. A sense of achievement possessedhim; the joy of feeling he had solved a knotty problem. He found hecould think of Pine Cone--and, yes, of Nella-Rose--without a hurtingsmart. He was going to do something for her--for her people! He wasgoing to make life easier--happier--for them, so he prayed in hissilent, wordless way. He had a new and strange impulse to go to Lyndaand tell her that at last he was released from any hold of the past. Hewas going to do what he could and there was no longer any dragging ofthe anchors. He wanted her to help him--to work out some questions fromthe woman's point of view. So he hurried on and entered the house with alight, boyish step. 

Thomas, bent but stately, was laying the table in the cheerful diningroom. There were flowers in a deep green bowl, pale golden asters. 

Long afterward Truedale recalled everything as if it had been burned inhis mind. 

"Is Miss Lynda in?" he asked, for they all clung to the titles of theold days. 

"Not yet, Mister Con. She went out in a deal of a hurry long aboutthree o'clock. She didn't say a word--and that's agin her pleasantfashion--so I took it that she had business that fretted her. She's beenin the workshop all day. " Thomas put the plates in place. They werewhite china, with delicate gold edges. "Hum! hum! Mister Con, your uncleused to say, when he felt talkative, that Miss Lynda ought to have someone to hold her back when she took to running. "

"I'll look her up, Thomas!"

Conning went up to the workshop and turned on the electricity. Adesolate sensation overcame the exhilaration of the afternoon. Lyndaseemed strangely, ominously distant--as if she had gone upon a long, long journey. 

There was a dying fire on the hearth and the room was in order exceptfor the wide table upon which still lay the work Lynda had been engagedwith before she left the house. 

Truedale sat down before it and gradually became absorbed, while notreally taking in the meaning of what he saw. He had often studied andappreciated Lynda's original way of solving her problems. It was notenough for her to place upon paper the designs her trained talentevolved; she always, as she put it, lived in the rooms she conceived. Here were real furniture--diminutive, but perfect, and realhangings--colour and form ideal, and arranged so that they could beshifted in order that light effects might be tested. 

It was no wonder Truedale had often remarked that Lynda's work was soindividual and personal--she breathed the breath of life in it beforeshe let it go from her. Truedale had always been thankful that marriagehad not taken from Lynda her joy in her profession. He would have hatedto know that he interfered with so real and vital a gift. 

But this room upon which he was now looking was different from anythinghe had ever before seen in the workshop. It interested and puzzled him. 

Lynda's specialties were libraries and living rooms; there were two orthree things she never attempted--and this? Truedale looked closer. Howpretty it was--like a child's playroom--and how fanciful! There was afireplace off in a corner, before which stood a screen with a mostbenign goblin warning away, with spread claws, any heedless, toddlingfeet. The broad window-seats might serve as boxes for childish treasure. There were delectable, wee chairs and conveniently low stools; there wasa tiny bed set in a dim corner over which, on a protecting shield, angels with folded wings and rapt faces were outlined. 

"Why, this must be a--nursery!" Truedale exclaimed half aloud; "and shesaid she would never design one. "

Clearly he recalled Lynda's reason. "If a father and a mother cannotconceive and carry out the needs of a nursery, they do not deserve one. I could never bring myself to intrude there. "

"What does this mean?" Truedale bent closer. The table had been paintedwhite to serve as a floor for the dainty setting, and now, as he lookedhe saw stains--dark, tell-tale stains on the shining surface. 

They were tear-stains; Lynda, who so joyously put her heart and soul inthe ideals for other homes, had wept over the nursery of another woman'schild!

For some reason Truedale was that day particularly open to impression. As he sat with the toy-like emblems before him, the holiest andstrongest things of life seized upon him with terrific meaning. He drewout his watch and saw that it was the dinner hour and the still houseproved that the mistress was yet absent. 

"There is only one person to whom she would go, " he murmured. "I'll goto Betty's and bring Lynda home. "

He made an explanation to Thomas that covered the situation. 

"I found what the trouble was, Thomas, " he said. "It will be all rightwhen we get back. But don't keep dinner. "

He took a cab to Brace's. He was too distraught to put himself onexhibition in a public conveyance. Brace sat in lonely but apparentlycontented state at the head of his table. 

"Bully for you, old man, " he greeted. "You were never more welcome. I'llhave a plate put on for you at once. What's the matter? You look--"

"Ken, where's Betty?"

"Run away to herself, Con. Went yesterday. Goes less and less often, butshe cut yesterday. "

"Has--has Lynda been here to-day?"

"Yes. About three. When she found Betty gone, she wouldn't stay. Sitdown, old man. You'll learn, as I have, to appreciate Lyn more if sheisn't always where we men have thought women ought to be. "

Truedale sat down opposite Kendall but said he would take only a cup ofcoffee. When it was finished he rose, more steadily, and said quietly:

"I know it's unwritten law, Ken, that we shouldn't follow Betty upwithout an invitation; but I've got to go over there to-night. "

"It's dangerous, old man. I advise against it. What's up?"

"I must see Lyn. I believe she is there. "

"Rather a large-sized misunderstanding?"

"I hope, Ken, God helping me, it's going to be the biggest_understanding_ Lynda and I have ever had. "

Kendall was impressed--and, consequently, silent. 

"I'm sure Betty will forgive me. Good-night. "

"Good-night, old chap, and--and whatever it is, I fancy it will come outall right. "

And then, into the night Truedale plunged--determined to master theabsurd situation that both he and Lynda had permitted to exist. He feltlike a man who had been suffering in a nightmare and had just awakenedand shaken off the effect of the unholy dream. 

CHAPTER XIX

Lynda, that winter day, had undertaken her task with unwonted energy. She had never done a similar piece of work before. In her earlybeginning she had rather despised the inadequacy of women who, no matterwhat might be said in defense of their ignorance regarding the rest oftheir homes, did not know how to design and plan their own nurseries. Later she had eliminated designing of this kind because so few asked forit, and it did not pay to put much time on study in preparation for therare occasions when nurseries were included in the orders. But this wasan exception. A woman who had lost three children was expecting thefourth, and she had come to Lynda with a touching appeal. 

"You helped make a home of my house, Mrs. Truedale, but I always managedthe nursery--myself before; now I cannot. I want you to put joy andwelcome in it for me. If I were to undertake it I should fail miserably, and evolve only gloom and fear. It will be different--afterward. But youunderstand and--you will?"

Lynda had understood and had set herself to her work with the new, happyinsight that Betty's little baby had made possible. It had all gonewell until the "sleeping corner" was reached, and then--somethinghappened. A memory of one of Betty's confessions started it. "Lyn, " shehad said, just before her baby came, "I kneel by this small, waitingcrib and pray--as only mothers know how to pray--and God teaches themafresh every time! I do so want to be worthy of the confidence of--God. "

"And I--am never to know!" Lynda bowed her head. "I with my love--withmy desire to hear God speak--am never to hear. Why?"

Then it was that Lynda wept. Wept first from a desolate sense of defeat;then--and God sometimes speaks to women kneeling beside the beds ofchildren not their own--she raised her head and trembled at the flood ofjoy that overcame her. It was like a mirage, seen in another woman'sworld, of her own blessed heritage. 

Filled with this vision she had fled to Betty's, only to find that Bettyhad fled on her own account!

There was no moment of indecision; welcome or not, Lynda had to reachBetty--and at once!

She had tarried, after setting her face to the river. She even stoppedat a quiet little tea room and ate a light meal. Then she waited untilthe throng of business men had crossed the ferry to their homes. It wasquite dark when she reached the wooded spot where, hidden deep among thetrees, was Betty's retreat. 

There was a light in the house--the living room faced the path--andthrough the uncurtained window Lynda saw Betty sitting before the firewith her little dog upon her lap. 

"Oh, Betty, " she whispered, stretching her arms out to the lonely littlefigure in the low, deep chair. "Betty! Betty!" She waited a moment, thenshe tapped lightly upon the glass. The dog sprang to the floor, itssharp ears twitching, but he did not bark. Betty came to the door andstood in the warm, lighted space with arms extended. She knew no fear, there was only doubt upon her face. 

"Lyn, is it you?"

"Yes! How did you guess?"

"All day I've been thinking about you--wanting you. Sometimes I canbring people that way. "

"And I have wanted you! Betty, may I stay--to-night?"

"Why, yes, dear. Stay until you want to go home. I've been pullingmyself together; I'm almost ready to go back to Brace. Come in!Why--what is it, dear? Come, let me take off your things! There! Now lieback in the chair and tell Betty all about it. "

"No, no! Betty, I want to sit so--at your feet. I want to learn all thatyou can teach me. You have never had your eyes blinded--or you wouldknow how the light hurts. "

"Well, then. Put your blessed, tired head on my knee. You're my littlegirl to-night, Lyn, and I am your--mother. "

For a moment Lynda cried as a child might who had reached safety atlast. Betty did not check or soothe the heavy sobs--she waited. She knewLynda was saved from whatever had troubled her. It was only the tellingof it now. And presently the dark head was lifted. 

"Betty, it is Con and I!"

"Yes, dear. "

"I've loved him all my life; and I believe--I _know_--he loved me! Womendo not make mistakes about the real thing. "

"Never, Lyn, never. "

"Betty, once when I thought Con had wronged me, I wanted to come toyou--I almost did--but I couldn't then! Now that I am sure I havewronged him, it is easy to come to you--you are so understanding!" Theradiance of Lynda's face rather startled Betty. Abandon, relief, glorified it until it seemed a new--a far more beautiful face. 

"All my life, Betty, I've been controlling myself--conquering myself. Igot started that way and--and I've kept on. I've never done anythingwithout considering and weighing; but now I'm going to fling myself intolove and life and--pay whatever there is to pay. "

"Why, Lyn, dear, please go slower. " Betty pressed her face to the headat her knee. 

"Betty, there was another love in Con's life--one that should neverhave been there. "

This almost took Betty's breath. She was thankful Lynda's eyes wereturned away; but by some strange magic the words raised Truedale inBetty's very human imagination. 

"I sometimes think the--the thing that happened--was the working out ofan old inheritance; Con has overcome much, but that caught him in itssnare. He was ready to let it ruin his whole future. He would never haveflinched--never have known, or admitted if he had known--what he hadforegone. But the thing was taken out of his control altogether--thegirl married another man!

"When Con came to himself again, he told me, Betty--told me so simply, so tragically, that I saw what a deep cut the experience had made in hislife--how it had humbled him. Never once did he blame any one else. Iloved him for the way he looked upon it; so many men could not have doneso. That made the difference with me. It was what the thing had done toCon that made it possible for me to love him the more!

"He wanted the best things in life but didn't think he was worthy! AndI? Well, I thought I saw enough for us both, and so I married him! Thensomething happened--it doesn't matter what it was--it was a foolish, ugly thing, but it had to be something. And Con thought I had neverforgiven the--the first love--that I had sacrificed myself for him--inmarriage! And no woman could bear that. "

"My poor, dear Lyn. "

"Can't you see, Betty, it all comes from the idiotic idea that men--somemen--have about women. They put us on a toppling pedestal; when we fallthey are surprised, and when we don't they--are afraid of us! And allthe time--you know this, Betty--we ought not to be on pedestals at all;we don't--we _don't_ belong on them! We want to be close and go alongtogether. "

"Yes, Lyn; we do! we do!"

"Well--after Con misunderstood, I just let him go along thinking Iwas--well, the kind of woman who could sacrifice herself. I thought hewould want me so that he would--find out. And so we've been eating ourhearts out--for ages!"

"Why, Lyn! you cruel, foolish girl. "

"Yes--and because I knew you would say that--I could come to you. You--do not blame Con?"

"Blame _him_! Why, Lyn, a gentleman doesn't take a woman off her beastlypedestal; she comes down herself--if she isn't a fool. "

"Well, Betty, I'm down! I'm down, and I'm going to crawl to Con, ifnecessary, and then--I think he'll lift me up. "

"He'll never pull you down, that's one sure thing!"

"Oh! thank you, Betty. Thank you. "

"But, Lyn--what has so suddenly brought you to your senses?"

"Your little baby, Betty!"

"My--baby!" The words came in a hard, gasping breath. 

"I held him when he died, Betty. I had never been close to a babybefore--never! A strange thing happened to me as I looked at him. It waslike knowing what a flower would be while holding only the bud. Thebaby's eyes had the same expression I have seen in Con's eyes--inBrace's; I know now it is the whole world's look. It was full ofwonder--full of questions as to what it all meant. I am sure that itcomes and goes but never really is answered--here, Betty. "

"Oh! Lyn. And I have been bitter--miserable--because I felt that itwasn't fair to take my baby until he had done some little work in theworld! And now--why, he did a great thing. My little, little baby!"Betty was clinging to Lynda, crying as if all the agony were swept awayforever. 

"Sometimes"--Lynda pressed against Betty--"sometimes, lately, in Con'seyes I have seen the look! It was as if he were asking me whether he hadyet been punished enough! And I've been thinking of myself--thinkingwhat Con owed _me;_ what _I_ wanted; _when_ I should have it! I hate anddespise myself for my littleness and prudery; why, he's a thousand timesfiner than I! That's what pedestals have done for women. But now, Betty, I'm down; and I'm down to stay. I'm--"

"Wait, Lyn, dear. " Betty mopped her wet face and started up. She hadseen a tall form pass the window, and she felt as if somethingtremendous were at stake. "Just a minute, Lyn. I must speak to Mrs. Waters if you are to stay over night. She's old, you know, and goesearly to bed. "

Lynda still sat on the floor--her face turned to the red glow of thefire that was growing duller and duller. Presently the door opened, andher words flowed on as if there had been no interruption. 

"I'm going to Con to-morrow. I had to make sure--first; but I know now, I know! I'm going to tell him all about it--and ask him to let me walkbeside him. I'm going to tell him how lonely I've been in the place heput me--how I've hated it! And some time--I feel as sure as sure canbe--there will be something I can do that will prove it. "

"My--darling!"

Arms stronger than Betty's held her close--held her with a very human, understanding strength. 

"You've done the one big thing, Lyn!"

"Not yet, not yet, Con, dear. "

"You have made me realize what a wrong--a bitter wrong--I did you, whenI thought you could be less than a loving woman. "

"Oh, Con! And have you been lonely, too?"

"Sweet, I should have died of loneliness had something not told me Iwas still travelling up toward you. That has made it possible. "

"Instead"--Lynda drew his face down to hers--"instead, I've beenstruggling up toward _you!_! Dear, dear Con, it isn't men and women;it's _the_ man--_the_ woman. Can't you see? It's the sort of thing lifemakes of us that counts; not the steps we take on the way. You--you knowthis, Con?"

"I know it, now, from the bottom of my soul. "

 * * * * *

It was one of Betty's quaint sayings that some lives were guided byflashlights, others by a steady gleam. Hers had always been by theformer method. She made her passage from one illumination to anotherwith great faith, high courage, and much joyousness. After the nightwhen Lynda made her see what her dear, dead baby had accomplished in hisbrief stay, she rose triumphant from her sorrow. She was her old, brightself again; she sang in her home, transfigured Brace by her happiness, and undertook her old interests and duties with genuine delight. 

But for Lynda and Truedale the steady gleam was necessary. They neverquestioned--never doubted--after the night when they came home from thelittle house in the woods. To them both happiness was no new thing; itwas a precious old thing given back after a dark period of testing. Thedays were all too short, and when night brought Conning running andwhistling to the door, Lynda smiled and realized that at last the firewas burning briskly on her nice, clean hearth. They had so much incommon--so much that demanded them both in the doing of it. 

"No bridges for us, here and there, over which to reach each other, "thought Lynda; "it's the one path for us both. " Then her eyes grewtenderly brooding as she remembered how 'twas a little child that hadled them--not theirs, but another's. 

The business involved in setting old William Truedale's money incirculation was absorbing Conning at this time. Once he set his feetupon the way, he did not intend to turn back; but he sometimes wonderedif the day would ever come when he could, with a clear conscience, feelpoor enough to enjoy himself, selfishly, once more. 

From McPherson he heard constantly of the work in the southern hills. Truedale was, indeed, a strong if silent and unsuspected force there. Asonce he had been an unknown quantity, so he remained; but the work wenton, supervised by Jim White, who used with sagacity and cleverness thepower placed in his hands. 

Truedale's own particular interests were nearly all educational. Evenhere, he held himself in reserve--placed in more competent hands thepower they could wield better than he. Still, he was personally knownand gratefully regarded by many young men and women who werestruggling--as he once had struggled--for what to them was dearer thanall else. He always contrived to leave them their independence andself-respect. Naturally all this was gratifying and vital to Lynda. Achievement was dear to her temperament, and the successes of others, especially those nearest to her, were more precious to her than her own. She saw Truedale drop his old hesitating, bewildered manner like adiscarded mantle. She grew to rely upon his calm strength that developedwith the demands made upon it. She approved of him so! And thatrealization brought out the best in her. 

One November evening she and Con were sitting in the library, Truedaleat his desk, Lynda idly and luxuriously rocking to and fro, her handsclasped over her head. She had learned, at last, the joy of absoluterelaxation. 

"There's a big snow-storm setting in, " she said, smiling softly. Then, apropos of nothing: "Con, we've been married four years and over!"

"Only that, Lyn? It seems to me like my whole life. "

"Oh, Con--so long as that?"

"Blessedly long. "

After another pause Lynda spoke merrily: "Con, I want some of UncleWilliam's money. A lot of it. "

Truedale tossed her a new check book. "Now that you see there is nostring tied to it, " he said, "may I ask what for? Just sympatheticinterest, you know. "

"Of course. Well, it's this way. Betty and I are broke. It's fine foryou to make roads and build schools and equip the youth of America forgetting all the learning they can carry, but Betty and I are after thebabies. We've been agonizing over the Saxe Home--Betty's on theBoard--and before Christmas we are going to undress all those poorstandardized infants and start their cropped hair to growing. "

Truedale laughed heartily. "Intimacy with Betty, " he said, "has colouredyour descriptive powers, Lyn, dear. "

"Oh, all happy women talk one tongue. "

"And you _are_ happy, Lyn?"

"Happy? Yes--happy, Con!"

They smiled at each other across the broad table. 

"Betty has told the superintendent that if there is a blue stripe or acropped head on December twenty-fourth, she's going to recommend thedismissal of the present staff. "

"Good Lord! Does any one ever take Betty seriously? I should think oneof those board meetings would bear a strong family resemblance to anafternoon tea--rather a frivolous one. "

"They don't. And, honestly, people are tremendously afraid of Betty. Shemakes them laugh, but they know she gets what she wants--and with ajoke she drives her truths home. "

"There's something in that. " Truedale looked earnest. "She's a greatBetty. "

"So it's up to Betty and me, now, " Lynda went on. "We can take off theshabby, faded little duds, but we've got to have something to put on atonce, or the kiddies will take cold. "

"Surely. "

"We think that to start a child out in stripes is almost as bad asfinishing him in them. To make a child feel--different--is sure to damnhim. "

"And so you are going to make the Saxe Home an example and set the ballrolling. "

"Exactly, Con. And we're going to slam the door in the faces of thedramatic rich this Christmas. The lambies at the Saxe are going to havea nice, old-fashioned tree. They are going to dress it themselves thenight before, and whisper up the chimney what they want--and there isnot going to be a speech on Christmas Day within a mile of that Home!"

"That's great. I'd like to come in on that myself. "

"You can, Con, we'll need you. "

"Christmas always does set the children in one's thoughts, doesn't it? Isuppose Betty is particularly keen--having had her baby for a day orso. " Truedale's eyes were tender. Betty's baby and its fulfilled missionwere sacred to him and Lynda. 

"Betty is going to adopt a child, Con. "

"Really?"

"Yes. She says she cannot stand Christmas without one. It's a rebuketo--to her boy. "

"Poor little Bet!"

"Oh! it makes me so--so humble when I see her courage. She says if shehas a dozen children of her own it will make no difference; she musthave her first child's representative. She's about decided upon theone--he's the most awful of them all. She's only hesitating to see ifanything awfuller will turn up. She says she's going to take a baby noone else will have--she's going to do the biggest thing she can for herown dead boy. As if her baby ever could be dead! Sometimes I think he ismore alive than if he had stayed here and got all snarled up in earthlythings--as so many do!"

Conning came close to Lynda and drew her head back against his breast. 

"You are--crying, darling!" he said. 

"It's--it's Betty. Con, what is it about her that sort of brightens theway for us all, yet dims our eyes?"

"She's very illuminating. It's a big thing--this of adopting a child. What does Brace think of it?"

"He adores everything Betty does. He says"--Lynda smiled up into theface above her--"he says he wishes Betty had chosen one with hair alittle less crimson, but that doubtless he'll grow to like that tintbetter than any other. "

"Lyn, have you ever thought of adopting a child?"

"Oh!--sometimes. Yes, Con. "

"Well, if you ever feel that you ought--that you want to--I will be gladto--to help you. I see the risk--the chance, and I think I would like ahandsome one. But it is Christmas time, and a man and woman, if theyhave their hearts in the right places, do think of children and treesand all the rest at this season. Still"--and with that Truedale pressedhis lips to Lynda's hair--"I'm selfish, you seem already to fill everychink of my life. "

"Con, that's a blessed thing to say to a woman--even though the womanknows you ought not to say it. And now, I'm going to tell you somethingelse, Con. It's foolish and trifling, perhaps, but I've set my heartupon it ever since the Saxe Home got me to thinking. "

"Anything in the world, Lyn! Can I help?"

"I should say you could. You'll have to be about the whole of it. Starting this Christmas, I'm going to have a tree--right here in thisroom--close to Uncle William's chair!"

"By Jove! and for--for whom?"

"Why, Con, how unimaginative you are! For you, for me, for UncleWilliam, for any one--any really right person, young or old--who needs aChristmas tree. Somehow, I have a rigid belief that some one willalways be waiting. It may not be an empty-handed baby. Perhaps you and Imay have to care for some dear _old_ soul that others have forgotten. Wecould do this for Uncle William, couldn't we, Con?"

"Yes, my darling. "

"The children cannot always know what they are missing, but the old can, and my heart aches for them often--aches until it really hurts. "

"My dear girl!"

"They are so alike, Con, the babies and the very aged. They need thesame things--the coddling, the play, the pretty toys to amusethem--until they fall asleep. "

"Lynda, you are all nerves and fancies. Pretty ones--but dangerous. We'll have our tree--we'll call it Uncle William's. We'll take anyone--every one who is sent to us--and be grateful. And that makes methink, we must have a particularly giddy celebration up at theSanatorium. McPherson and I were speaking of it to-day. "

"Con, I wonder how many secret interests you have of which I do notknow?"

"Not many. "

"I wonder!"

Truedale laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Well, " he said, suddenly changingthe subject, "talking about nerves reminds me that when the holidays areover you and I are going away on a honeymoon. After this we are to haveone a year. We'll drop everything and indulge in the heaven-given luxuryof loafing. You need it. Your eyes are too big and your face too pale. Idon't see what has ailed me not to notice before. But right afterChristmas, dear, I'm going to run away with you. .. . What are youthinking about, Lyn?"

"Oh, only the blessedness of being taken care of! It's strange, but Iknow now that all my life--before this--I was gazing at things throughclosed windows. Alone in my cell I looked out--sometimes throughbeautiful stained glass, to be sure--at trees waving and people passing. Now and then some one paused and spoke to me, but always with thebarrier between. Now--I touch people--there is nothing to keep us apart. I'm just like everybody else; and your love and care, Con, have set thewindows wide!"

"This will never do, Lyn. Such fancies! I may have to take you away_before_ Christmas. " Truedale spoke lightly but his look was anxious. 

"In the meantime, let us go out for a walk in the snow. There's enoughwind to make it a tussle. Come, dear!"

CHAPTER XX

Two days later Lynda came down from her workshop by the back stairs, andpassed through William Truedale's bedchamber on the way to the library. It was only ten o'clock in the morning but Truedale had a habit, if hehappened to be in the neighbourhood, of dropping in for a moment at thishour. If he should to-day Lynda wanted to confer with him about somedetails concerning the disrobing of the Saxe infants. She wasparticularly light hearted and merry. A telephone call from Betty hadput her in the sunniest humour. 

To her surprise, as she entered the library, she saw a small, mostpeculiar-looking woman sitting quite straight on the edge of a chair inthe middle of the room. 

It was a cast-iron rule that Lynda must not be disturbed at her morningwork. Thomas generally disposed of visitors without mercy. 

"Good morning!" Lynda said kindly. "Can I do anything for you? I amsorry you had to wait. "

She concluded it was some one connected with the Saxe Home. That waslargely in her mind at the moment. 

"I want to see"--and here the strange little figure came to Lynda andheld out a very dirty, crumpled piece of paper on which was writtenTruedale's name and address. 

"Mr. Truedale may not be home until evening, " Lynda said. And now shethought that this must be one of the private and pet dependents of Con'swith whom she would deal very gently and tactfully. "I wonder if youwon't tell me all about it and I will either tell Mr. Truedale or set atime for you to see him. "

Glad of any help in this hour of extremity, the stranger said:

"I'm--I'm Nella-Rose. Do you know about me?"

Know about her? Why, after the first stunning shock, she seemed to bethe _only_ thing Lynda did know about--ever had known! She stared at thelittle figure before her for what seemed an hour. She noted the worried, pitiful child face that, screened behind the worn and care-linedfeatures, looked forth like a pretty flower. Then Lynda said, weakly:

"Yes, I know about you--all about you, Nella-Rose. "

The pitiful eyes brightened. What Nella-Rose had been through sinceleaving her hills only God understood. 

"I'm right glad! And you--you are--"

"I'm Conning Truedale's--wife. "

Somehow Lynda expected this to be a devastating shock, but it was not. Nella-Rose was past reservations or new impressions. 

"I--I reckoned so, " was all she said. 

"You must sit down. You look very tired. " Lynda had forgotten Truedale'spossible appearance. 

"I _am_ right tired. It's a mighty long way from Pine Cone. And I wasso--so frightened, but folks was certainly good and just helped me--tohere! One old lady came to the door with me. "

"Why--have you come, Nella-Rose?" Lynda drew her own chair close to thestranger's and as she did so, she could but wonder, now that she washerself again, how exactly Nella-Rose seemed to fit into the scene. Shewas like a recurrence--like some one who had played her part before--orwere the scene and Nella-Rose but the materialization of something Lyndahad always expected, always dreaded, but which she had always known mustcome some day? She was prepared now--terribly prepared! Everythingdepended upon her management of the crucial moments. Her kindness didnot desert her, nor her merciful justice, but she meant to shieldTruedale with her life--hers and Nella-Rose's, if necessary. "Why--haveyou--come?" she asked again, and Nella-Rose, taking for granted thatthis pale, strange woman did know all about her--knew everything andevery one pertaining to her--fixed her sweet eyes, tear-filled but notoverflowing, upon her face. 

"I want--to tell him that I'm right sorry I hated him. I--I didn't knowuntil Bill Trim died. I want to ask him to--to forgive me, and--then Ican go back. "

"What--did--Bill Trim tell you?" Lynda tried with all her strength tokeep her mind cool, her thoughts steady. She wanted to lead Nella-Roseon and on, without losing the way herself. 

"That he burned--he didn't mean to--he burned the letter Isent--asking--"

"I see! You wrote--a letter, then?"

"Yes. He told me, if I wanted him--and I did--Godda'mighty! how I wantedhim then!" Nella-Rose clasped her poor little work-hardened hands close, and her small white teeth showed through the parted lips while shestruggled to regain her calm. 

"You see--when I gave the letter to Bill Trim, I--I told him--I hadto--that it was Miss Lois Ann's, so he didn't think it mattered to me;but when he was dying--he was hurt on the big road they are making inthe hills--he was brought to us-all, and Miss Lois Ann and I took careof him, and he grew right sorry for hating her and not telling about theletter--and then--he spoke it out!"

"I see. I see. And that was--how long ago--that you wrote the letter?"

Nella-Rose looked back over the weary way she had travelled, to thismoment in the warm, sun-filled room. 

"It was befo' lil' Ann came that I sent the letter, " she faltered. 

"Little Ann?" Lynda repeated the name and something terrible rose withinher--something that would kill her unless she conquered it. So she askedquickly, desperately:

"Your--your child? I see. Go on--Nella-Rose. "

"I wrote the letter and--sent it. I was hid in Miss Lois Ann's cabin--itwas winter--and no one found out! Miss Lois Ann wouldn't believe what Itold; she said when him and me was married under the trees and Godunderstood, it didn't make me--right! She--helped me, but shehated--him! And then when he--didn't come, she taught me to--to hate, and it was right _black_ hate until lil' Ann came. When God let her downto me--He took the hate away. "

Lynda was blinded by her tears. She could hardly see the small figurecrouching in the low chair by the fire. 

"And then--Miss Lois Ann went and told my folks--told Marg, my sister. Marg was married to Jed and she was mighty scornful of me and lil' Ann. She wouldn't tell Jed and my father--she came alone to me. She told mewhat folks thought. They-all thought I'd gone away with Burke Lawson andMarg felt sorry to see me alive--with lil' Ann. But Miss Lois Annwouldn't let her sting me with her tongue--she drove her away. Then--Burke came! He'd been a right long way off--he'd broken his leg;he came as soon as he could, and Marg told him and--and laid lil' Ann tohim!"

"And you--never spoke? You never told?" Lynda had drawn very close--herwords were barely above a whisper. 

"No. It was this-er-way. First, love for him held my tongue mightystill; then hate; and afterwards I couldn't!"

"But now, Nella-Rose, _now_--why have you spoken--now?"

"I haven't yet. Not to them-all. I had to come here--to him first. Ireckon you don't know about Burke and me?"

Lynda shook her head. She had thought she knew--but she had wanderedsadly. 

"When Marg laid my trouble to Burke he just took it! First I couldn'tunderstand. But he took my trouble--and me! He took lil' Ann and me outof Miss Lois Ann's cabin into--peace and safety. He tied every one'stongue--it seemed like he drove all the--the wrong away by his big, strong love--and set me free, like he was God! He didn't ask nothing fora right long time, not 'til I grew to--believe him and trust him. Thenwe went--when no one knew--and was married. Now he's my man and he'salways been lil' Ann's father till--till--"

A log fell upon the hearth and both women started guiltily andaffrightedly. 

"Go on! go on!" breathed Lynda. "Go on!"

"Till the twins came--Burke's and mine! Then he knew thedifference--even his love for me couldn't help him--it hindered; andwhile I--I feared, I understood!"

"Oh! oh! oh!" Lynda covered her aching eyes with her cold hands. Shedared not look at Nella-Rose. That childish yet old face was crowdingeverything but pity from the world. Truedale, herself--what did theymatter?

"He--he couldn't bear to have lil' Ann touch--the babies. I could seehim--shiver! And lil' Ann--she's like a flower--she fades if you don'tlove her. She grew afraid and--and hid, and it seemed like the soul ofme would die; for, don't you see, Burke thinks that Marg's man is--isthe father, and Marg and Jed lays the trouble to Burke and they thinkher--his! And--and it has grown more since the big road brought us-allcloser. The big road brought trouble as well as good. Once"--and herethe haggard face whitened--"once Burke and Jed fought--and a fight inthe hills means more fights! Just then Bill Trim was hurt and told mebefore he died; it was like opening a grave! I 'most died 'long withBill Trim--'til I studied about lil' Ann! And then--I saw wide, andright far, like I hadn't since--since before I hated. I saw how I mustcome and--tell you-all, and how maybe you'd take lil' Ann, and then Icould go back to--to my man and--there'll be peace when he knows--atlast! Will you--oh! will you be with me, kind lady, when I--tellyour--your--man?" Nella-Rose dropped at Lynda's feet and was pleadinglike a distraught child. "I've been so afraid. I did not know his worldwas so full of noise and--and right many things. And he willbe--different--and I may not be able to make him understand. But youwill--_you_ will! I must get back to the hills. I done told Burke I--Iwas going to prove myself to his goodness--by putting lil' Ann with themas would be mighty kind to her. I seemed to know how it would turnout--and I dared to say it; but now--now I am mighty--'fraid!"

The tears were falling from the pain-racked eyes--falling upon Lynda'scold, rigid hands--and they seemed to warm her heart and clear hervision. 

"Nella-Rose, " she said, "where is little Ann?"

"Lil' Ann? Why, there's lil' Ann sleeping her tire off under yourpillows. She was cold and mighty wore out. " Nella-Rose turned toward thedeep couch under the broad window across the room. 

Silently, like haunted creatures, both women stole toward the couch andthe mother drew away the sheltering screen of cushions. As she did so, the little child opened her eyes, and for a moment endeavoured to findher place in the strangeness. She looked at her mother and smiled aslow, peculiar smile. Then she fixed her gaze upon Lynda. It was an old, old look--but young, too--pleading, wonder-filled. The child was so likeTruedale--so unmercifully, cruelly like him--that, for a moment, reasondeserted Lynda and she covered her face with both hands and swayed withsilent laughter. 

Nella-Rose bent over her child as if to protect her. "Lil' Ann, " shewhispered, "the lady is a right kind lady--right kind!" She felt shemust explain and justify. 

After a moment or two Lynda gained control of her shaken nerves. Shesuddenly found herself calm, and ready to undertake the hardest, themost perilous thing that had ever come into her life. "Bring little Annto the fire;" she said, "I'm going to order some lunch, and then--we candecide, Nella-Rose. "

Nella-Rose obeyed, dumbly. She was completely under the control of theonly person, who, in this perplexed and care-filled hour, seemed able toguide and guard her. 

Lynda watched the two eat of the food Thomas brought in. There was nofear of Truedale coming now. There was safety ahead for some hours. Lynda herself made a pretext of eating, but she hardly took her eyesfrom little Ann's face. She wanted familiarity to take the place ofshock. She must grow accustomed to that terrible resemblance, for sheknew, beyond all doubt, that it was to hold a place in all her futurelife. 

When the last drop of milk went gurgling down the little girl's throat, when Nella-Rose pushed her plate aside, when Thomas had taken away thetray, Lynda spoke:

"And now, Nella-Rose, what are you going to--to do with us all?"

The tired head of little Ann was pressed against her mother's breast. The food, the heat, were lulling her weary senses into oblivion again. Lynda gave a swift thought of gratitude for the momentary respite as shewatched the small, dark face sink from her direct view. 

"We are all in your hands, " she continued. 

"In _my_ hands--_mine_?"

"Yes. Yours. "

"I--I must--tell him--and then go home. "

"Must you, Nella-Rose?"

"What else is there for me?"

"You must decide. You, alone. "

"You"--the lips quivered--"you will not go with me?"

"I--cannot, Nella-Rose. "

"Why?"

"Because"--and with all her might Lynda sought words that would lay lowthe difference between her and the simple, primitive woman close toher--felt she _must_ use ideas and terms that would convey her meaningand not drive her and Nella-Rose apart--"because, while he is my mannow, he was first yours. Because you were first, you must go alone--ifgo you must. Then he shall decide. "

Nella-Rose grasped the deep meaning after a moment and sank backshivering. The courage and endurance that had borne her to this hourdeserted her. The help, that for a time had seemed to rise up in Lynda, crumbled. Alone, drifting she knew not where, Nella-Rose waited. 

"I'm--afraid!" she repeated over and over. "I'm right afraid. He's notthe same; it's all, all gone--that other life--and yet I cannot let himthink--!"

The two women looked at each other over all that separatedthem--and each comprehended! The soul of Nella-Rose demandedjustification--vindication--and Lynda knew that it should have it, ifthe future were to be lived purely. There was just one thing Lynda hadto make clear in this vital moment, one truth that must be understoodwithout trespassing on the sacred rights of others. Surely Nella-Roseshould know all that there was to know before coming to her finaldecision. So Lynda spoke:

"You think he"--she could not bring herself, for all her bravery andsense of justice, to speak her husband's name--"you think he remembersyou as something less than you were, than you are? Nella-Rose, he neverhas! He did not understand, but always he has held you sacred. Whateverblame there may have been--he took it all. It was because he could;because it was possible for him to do so, that I loved him--honouredhim. Had it been otherwise, as truly as God hears me, I could not havetrusted him with my life. That--that marriage of yours and his was asholy to him as, I now see, it was to you; and he, in his heart, hasalways remembered you as he might a dear, dead--wife!"

Having spoken the words that wrung her heart, Lynda sank back exhausted. Then she made her first--her only claim for herself. 

"It was when everything was past and his new life began--his man'slife--that I entered in. He--he told me everything. "

Nella-Rose bent over her sleeping child, and a wave of compassionoverflooded her thought. 

"I--I must think!" she whispered, and closed her lovely eyes. What shesaw in the black space behind the burning lids no one could know, buther tangled little life must have been part of it. She must have seen itall--the bright, sunlit dream fading first into shadow, then into thedun colour of the deserted hills. Burke Lawson must have stood boldlyforth, in his supreme unselfishness and Godlike power, as herredeemer--her man! The gray eyes suddenly opened and they were calm andstill. 

"I--I only wanted him--to remember me--like he once did, " she faltered. She was taking her last look at Truedale. "So long as he--he didn'tthink me--less; I reckon I don't want him--to think of me as Iam--now. "

"Suppose"--the desperate demand for full justice to Nella-Rose droveLynda on--"suppose it were in your power and mine to sweep everythingaside; suppose I--I went away. What would you do, Nella-Rose?"

Again the eyes closed. After a moment:

"I--would go back to--my man!"

"You mean that--as truly as God hears you?--you mean that, Nella-Rose?"

"Yes. But lil' Ann?"

Now that she had made the great decision about Truedale, there was still"lil' Ann. "

Lynda fought for mastery over the dread thing that was forcing its wayinto her consciousness. Then something Nella-Rose was saying caught herfevered thought. 

"When I was a lil' child I used to dream that some day I would do amighty big thing--maybe this is it. I don't want to hurt his lifeand--yours; I couldn't hurt my man and--and--the babies waiting backthere for me. But--lil' Ann!"

The name came like a sob. And somehow Lynda thought of Burke Lawson!Burke, who had done his strong best, and still could not keep himself incontrol because of--lil' Ann! The helpless baby was--oh! yes, yes--itwas Truedale's responsibility. If she, Lynda, were to keep her life--hersacred love--she, too, must do a "big thing"--perhaps the biggest awoman is ever called upon to do--to prove her faith. 

For another moment she struggled; then, like a blind woman, shestretched out her hands and laid them upon the child. 

"Nella-Rose, will you give--_me_ little Ann?"

"Give her--to--you?" There was anguish, doubt, but hope, in the words. 

"I want--the child! She shall have her father--her father's home--hislove, God willing! And I, Nella-Rose, as I hope for God's mercy, I willdo my duty by little Ann. "

And now Lynda was on the floor beside the shabby pair, shielding them asbest she could from the last wrench and renunciation. 

"Are you doing this for--for your man?" whispered Nella-Rose. 

"Yes. For my--man!" They looked long into each other's eyes. Thensolemnly, slowly, Nella-Rose relinquished her hold of the child. 

"I--give you--lil' Ann. " So might she have spoken if, in religiousfervour, she had been resigning her child to death. "I--I--give you lil'Ann. " Gently she kissed the sleeping face and laid her burden in theaching, strained arms that had still to learn their tender lesson ofbearing. Ann opened her eyes, her lips quivered, and she turned to hermother. 

"Take--lil' Ann!" she pleaded. Then Nella-Rose drank deep of the bittercup, but she smiled--and spoke one of the lies over which angels havewept forgivingly since the world began. 

"Lil' Ann, the kind lady is going to keep yo' right safe and happy 'tilmother makes things straight back there with--with yo'--father, in thehills. Jes' yo' show the lady how sweet and pretty yo' can be 'tilmother comes fo' yo'! Will yo'--lil' Ann?"

"How long?"

"A mighty lil' while. "

All her life the child had given up--shrunk from that which she fearedbut did not understand; and now she accepted it all in the dull, hopeless way in which timid children do. She received her mother'skiss--gave a kiss in return; then she looked gloomily, distrustingly, atLynda. After that she seemed complacent and obeyed, almost stupidly, whatever she was told to do. 

Lynda took Nella-Rose to the station, saw to her every comfort, put asum of money in her hand with the words:

"You must take it, Nella-Rose--to prove your trust in me; and it willbuy some--some things for--the other babies. But"--and here she wentclose to Nella-Rose, realizing for the first time that the mostdifficult part, for her, was yet to come--"how will it be with--withyour man--when he knows?"

Nella-Rose looked up bravely and something crept into her eyes--thelook of power that only a woman who recognizes her hold on a man evershows. 

"He'll bear it--right grateful--and it'll wipe away the hate for JedMartin. He'll do the forgiving--since I've given up lil' Ann; and if hedoubts--there's Miss Lois Ann. She's mighty powerful with men--when it'swomen that matters. "

"It's very wonderful!" murmured Lynda. "More wonderful than I canunderstand. " And yet as she spoke she knew that she _did_ understand. Between her and Burke Lawson, a man she was never to know, there was acommon tie--a deep comprehension. 

Late that afternoon Lynda drove to Betty's with little Ann sittingrigidly on the seat beside her. The child had not spoken since she hadseen the train move out of the station bearing her mother away. She hadnot cried or murmured. She had gone afterward, holding Lynda's hand, through amazing experiences. She had seen her shabby garments discardedin dazzling shops, and fine apparel replace them. Once she had caught aglimpse of her small, transformed self in a long mirror and her darkeyes had widened. That was all. Lynda had watched her feverishly. Shehad hoped that with the change of clothing the startling likeness wouldlessen, but it did not. Robed in the trappings of her father's world, little Ann seemed to become more wholly his. 

"Do you like yourself, little Ann?" Lynda had asked when, at last, acharming hat was placed upon the dark curls. 

There was no word of reply--only the wide, helpless stare--and, to coverher confusion, Lynda hurried away to Betty. 

The maid who admitted her said that "Mrs. Kendall was upstairs in thenursery with the baby. "

Lynda paused on the stairs and asked blankly: "The baby? What baby?"

The maid was a trusted one and close to Betty. 

"The little boy from the Home, Mrs. Truedale, " she replied, "and alreadythe house is cheerfuller. "

Lynda felt a distinct disappointment. She had hoped that Betty wouldcare for little Ann for a few days, but how could she ask it of her now?

In the sunny room upstairs Betty sat in a low rocker, crooning away to arestless bundle in her arms. 

"You, Lyn?" Lynda stood in the doorway; Betty's back was to her. 

"Yes, Betty. "

"Come and see my red-headed boy--my Bobilink! He's going to be RobertKendall. "

Then Lynda drew near with Ann. Betty stopped rocking and confronted thetwo with her far-reaching, strangely penetrating gaze. 

"What a beautiful little girl, " she whispered. 

"Is she beautiful, Betty?"

"She's--lovely. Come here, dear, and see my baby. " Betty put forth awelcoming hand to the child, but Ann shrank away and her long silencewas broken. 

"I jes' naturally hate babies!" she whispered, in the soft drawl thatbetrayed her. 

"Lyn, who is she? Why--what is the matter?"

Lynda came close and her words did not reach past Betty's strainedhearing. "I--I'm going to--adopt her. I--I must prepare, Con. I hopedyou'd keep her for a few days. "

"Of course I will, Lyn. I'm ready--but Lyn, tell me!"

"Betty, look at her! She has come out of--of Con's past. He doesn'tknow, he mustn't know--not now! She belongs to--to the future. Canyou--can you understand? I never suspected until to-day. I've got to getused to it!" Then, fiercely: "But I'm going to do it, Betty! Con's roadis my road; his duty my duty; it's all right--only just at first--I'vegot to--steady my nerves!"

Without a word Betty rose and laid the now-sleeping baby in a crib; thenshe came back to the low chair and opened her arms to little Ann withthe heaven-given gesture that no child resists--especially a suffering, lonely child. 

"Come here, little girl, to--to Aunt Betty, " she said. 

Fascinated, Ann walked to the shelter offered. 

"Will you kiss me?" Betty asked. The kiss was given mutely. 

"Will you tell Aunt Betty your name?"

"Ann. "

"Ann what?"

"Jes' lil' Ann. "

Then Betty raised her eyes to Lynda's face and smiled at its tragicsuffering. 

"Poor, old Lyn!" she said, "run home to Con. You need him and God knowshe needs you. It will take the big love, Lyn, dear, the big love; butyou have it--you have it!"

Without a word Lynda turned and left Betty with the children. 

CHAPTER XXI

Potential motherhood can endure throes of travail other than physical;and for the next week Lynda passed through all the phases of spiritualreadjustment that enabled her, with blessed certainty of success, toaccept what she had undertaken. 

She did not speak to Truedale at once, but she went daily to Betty's andwith amazement watched the miracle Betty was performing. She neverforgot the hour, when, going softly up the stairs, she heard little Annlaugh gleefully and clap her hands. 

Betty was playing with the baby and telling Ann a story at the sametime. Lynda paused to listen. 

"And now come here, little Ann, and kiss Bobilink. Isn't he smelly-sweetand wonderful?"

"Yes. "

"That's right. Kiss him again. And you once said you just naturallydidn't like babies! Little Ann, you are a humbug. And now tell me howmuch you like Bobilink. "

"Heaps and lickwigs. "

"Now kiss me, you darling, and come close--so we will not waken Bobbie. Let me see, this is going to be the story of the little girl who adopteda--mother! Yesterday it was Bobbie's story of how a mother adopted alittle boy. You remember, the mother had to have a baby to fill a bigempty space, so she went to a house where some lost kiddies were andfound just the one that fitted in and--and--but this is Ann's storyto-day!

"Once there was a little girl--a very dear and good little girl--whoknew all about a mother, and how dear a mother was; because she had onewho was obliged to go away--"

"For a right lil' time?" Ann broke in. 

"Of course, " Betty agreed, "a right little time; but the small girlthought, while she waited, that she would adopt a mother and not tellher about the other one, for fear she might not understand, and she'dteach the adopted mother how to be a real mother. And now one mustremember all the things little girls do to--to adopted mothers. First--"

At this point Lynda entered the room, but Betty went on calmly:

"First, what do little girls do, Ann?"

"Teach them how to hold lil' girls. "

"Splendid! What next?"

"Kiss them and cuddle them right close. "

"Exactly! Next?"

"They make mothers glad and they make them laugh--by being mighty good. "

Then both Betty and Ann looked at Lynda. The sharp, outer air hadbrought colour to her cheeks, life to her eyes. She was very handsomein her rich furs and dark, feathered hat. 

"Now, little Ann, trot along and do the lesson, don't forget!" Bettypushed the child gently toward Lynda. 

With a laugh, lately learned and a bit doubtful, Ann ran to the openedarms. 

"Snuggle!" commanded Betty. 

"I'm learning, little Ann, " Lynda whispered, "you're a dear teacher. Andnow I have something to tell you. "

Ann leaned back and looked with suspicion at Lynda. Her recent past hadbeen so crowded with events that she was wary and overburdened. 

"What?" she asked, with more dread than interest. 

"Ann, I'm going to take you to a big house that is waiting for a--littlegirl. "

The child turned to Betty. 

"I don't want to go, " she said, and her pretty mouth quivered. Was shealways to be sent away?--always to have to go when she did not want togo?

Betty smiled into the worried little face. "Oh! we'll see each otherevery day, " she comforted; "and besides, this is the only way you cantruly adopt a mother and play fair. It will be another dear place forBobilink to go for a visit, and best of all--there's a perfectlysplendid man in the big house--for a--for--a father!"

Real fear came into Ann's eyes at this--fear that lay at the root ofall her trouble. 

"No!" she cried. "I can't play father!"

Lynda drew her to her closely. "Ann, little Ann, don't say that!" shepleaded passionately: "I'll help you, and together we'll make it cometrue. We must, we must!"

Her vehemence stilled the child. She put her hands on either side ofLynda's face and timidly faltered: "I'll--I'll try. "

"Thank you, dear. And now I want to tell you something else--we're goingto have a Christmas tree. "

This meant nothing to the little hill-child, so she only stared. 

"And you must come and help. "

"You have something to teach her, Lyn, " Betty broke in. There were tearsin her eyes. "Just think of a baby-thing like that not knowing thethrills of Christmas. "

Then she turned to Ann: "Go, sweetheart, " she said, "and make a nest forBobbie on the bed across the hall. " And then when Ann trotted off to dothe bidding, Betty asked: "What did he say, Lyn, when you told him?"

"He said he was glad, very glad. He has been willing, for a long time, that I should take a child--when I saw one I wanted. He naturallyconnects Ann with the Saxe Home; her being with you has strengthenedthis belief. I shall let it go at that--for a time, Betty. "

"Yes. It is better so. After he learns to know and love the child, "Betty mused, "the way will be opened. And oh! Lyn, Ann is so wonderful. She has the most remarkable character--so deep and tenderly true forsuch a mite. "

"Suppose, Betty--suppose Con notices the likeness!"

At this Betty smiled reassuringly. 

"He won't. Men are so stupidly humble. A pretty little girl would escapethem every time. "

"But her Southern accent, Betty. It is so pronounced. "

"My dear Lyn, it is! She sometimes talks like a little darkey; but to mycertain knowledge there are ten small Southerners at the Saxe, ofassorted ages and sexes, waiting for adoption. "

"And she may speak out, Betty. Her silence as to the past will disappearwhen she has got over her fear and longing. "

Betty looked more serious. "I doubt it. Not a word has passed her lipshere--of her mother or home. It has amazed me. She's the most unusual, the most fascinating creature I ever saw, for her age. Brace is wildabout her--he wants me to keep her. But, Lyn, if she does break herstrange silence, it will be your big hour! Whatever Con is or isn't--andsometimes I feel like hugging him, and again, like shaking him--he'sthe tenderest man with women--not even excepting Brace--that I have everseen. It never has occurred to him to reason out how much you lovehim--he's too busy loving you. But when he finds this out! Well, Lyn, itmakes me bow my head and speak low. "

"Don't, Betty! Don't suggest pedestals again, " Lynda pleaded. 

"No pedestal, Lyn; no pedestal--but the real, splendid _you_ revealed atlast! And now--forget it, dear. Here comes lil' Ann. "

The child tiptoed in with outstretched arms. 

"The nest is made right soft, " she whispered, "and now let me carryBobilink to--to the sleepy dreams. "

"Where did you learn to carry babies?" Betty hazarded, testing thesilence. The small, dark face clouded; the fear-look crept to the largeeyes. 

"I--I don't know, " was the only reply, and Ann turned away--this timetoward Lynda!

"And suppose he never knows?" Lynda spoke with her lips pressed to Ann'ssoft hair--the child was in her arms. 

"Then you and Con will have something to begin heaven with. " Betty'seyes were wet. "We all have something we don't talk about much onearth--we do not dare. Brace and I have our--baby!"

Two days later Lynda took Ann home. They went shopping first and thechild was dazzlingly excited. She forgot her restraint and shyness inthe fascinating delirium of telling what she wanted with a pretty surebelief that she would get it. No wonder that she was taken out ofherself and broke upon Truedale's astonished gaze as quite a differentchild from the one Lynda had described. 

The brilliant little thing came into the hall with Lynda, her armsfilled with packages too precious to be consigned to other hands; hereyes were dancing and her voice thrilling with happiness. 

"And now I'll call you muvver-Lyn 'cause you're mighty kind and this isyour house! It's a right fine house. "

Truedale had well timed his return home. He was ready to greet the twoin the library. The prattling voice charmed him with its delightfulmellowness and he went forward gladly to meet Lynda and the new littlechild. Ann was ahead; Lynda fell back and, with fast-throbbing heartwaited by the doorway. 

Ann had had a week and more of Brace Kendall to wipe away the impressionBurke Lawson had imprinted upon her mind. But she was shy of men andweighed them carefully before showing favours. She stood still when shesaw Truedale; she dropped, unheeded, a package; she stared at him, whilehe waited with extended hands. Then slowly--as if drawn against herwill--Ann advanced and laid her hands in his. 

"So this is the little girl who has come to help us make Christmas?"

"Yes. " Still that fixed look. It seemed to Lynda the most unnaturalthing she had ever seen. And oh! how alike the two were, now that theywere together!

"You are little Ann and you are going to play with"--Truedale lookedtoward Lynda and drew her to him by the love in his eyes--"You are goingto play with us, and you will call us mother and father, won't you, little Ann?" He meant to do his part in full. He would withhold nothing, now that Lynda had decided to take this step. 

"Yes. "

"And do you suppose you could kiss me--to begin with?"

Quaintly the child lifted herself on her toes--Truedale was halfkneeling before her--and gave him a lingering kiss. 

"We're going to be great friends, eh, little Ann?" Truedale was pleased, Lynda saw that. The little girl was making a deep impression. 

"Yes. " Then--deliberately: "Shall I have to teach you to be a father?"

"What does she mean?" Truedale looked at Lynda who explained Betty'scharming foolery. 

"I see. Well, yes, Ann, you must teach me to be a father. "

And so they began their lives together. And after a few days Lynda sawthat during the child's stay with Betty the crust of sullen reserve haddeparted--the little creature was the merriest, sweetest thingimaginable, once she could forget herself. Protected, cared for, andconsidered, she developed marvellously and soon seemed to have been withthem years instead of days. The impression was almost startling and bothLynda and Truedale remarked upon it. 

"There are certain things she does that appear always to have beenwaiting for her to do, " Conning said, "it makes her very charming. Shebrushes the dogs and cats regularly, and she's begun to pick up booksand papers in my den in a most alarming way--but she always manages toknow where they belong. "

"That's uncanny, " Lynda ventured; "but she certainly has fitted in, bless her heart!"

There had been moments at first when Lynda feared that Thomas wouldremember the child, but the old eyes could hardly be expected torecognize, in the dainty little girl, the small, patched, and soiledstranger of the annoying visit. Many times had Thomas explained andapologized for the admittance of the two "forlornities, " as he calledthem. 

No, everything seemed mercifully blurred; and Ann, in her new home, apparently forgot everything that lay behind her. She never even askedto go back to Betty's though she welcomed Betty, Brace, and Bobbie withflattering joy whenever they came to visit. She learned to be very fondof Lynda--was often sweetly affectionate with her; but in the wonderfulhome, her very own, waited upon and cared for, it was Conning who mostappealed to her. For him she watched and waited at the close of day, andif she were out with Lynda she became nervous and worried if they weredelayed as darkness crept on. 

"I want father to see me waiting, " she would urge; "I like to see hisgladness. "

"And so do I!" Lynda would say, struggling to overcome the unworthyresentment that occasionally got the better of her when the child toofervently appropriated Conning. 

But this trait of Ann's flattered and delighted Truedale; often he wasamused, but he knew that it was the one thing above all else in thelittle girl that endeared her to him. 

"What a darling she is!" he often said to Lynda when they were alonetogether. "Is she ever naughty?"

"Yes, often--the monkey!"

"I'm glad to hear it. I hate a flabby youngster. Does she ever speak ofher little past, Lyn?"

"Never. "

"Isn't that strange?"

"Yes, but I'm glad she doesn't. I want her to forget. She's very happywith us--but she's far from perfect. " "To what form of cussedness doesshe tend, Lyn? With me she's as lamblike as can be. "

"Oh! she has a fiery temper and, now that I think of it, she generallyshows it in reference to you. "

"To me?" Truedale smiled. 

"Yes. Thomas found her blacking your shoes the other day. She was makingan awful mess of it and he tried to take them from her. She gave him areal vicious whack with the brush. What she said was actually comical:'He's mine; if I want to take the dirt from his shoes, I can. He_shan't_ walk on dirt--and he's mine!'"

"The little rascal. And what did Thomas do?"

"Oh! he let her. People always let her. I do myself. "

"She's a fascinating kid, " Truedale said with a laugh. Then, veryearnestly: "I'm rather glad we do not know her antecedents, Lyn; it'ssafer to take her as we find her and build on that. But I'd be willingto risk a good deal that much love and goodness are back of little Ann, no matter how much else got twisted in. And the love and goodness mustbe her passport through life. "

"Yes, Con, and they are all that are worth while. "

But every change was a period of struggle to Ann and those who dealtwith her. She had a passionate power of attachment to places and people, and readjustment caused her pain and unrest. 

When school was considered, it almost made her ill. She clung toTruedale and implored him not to make her go away. 

"But it's only for the day time, Ann, " he explained, "and you will havechildren to play with--little girls like yourself. "

"No; no! I don't want children--only Bobbie! I only want my folks!"

Lynda came to her defense. 

"Con, we'll have a governess for a year or so. "

"Is it wise, Lyn, to give way to her?"

"Yes, it is!" Ann burst in; "it is wise, I'd die if I had to go. "

So she had a governess and made gratifying strides in learning. Thetrait that was noticeable in the child was that she developed andthrived most when not opposed. She wilted mentally and physically whenforced. She had a most unusual power of winning and holding love, andunder a shy and gentle exterior there were passion and strength that attimes were pathetic. While not a robust child she was generally well andas time passed she gained in vigour. Once, and once only, was sheseriously ill, and that was when she had been with Truedale and Lyndaabout two years. During all that time, as far as they knew, she hadnever referred to the past and both believed that, for her, it was dead;but when weakness and fever loosened the unchildlike control, somethingoccurred that alarmed Lynda, but broke down forever the thin barrierthat, for all her effort, had existed between her and Ann. She wassitting alone with the child during a spell of delirium, when suddenlythe little hot hands reached up passionately, and the name "mother"quivered on the dry lips in a tone unfamiliar to Lynda's ears. She bentclose. 

"What, little Ann?" she whispered. 

The big, burning eyes looked puzzled. Then: "Take me to--to theHollow--to Miss Lois Ann!"

"Sh!" panted Lynda, every nerve tingling. "See, little Ann--don't youknow me?"

The child seemed to half understand and moaned plaintively:

"I'm lost! I'm lost!"

Lynda took her in her arms and the sick fancy passed, but from that hourthere was a new tie between the two--a deeper dependence. 

There was one day when they all felt little Ann was slipping from them. Dr. McPherson had come as near giving up hope as he ever, outwardly, permitted himself to do. 

"You had better stay at home, " he said to Conning; "children areskittish little craft. The best of them haul up anchor sometimes whenyou least expect it. "

So Truedale remained at home and, wandering through the quiet house, wondered at the intensity of his suffering as he contemplated the timeon ahead without the child who had so recently come into his life fromhe knew not where. He attributed it all to Ann's remarkablecharacteristics. 

Late in the afternoon of the anxious day he went into the sick room andleaned over the bed. Ann opened her eyes and smiled up at him, weakly. 

"Make a light, father, " she whispered, and with a fear-filled heartTruedale touched the electric button. The room was already filled withsunlight, for it faced the west; but for Ann it was cold and dark. 

Then, as if setting the last pitiful scene for her own departure, sheturned to Lynda: "Make a mother-lap for Ann, " she said. Lynda tenderlylifted the thin form from the bed and held it close. 

"I--I taught you how to be a mother, didn't I, mommy-Lyn?" she had nevercalled Lynda simply "mother, " while "father" had fallen naturally fromher lips. 

"Yes, yes, little Ann. " Lynda's eyes were filled with tears and in thatmoment she realized how much the child meant to her. She had done herduty, had exceeded it at times, in her determination not to fall short. She had humoured Ann, often taking sides against Conning in her fear ofbeing unjust. But oh! there had always been something lacking; and now, too late, she felt that, for all her struggle, she had not been true tothe vow she had made to Nella-Rose!

But Ann was gazing up at her with a strange, penetrating look. 

"It's the comfiest lap in the world, " she faltered, "for little, tiredgirls. "

"I--I love her!" Lynda gazed up at Truedale as if confessing and, at theend, seeking forgiveness. 

"Of course you do!" he comforted, "but--be brave, Lyn!" He feared toexcite Ann. Then the weary eyes of the child turned to him. 

"Mommy-Lyn does love me!" the weak voice was barely audible; "she does, father, she does!"

It was like a confirmation--a recognition of something beautiful andsacred. 

"I felt, " Lynda said afterward to Betty, "as if she were not onlytelling Con, but God, too. I had not deserved it--but it made up for allthe hard struggle, and swept everything before it. "

But Ann did not die. Slowly, almost hesitatingly, she turned back tothem and brought a new power with her. She, apparently, left her babylooks and nature in the shadowy place from which she had escaped. Oncehealth came to her, she was the merriest of merry children--almost noisyat times--in the rollicking fashion of Betty's irrepressible Bobilink. And the haunting likeness to Truedale was gone. For a year or two thelean, thready little girl looked like no one but her own elfish self;and then--it was like a revealment--she grew to be like Nella-Rose!

Lynda, at times, was breathless as she looked and remembered. She hadseen the mother only once; but that hour had burned the image of face, form, and action into her soul. She recalled, too, Conning's graphicdescription of his first meeting with Nella-Rose. The quaint, dramaticpower that had marked Ann's mother, now developed in the littledaughter. She had almost entirely lost the lingering manner ofspeech--the Southern expressions and words--but she was as differentfrom the children with whom she mingled as she had ever been. 

When she was strong enough she resumed her studies with the governessand also began music. This she enjoyed with the passion that marked herattitude toward any person or thing she loved. 

"Oh, it lets something in me, free!" she confided to Truedale. "I shallnever be naughty or unkind again--I wouldn't dare!"

"Why?" Conning was no devotee of music and was puzzled by Ann'sintensity. 

"Why, " she replied, puckering her brows in the effort to make herselfclear, "I--I wouldn't be worthy of--of the beautiful music, if I werehorrid. "

Truedale laughed and patted her pretty cropped head, over which the newlittle curls were clustering. 

Life in the old house was full and rich at that time. Conning was, as heoften said, respectably busy and important enough in the affairs of mento be content; he would never be one who enjoyed personal power. 

Lynda, during Ann's first years, had taken a partner who attended tointerviews, conferences, and contracts; but in the room over theextension the creative work went on with unabated interest. Little Annsoon learned to love the place and had her tiny chair beside the hearthor table. There she learned the lessons of consideration for others, andself-control. 

"If the day comes, " Lynda told Betty, "when my work interferes with myduty to Con and Ann, it will go! But more and more I am inclined tothink that the interference is a matter of choice. I prefer myprofession to--well, other things. "

"Of course, " Betty agreed; "women should not be forever coddling theiroffspring, and when they learn to call things by their right names anddevelop some initiative, they won't whine so much. "

Lynda and Truedale had sadly abandoned the hope of children of theirown. It was harder for Lynda than for Con, but she accepted what seemedher fate and thanked heaven anew for little Ann and the sure sense thatshe could love her without reserve. 

And then, after the years of change and readjustment, Lynda's boy wasborn! He seemed to crown everything with a sacred meaning. Not withoutgreat fear and doubt did Lynda go down into the shadow; not without anagony of apprehension did Truedale go with her to the boundary overwhich she must pass alone to accept what God had in store for her. Theyremembered with sudden and sharp anxiety the peril that Betty hadendured, though neither spoke of it; and always they smiled courageouslywhen most their hearts failed. 

Then came the black hours of suffering and doubt. A wild storm wasbeating outside and Truedale, hearing it, wondered whether all the greatevents of his life were to be attended by those outbursts of nature. Hewalked the floor of his room or hung over Lynda's bed, and at midnight, when she no longer knew him or could soothe him by her brave smile, hewent wretchedly away and upon the dim landing of the stairs came uponAnn, crouching white and haggard. 

His nerves were at the breaking point and he spoke sharply. 

"Why are you not in bed?" he asked. 

"While--mommy-Lyn is--in--there?" gasped the girl, turning reproachfuleyes up to him. "How--could I?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Always; always!"

"Ann, you must go to your room at once! Come, I will go with you. " Sherose and took his hand. There was fear in her eyes. 

"Is--is mommy-Lyn--" she faltered, and Truedale understood. 

"Good God!--no!" he replied; "not that!"

"I was to--to stay close to you. " Ann was trembling as she walkedbeside him. "She gave you--to me! She gave you to me--to keep for her!"

Truedale stopped short and looked at Ann. Confusedly he grasped themeaning of the tie that held this child to Lynda--that held them all tothe strong, loving woman who was making her fight with death, for alife. 

"Little Ann, " was all he could say, but he bent and kissed the childsolemnly. 

When morning dawned, Lynda came back--bringing her little son with her. God had spoken!

Truedale, sitting beside her, one hand upon the downy head that hadnearly cost so much, saw the mother-lips move. 

"You--want--the baby?" he asked. 

"I--I want little Ann. " Then the white lids fell, shutting away the weaktears. 

"Lyn, the darling has been waiting outside your door all night--Iimagine she is there now. "

"Yes, I know. I want her. "

"Are you able--just now, dear?"

"I--must have little Ann. "

So Ann came. She was white--very much awed; but she smiled. Lynda didnot open her eyes at once; she was trying to get back some of the oldself-control that had been so mercilessly shattered during the hours ofher struggle, but presently she looked up. 

"You--kept your word, Ann, " she said. Then: "You--you made a place formy baby. Little Ann--kiss your--brother. "

They named the baby for William Truedale and they called him Billy, indeference to his pretty baby ways. 

"He must be Uncle William's representative, " said Lynda, "as Bobbie isthe representative of Betty's little dead boy. "

"I often think of--the money, Lyn. " Truedale spoke slowly and seriously. "How I hated it; how I tried to get rid of it! But when it is usedrightly it seems to secure dignity for itself. I've learned to respectit, and I want our boy to respect it also. I want to put it on a firmfoundation and make it part of Billy's equipment--a big trust for whichhe must be trained. "

"I think I would like his training to precede his knowledge of the moneyas far as possible, " Lynda replied. "I'd like him to put up a bit of afight--as his father did before him. "

"As his father did _not_!" Truedale's eyes grew gloomy. "I'm afraid, Lyn, I'm constructed on the modelling plan--added to, built up. Somefellows are chiselled out. I wonder--about little Billy. "

"Somehow"--Lynda gave a little contented smile--"I am not afraid forBilly. But I would not take the glory of conflict from him--no! not forall Uncle William's money! He must do his part in the world and findhis place--not the place others may choose for him. "

"You're going to be sterner with him than you are with Ann, aren't you, Lyn?" Truedale meant this lightly, but Lynda looked serious. 

"I shall be able to, Con, for Billy brought something with him that Annhad to find. "

"I see--I see! That's where a mother comes in strong, my dear. "

"Oh! Con, it's where she comes in with fear and trembling--but with anawful comprehension. "

This "comprehension" of the responsibilities of maternity worked forwardand backward with Lynda much to Truedale's secret amusement. Confidentof her duty to her son, she interpreted her duty to Ann. While Billy, red-faced and roving-eyed, gurgled or howled in his extreme youth, Lyndaretraced her steps and commandingly repaired some damages in hertreatment of Ann. 

"Ann, " she said one day, "you must go to school. "

"Why?" Ann naturally asked. She was a conscientious little student andextremely happy with the governess who came daily to instruct her. 

"You study and learn splendidly, Ann, but you must have--have childrenin your life. You'll be queer. "

"I've got Bobbie, and now Billy. "

"Ann, do not argue. When Billy is old enough to go to school he isgoing, without a word! I've been too weak with you, Ann--you'llunderstand by and by. "

The new tone quelled any desire on Ann's part to insist further; she wasrather awed by this attitude. So, with a lofty, detached air Miss Annwent to school. At first she imbibed knowledge under protest, much asshe might have eaten food she disliked but which she believed was goodfor her. Then certain aspects of the new experience attracted andawakened her. From the mass of things she ought to know, she clutched atthings she wanted to know. From the girls who shared her school hours, she selected congenial spirits and worshipped them, while the others, for her, did not exist. 

"She's so intense, " sighed Lynda; "she's just courting suffering. Shelavishes everything on them she loves and grieves like one without hopewhen things go against her. "

"She's the most dramatic little imp. " Truedale laughed reminiscently ashe spoke--he had seen Ann in two or three school performances. "Ishouldn't wonder if she had genius. "

Betty looked serious when she heard this. "I hope not!" was all shesaid, and from then on she watched Ann with brooding eyes; she urgedLynda to keep her much out of doors in the companionship of Bobbie andBilly who were normal to a relieving extent. Ann played and enjoyed thebabies--she adored Billy and permitted him to rule over her with nolight hand--but when she could, she read poetry and talked of strange, imaginative things with the few girls in whose presence she became raptand reverent. 

Brace was the only one who took Ann as a joke. 

"She's working out her fool ideas, young, " he comforted; "let her alone. A boy would go behind some barn and smoke and revel in the idea that hewas a devil of a fellow. Annie"--he, alone, called her that--"Annie issmoking her tobacco behind her little barns. She'll get good and sick ofit. Let her learn her lesson. "

"That's right, " Betty admitted, "girls ought to learn, just as boysdo--but if I ever find _Bobbie_ smoking--"

"What will you do to him, Betty?"

"Well, I'm not sure, but I _do_ know I'd insist upon his coming frombehind barns. "

And that led them all to consider Ann from the barn standpoint. If shewanted the tragic and sombre she should have it--in the sunlight andsurrounded with love. So she no longer was obliged to depend on thequeer little girls who fluttered like blind bats in the crude of theiradolescent years. Lynda, Betty, Truedale, and Brace read bloodcurdlinghorrors to her and took her to plays--the best. And they wedged in adeal of wholesome, commonplace fun that presently awoke a response anddeveloped a sense of humour that gave them all a belief that the worstwas past. 

"She has forgotten everything that lies back of her sickness, " Lyndaonce said to Betty; "it's strange, but she appears to have begun fromthat. "

Then Betty made a remark that Lynda recalled afterward:

"I don't believe she has, Lyn. I'm not worried about Ann as you and Conare. Her Lady Macbeth pose is just plain girl; but she has depths wehave never sounded. Sometimes I think she hides them to prove hergratitude and affection, and because she is so helpless. She was nearlyfive when she came to you, Lyn, and I believe she does remember thehills and her mother!"

"Why, Betty, what makes you think this?" Lynda was appalled. 

"It is her eyes. There are moments when she is looking back--far back. She is trying to hold to something that is escaping her. Love her, Lyn, love her as you never have before. "

"If I thought that, Betty!" Lynda was aghast. "Oh! Betty--the poordarling! I cannot believe she could be so strong--so--terrible. "

"It's more or less subconscious--such things always are--but I think Annwill some day prove what I say. In a way, it's like the feeling I havefor--for my own baby, Lyn. I see him in Bobbie; I feel him in Bobbie'sdearness and naughtiness. Ann holds what went before in what is aroundher now. Sometimes it puzzles her as Bobbie puzzles me. "

About this time--probably because he was happier than he had ever beenbefore, possibly because he had more time that he could conscientiouslycall his own than he had had for many a well-spent year--Truedalerepaired to his room under the eaves, sneaking away, with a half-guiltylonging, to his old play! So many times had he resurrected it, then castit aside; so many hopes and fears had been born and killed by theinterruption to his work, that he feared whatever strength it might oncehave had must be gone now forever. 

Still he retreated to his attic room once more--and Lynda asked noquestions. With strange understanding Ann guarded that door like averitable dragon. When Billy's toddling steps followed his father Annwaylaid him; and many were the swift, silent struggles near the portalbefore the rampant Billy was carried away kicking with Ann's firm handstifling his outraged cries. 

"What Daddy doing there?" Billy would demand when once conquered. 

"That's nobody's business but Daddy's, " Ann unrelentingly insisted. 

"I--I want to know!" Billy pleaded. 

"Wait until Daddy wants you to know. "

Under the eaves, hope grew in Truedale's heart. The old play hadcertainly the subtle human interest that is always vital. He was sure ofthat. Once, he almost decided to take Ann into his confidence. The childhad such a dramatic sense. Then he laughed. It was absurd, of course!

No! if the thing ever amounted to anything--if, by putting flesh uponthe dry bones and blood into the veins, he could get it over--it was tobe his gift to Lynda! And the only thing that encouraged him as heworked, rather stiffly after all the years, was the certainty that attimes he heard the heart beat in the shrunken and shrivelled thing! Andso--he reverently worked on. 

CHAPTER XXII

Among the notes and suggestions sprinkled through the old manuscriptwere lines that once had aroused the sick and bitter resentment ofTruedale in the past:

 "Thy story hath been written long since. Thy part is to read and interpret. "

Over and over again he read the words and pondered upon his own changeof mind. Youth, no matter how lean and beggared it may be, craves andinsists upon conflict--upon the personal loss and gain. But as timetakes one into its secrets, the soul gets the wider--Truedale now wassure it was the wider--outlook. Having fought--because the fight waspart of the written story--the craving for victory, of the lesser sort, dwindled, while the higher call made its appeal. To be part of theuniversal; to look back upon the steps that led up, or even down, andhold the firm belief that here, or elsewhere--what mattered in themighty chain of many links--the "interpretation" told!

Truedale came to the conclusion that fatalism was no weak and spinelessphilosophy, but one for the making of strong souls. 

Failure, even wrong, might they not, if unfettered by the narrowlimitations of here and now, prove miracle-working elements?

Then the effect upon others entered into Truedale's musings as it had inthe beginning. The "stories" of others! He leaned his head at thisjuncture upon his clasped hands and thought of Nella-Rose! Thought ofher as he always did--tenderly, gently, but as holding no actual part inhis real life. She was like something that had gained power over anerrant and unbridled phase of his past existence. He could not make herreal in the sense of the reality of the men, women, and affairs that nowsternly moulded and commanded him. She was--she always would be tohim--a memory of something lovely, dear, but elusive. He could no longerplace and fix her. She belonged to that strange period of his life when, in the process of finding himself, he had blindly plunged forwardwithout stopping to count the cost or waiting for clear-sightedness. 

"What has she become?" he thought, sitting apart with his secret work. And then most fervently he hoped that what Lynda had once suggestedmight indeed be true. He prayed, as such men do pray, that theexperience which had enabled him to understand himself and life bettermight also have given Nella-Rose a wider, freer space in which to playher chosen part. 

He recalled his knowledge of the hill-women as Jim White had describedthem--women to whom love, in its brightest aspect, is denied. SurelyNella-Rose had caught a glimpse more radiant than they. Had it pointedher to the heaven of good women--or--?

And eventually this theme held and swayed the play--this effect of adeep love upon such a nature as Nella-Rose's, the propelling power--theredeeming and strengthening influence. In the end Truedale called hiswork "The Interpretation. "

And while this was going on behind the attic door, a seemingly slightincident had the effect of reinforcing Truedale's growing belief in hisphilosophy. 

He and Lynda went one day to the studio of a sculptor who had suddenlycome into fame because of a wonderful figure, half human, half divine, that had startled the sophisticated critics out of their usual calm. 

The man had done much good work before, but nothing remarkable; he hadtaken his years of labour with patient courage, insisting that they werebut preparation. He had half starved in the beginning--had graduallymade his way to what every one believed was a mediocre standstill; buthe kept his faith and his cheerful outlook, and then--he quietlypresented the remarkable figure that demanded recognition andappreciation. 

The artist had sold his masterpiece for a sum that might reasonably havecaused some excitement in his life--but it had not!

"I'm sorry I let the thing go, " he confided to a chosen few; "come andhelp me bid it good-bye. "

Lynda and Conning were among the chosen, and upon the afternoon of theircall they happened to be alone with him in the studio. 

All other pieces of work had been put away; the figure, in the bestpossible light, stood alone; and the master, in the most impersonal way, stood guard over it with reverent touch and hushed voice. 

Had his attitude been a pose it would have been ridiculous; but it wasso detached, so sincere, so absolutely humble, that it rose to theheight of dignified simplicity. 

"Thornton, where did you get your inspiration--your model?" Truedaleasked, after the beauty of the thing had sunk into his heart. 

"In the clay. Such things are always in the clay, " was the quiet reply. 

Lynda was deeply moved, not only by the statue, but by its creator. "Tell us, please, " she said earnestly, "just what you mean. I think itwill help us to understand. "

Thornton gave a nervous laugh. He was a shy, retiring man but he thoughtnow only of this thing he had been permitted to portray. 

"I always"--he began hesitatingly--"take my plaster in big lumps, squeeze it haphazard, and then sit and look at it. After that, it is amere matter of choice and labour and--determination. When this"--heraised his calm eyes to the figure--"came to me--in the clay--I saw itas plainly as I see it now. I couldn't forget, or, if I did, I beganagain. Sometimes, I confess, I got weird results as I worked; once, after three days of toil, a--a devil was evolved. It wasn't bad, either, I almost decided to--to keep it; but soon again I caught a glimpse ofthe vision, always lurking close. So I pinched and smoothed off andadded to, and, in the end, the vision stayed. It was in theclay--everything is, with me. If I cannot see it there, I might as wellgive up. "

"Thornton, that's why you never lost courage!" Truedale exclaimed. 

"Yes, that's the reason, old man. "

Lynda came close. "Thank you, " she said with deep feeling in her voice, "I do understand; I thought I would if you explained, and--I think yourmethod is--Godlike!"

Thornton flushed and laughed. "Hardly that, " he returned, "it's merelymy way and I have to take it. "

It was late summer when Truedale completed the play. Lynda and thechildren were away; the city was hot and comparatively empty. It was atime when no manager wanted to look at manuscripts, but if one wasforced upon him, he would have more leisure to examine it than he wouldhave later on. 

Taking advantage of this, Truedale--anxious but strangelyinsistent--fought his way past the men hired to defeat such a course, and got into the presence of a manager whose opinion he could trust. 

After much argument--and the heat was terrific--the great man promised, in order to rid himself of Truedale's presence, to read the stuff. Hehadn't the slightest intention of doing so, and meant to start it on itsdownward way back to the author as soon as the proper person--in shorthis private secretary--came home from his vacation. 

But that evening an actress who was fine enough and charminglytemperamental enough to compel attention, bore down through the heatupon the manager, with the appalling declaration that she was tired todeath of the part selected for her in her play, and would have none ofit!

"But good Lord!" cried the manager, fanning himself with hispanama--they were at a roof garden restaurant--"this is August--and yougo on in October. "

"Not as a depraved and sensual woman, Mr. Camden; I want to be for oncein my life a character that women can remember without blushing. "

"But, my poor child, that's your splendid art. You are a--anangel-woman, but you can play a she-devil like an inspired creature. Youdon't mean that you seriously contemplate ruining _my_ reputation andyour own--by--"

"I mean, " said the angel-woman, sipping her sauterne, "that I don't carea flip for your reputation or mine--the weather's too hot--but I'm notgoing to trail through another slimy play! No; I'll go into the moviesfirst!"

Camden twisted his collar; he felt as if he were choking. "Heavenforbid!" was all he could manage. 

"I want woods and the open! I want a character with a little, twisted, unawakened soul to be unsnarled and made to behave itself. I don't mindbeing a bit naughty--if I can be spanked into decorum. But when thecurtain goes down on my next play, Camden, the women are going out ofthe theatre with a kind thought of me, not throbbing withdisapproval--good women, I mean!"

And then, because Camden was a bit of a sentimentalist with a good dealof superstition tangled in his make-up, he took Truedale's play out ofhis pocket--it had been spoiling the set of his coat all theevening--and spread it out on the table that was cleared now of all butthe coffee and the cigarettes which the angel-woman--Camden did notsmoke--was puffing luxuriously. 

"Here's some rot that a fellow managed to drop on me to-day. I didn'tmean to undo it, but if it has an out-of-door setting, I'll give it aglance!"

"Has it?" asked the angel, watching the perspiring face of Camden. 

"It has! Big open. Hills--expensive open. "

"Is it rot?"

"Umph--listen to this!" Camden's sharp eye lighted on a vivid sentenceor two. "Not the usual type of villain--and the girl is rather unique. Up to tricks with her eyes shut. I wonder how she'll pan out?" Camdenturned the pages rapidly, overlooking some of Con's best work, butgetting what he, himself, was after. 

"By Jove! she doesn't do it!"

"What--push those matches this way--what doesn't she do?" asked theangel. 

"Eternally damn the man and claim her sex privilege of unwarrantedrighteousness!"

"Does she damn herself--like an idiot?" The angel was interested. 

"She does not! She plays her own little role by the music of theexperience she lived through. It's not bad, by the lord Harry! It's gotto be tinkered--and painted up--but it's original. Just look it over. "

Truedale's play was pushed across the table and the angel-woman seizedupon it. The taste Camden had given her--like caviar--sharpened herappetite. She read on in the swift, skipping fashion that would havecrushed an author's hopes, but which grasped the high lights and caughtthe deep tones. Then the woman looked up and there were genuine tears inher eyes. 

"The little brick!" said the voice of loveliness and thrills, "thesplendid little trump! Why, Camden, she had her ideals--real, fresh, woman-ideals--not the ideals plastered on us women by men, who wouldloathe them for themselves! She just picked up the scraps of her damagedlittle affairs and went, without a whimper, to the doing of the only jobshe could ever hope to succeed in. And she let the man-who-learned go!Gee! but that was a big decision. She might so easily have muddled thewhole scheme of things, but she didn't! The dear, little, scrimpy, patched darling. 

"Oh! Camden, I want to be that girl for as long a run as you can force. After the first few weeks you won't have to bribe folks to come--it'lltake hold, after they have got rid of bad tastes in their mouths andhave found out what we're up to! Don't count the cost, Camden. This is achance for civic virtue. "

"Do you want more cigarettes, my dear?"

"No. I've smoked enough. "

Camden drew the manuscript toward him. "It's a damned rough diamond, " hemurmured. 

"But you and I know it is a diamond, don't we, Camby?"

"Well, it sparkles--here and there. "

"And it mustn't be ruined in the cutting and setting, must it?" Theangel was wearing her most devout and flattering expression. She washandling her man with inspired touch. 

"Umph! Well, no. The thing needs a master hand; no doubt of that. Butgood Lord! think of the cost. This out-of-door stuff costs like allcreation. Your gowns will let you out easy--you can economize on _this_engagement--but have a heart and think of me!"

"I--I do think of you, Camby. You know as well as I that New York is atyour beck and call. What you say--goes! Call them now to see somethingthat will make them sure the world isn't going to the devil, Camden. Inthis scene"--and here the woman pulled the manuscript back--"when thatlittle queen totes her heavy but sanctified heart up the trail, men andwomen will shed tears that will do them good--tears that will make themsee plain duty clearer. Men and--yes, women, too, Camby--_want_ to bedecent, only they've lost the way. This will help them to find it!"

"We've got to have two strong men. " Camden dared not look at thepleading face opposite. But something was already making him agree withit. 

"And, by heavens, I don't know of but one who isn't taken. "

"There's a boy--he's only had minor parts so far--but I want him for theman-who-learned-his-lesson. You can give the big wood-giant to JohnHarrington--I heard to-day that he was drifting, up to date--but I wantTimmy Nichols for the other part. "

"Nichols? Thunder! He's only done--what in the dickens has he done? Iremember him, but I can't recall his parts. "

"That's it! That's it! Now I want him to drive his part home--withhimself!"

Camden looked across at the vivid young face that a brief but brilliantcareer had not ruined. 

"I begin to understand, " he muttered. 

"Do you, Camden? Well, I'm only beginning to understand myself!"

"Together, you'll be corking!" Camden suddenly grew enthusiastic. 

"Won't we? And he did so hate to have me slimy. No one but Timmy and mymother ever cared!"

"We'll have this--this fellow who wrote the play--what's his name?"

"Truedale. " The woman referred to the manuscript. 

"Yes. Truedale. We'll have him to dinner to-morrow. I'll get Harringtonand Nichols. Where shall we go?"

"There's a love of a place over on the East Side. They give you suchgood things to eat--and leave you alone. "

"We'll go there!"

It was November before the rush and hurry of preparation were over andTruedale's play announced. His name did not appear on it so his peoplewere not nerve-torn and desperate. Truedale often was, but he managed tohide the worst and suffer in silence. He had outlived the anguish ofseeing his offspring amputated, ripped open, and stuffed. He had come tothe point where he could hear his sacredest expressions denounced as rotand supplanted by others that made him mentally ill. But in the end heacknowledged, nerve-racked as he was, that the thing of which he haddreamed--the thing he had tried to do--remained intact. His eyes weremoist when the curtain fell upon his "Interpretation" at the finalrehearsal. 

Then he turned his attention to his personal drama. He chose his box;there were to be Lynda and Ann, Brace and Betty, McPherson and himselfin it. Betty, Brace, and the doctor were to have the three frontchairs--not because of undue humility on the author's part, but becausethere would, of course, be a big moment of revelation--a moment whenLynda would know! When that came it would be better to be where curiouseyes could not behold them. Perhaps--Truedale was a bit anxious overthis--perhaps he might have to take Lynda away after the first act, andbefore the second began, in order to give her time and opportunity torally her splendid serenity. 

And after the play was over--after he knew how the audience had takenit--there was to be a small supper--just the six of them--and duringthat he would confess, for better or worse. He would revel in their joy, if success were his, or lean upon their sympathy if Fate proved unkind. 

Truedale selected the restaurant, arranged for the flowers, and thengrew so rigidly quiet and pale that Lynda declared that the summer intown had all but killed him and insisted that he take a vacation. 

"We haven't had our annual honeymoon trip, Con, " she pleaded; "let'stake it now. "

"We'll--we'll go, Lyn, just before Christmas. "

"Not much!" Lynda tossed her head. "It will take our united efforts fromDecember first until after Christmas to meet the demands of Billy andAnn. "

"But, Lyn, the theatre season has just opened--and--"

"Don't be a silly, Con. What do we care for that? Besides, we can go tosome place where there are theatres. It's too cold to go into thewilds. "

"But New York is _the_ place, Lyn. "

"Con, I never saw you so obstinate and frivolous. Why, you're thin andpale, and you worry me. I will never leave you again during the summer. Ann was edgy about it this year. She told me once that she felt all thehotness you were suffering. I believe she did! _Now_ will you come awayfor a month?"

"I--I cannot, Lyn. "

"For two weeks, then? One?"

"Darling, after next week, yes! For a week or ten days. "

"Good old Con! Always so reasonable and--kind, " Lynda lifted her happyface to his. .. . 

But things did not happen as Truedale arranged--not all of them. Therewas a brief tussle, the opening night of the play, with McPherson. Hedidn't see why he should be obliged to sit in the front row. 

"I'm too tall and fat!" he protested; "it's like putting me onexhibition. Besides, my dress suit is too small for me and myshirt-front bulges and--and I'm not pretty. Put the women in front, Truedale. What ails you, anyway?"

Conning was desperate. For a moment it looked as if the burly doctorwere going to defeat everything. 

"I hate plays, you know!" McPherson was mumbling; "why didn't you bringus to a musical comedy or vaudeville? Lord! but it's hot here. "

Betty, watching Truedale's exasperated face, came to his assistance. 

"When at a party you're asked whether you will have tea or coffee, Dr. McPherson, " she said, tugging at his huge arm, "you mustn't say'chocolate, ' it isn't polite. If Con wants to mix up the sexes he has aperfect right to, after he's ruined himself buying this box. Do sit downbeside me, doctor. When the audience looks at my perfectly beautifulnew gown they'll forget your reputation and shirt-front. "

So, muttering and frowning, McPherson sat down beside Betty, and Bracein lamblike mood dropped beside him. 

"It's wicked, " McPherson turned once more; "I don't believe Ann can seea thing. "

"Yes, I can, Dr. McPherson--if you keep put! I want to sit betweenfather and mommy-Lyn. When I thrill, I have to have near me some oneparticular, to hold on to. "

"You ought to be in bed!"

Little Ann leaned against his shoulder. "Don't be grumpy, " shewhispered, "I like you best of all--when you're not the doctor. "

"Umph!" grunted McPherson, but he stayed "put" after that, until thecurtain went down on the first act. Then he turned to Truedale. He hadbeen laughing until the tears stood in his eyes. 

"Did that big woodsman make you think of any one?" he asked. 

"Did he remind _you_ of any one?" Truedale returned. He was weak withexcitement. Lynda, sitting beside him, was almost as white as the gownshe wore--for she had remembered the old play!

"He's enough like old Jim White to be his twin! I haven't laughed somuch in a month. I feel as if I'd had a vacation in the hills. "

Then the curtain went up on the big scene! Camden had spared noexpense. That was his way. The audience broke into appreciative applauseas it gazed at the realistic reproduction of deep woods, dim trails, anda sky of gold. It was an empty stage--a waiting moment!

In the first act the characters had been more or less subservient to thebig honest sheriff, with his knowledge of the people and his amazinginterpretation of justice. He had been so wise--so deliciouslyanarchistic--that the real motive of the play had only begun to appear. But now into the beautiful, lonely woods the woman came! The shabby, radiant little creature with her tremendous problem yet to solve. Through the act she rose higher, clearer; she won sympathy, she revealedherself; and, at the end, she faced her audience with an appeal that wassuccessful to the last degree. 

In short, she had got Truedale's play over the footlights! He knew it;every one knew it. And when the climax came and the decision wasmade--leaving the man-who-had-learned-his-lesson unaware of the divinerenunciation but strong enough to take up his life clear-sightedly; whenthe little heroine lifted her eyes and her empty arms to the trailleading up and into the mysterious woods--and to all that she knew theyheld--something happened to Truedale! He felt the clutch of a small coldhand on his. He looked around, and into the wide eyes of Ann! The childseemed hypnotized and, as if touched by a magic power, her resemblanceto her mother fairly radiated from her face. She was struggling forexpression. Seeking to find words that would convey what she wasexperiencing. It was like remembering indistinctly another country andscene, whose language had been forgotten. Then--and only Lynda andTruedale heard--little Ann said:

"It's Nella-Rose! Father, it's Nella-Rose!"

Betty had been right. The shock had, for a moment, drawn the veil aside, the child was looking back--back; she heard what others had called theone she now remembered--the sacreder name had escaped her!

"Father, it's Nella-Rose!"

Truedale continued to look at Ann. Like a dying man--or one suddenlyborn into full life--he gradually understood! As Ann looked at thatmoment, so had Nella-Rose looked when, in Truedale's cabin, she turnedher eyes to the window and saw his face!

This was Nella-Rose's child, but why had Lynda--? And with this thoughtsuch a wave of emotion swept over Truedale that he feared, strong as hewas, that he was going to lose consciousness. For a moment he struggledwith sheer physical sensation, but he kept his eyes upon the small, darkface turned trustingly to his. Then he realized that people were movingabout; the body of the house was nearly empty; McPherson, while helpingBetty on with her cloak, was commenting upon the play. 

"Good stuff!" he admitted. "Some muscle in that. Not the usual appeal tothe uglier side of life. But come, come, Mrs. Kendall, stop crying. It'sonly a play, after all. "

"Oh! I know, " Betty quiveringly replied, "but it's so human, Dr. McPherson. That dear little woman has almost broken my heart; but she'dhave broken it utterly if she had acted differently. I don't believe theauthor ever _guessed_ her! Somewhere she _lived_ and played her part. Ijust know it!"

Truedale heard all this while he watched the strained look fading fromAnn's face. The past was releasing her, giving her back to the safe, normal present. Presently she laughed and said: "Father, I feel soqueer. Just as if I'd been--dreaming. "

Then she turned with a deep, relieving sigh to Lynda. "Thank you forbringing me, mommy-Lyn, " she said, "it was the best play I've ever seenin all my life. Only I wish that nice actress-lady had gone with the manwho didn't know. I--I feel real sorry for him. And why didn't shego?--I'd have gone as quick as anything. "

The door had closed between Ann's past and her future! Truedale got uponhis feet, but he was still dazed and uncertain as to what he should donext. Then he heard Lynda say, and it almost seemed as if she spokefrom a distance she could not cross, "Little Ann, bring father. "

He looked at Lynda and her white face startled him, but she smiled thekind, true smile that called upon him to play his part. 

Somehow the rest of the plan ran as if no cruel jar had preceded it. Thesupper was perfect--the guests merry--and, when he could commandhimself, Truedale--keeping his eyes on Lynda's face--confessed. 

For a moment every one was quiet. Surprise, delight, stayed speech. ThenAnn asked: "And did you do it behind the locked door, father?"

"Yes, Ann. "

"Well, I'm glad I kept Billy out!"

"And Lyn--did you know?" Betty said, her pretty face aglow. 

"I--I guessed. "

But the men kept still after the cordial handshakes. McPherson wasrecalling something Jim White had said to him recently while he was withthe sheriff in the hills. 

"Doc, that thar chap yo' once sent down here--thar war a lot to himus-all didn't catch onter. "

And Brace was thinking of the night, long, long ago, when Conning threwsome letters upon the glowing coals and groaned!

CHAPTER XXIII

They were home at last in old William Truedale's quiet house. Conningwent upstairs with Ann. Generally Lynda went with him to kiss Anngood-night before they bent over Billy's crib beside their own bed. Butnow, Lynda did not join them and Ann, starry-eyed, prattled on about theplay and her joy in her father's achievement. She was very quaint anddroll. She ran behind a screen and dropped her pretty dress, and issuedforth, like a white-robed angel, in her long gown, her short brown curlsfalling like a beautiful frame around her gravely sweet face. 

Truedale, sitting by the shaded lamp, looked at her as if, in her truecharacter, she stood revealed. 

"Little Ann, " he said huskily, "come, let me hold you while we wait formommy-Lyn. "

Ann came gladly and nestled against his breast. 

"To think it's my daddy that made the splendid play!" she whispered, cuddling closer. "I can tell the girls and be so proud. " Then she yawnedsoftly. 

"Mommy-Lyn, I suppose, had to go and whisper the secret to Billy, " shewent on, finding as usual an excuse instead of a rebuke. "Billy's missedthe glory of his life because he's so young!"

Another--a longer yawn. Then the head lay very still and Truedale sawthat she was asleep. Reverently he kissed her. Then he bore her to thelittle bed behind the white screen, with its tall angels with broodingeyes. As he laid her down she looked up dreamily:

"I'm a pretty big girl to be carried, " she whispered, "but my daddy isstrong and--and great!"

Again Truedale kissed her, then went noiselessly to find Lynda. 

He went to their bedchamber, but Lynda was not there. Billy, rosy andwith fat arms raised above his pretty blond head, was sleeping--unconsciousof what was passing near. Truedale went and looked yearningly down athim. 

"My boy!" he murmured over and over again; "my boy. " But he did not kissBilly just then. 

There was no doubt in Truedale's mind, now, as to where he would findLynda. Quietly he went downstairs and into the dim library. The fire wasout upon the hearth. The gray ashes gave no sign of life. The ticking ofthe clock was cruelly loud; and there, beside the low, empty chair, knelt Lynda--her white dress falling about her in motionless folds. 

Truedale, without premeditation, crossed the room and, sitting in hisuncle's chair--the long-empty chair, lifted Lynda's face and held it inhis hand. 

"Lyn, " he said, fixing his dark, troubled eyes upon hers, "Lyn, who isAnn's father?"

Lynda had not been crying; her eyes were dry and--faithful!

"You, Con, " she said, quietly. 

During the past years had Lynda ever permitted herself to imagine howConning would meet this hour she could not have asked more than now hegave. He was ready, she saw that, to assume whatever was his to bear. His face whitened; his mouth twitched as the truth of what he heard sunkinto his soul; but his gaze never fell from that which was raised tohis. 

"Can you--tell me all about it, Lyn?" he asked. 

For an instant Lynda hesitated. Misunderstanding, Truedale added:

"Perhaps you'd rather not to-night! I can wait. I trust you absolutely. I am sure you acted wisely. "

"Oh! Con, it was not I--not I. It was Nella-Rose who acted wisely. Ileft it all to her! It was she who decided. I have always wanted, atleast for years, to have you know; but it was Nella-Rose's wish that youshould not. And now, little Ann has made it possible. "

And then Lynda told him. He had relinquished his hold upon her and satwith tightly clenched hands gazing at the ashes on the hearth. Lyndapressed against him, watching--watching the effect of every word. 

"And, Con, at first, when I knew, every fibre of my being claimed you!I wanted to push her and--and Ann away, but I could not! Then I tried toact for you. I saw that since Nella-Rose had been first in your life sheshould have whatever belonged to her; I knew that you would have it so. When I could bring myself to--to stand aside, I put us all into herkeeping. She was very frightened, very pitiable, but she closed her eyesand I knew that she saw truth--the big truth that stood guard over allour lives and had to be dealt with honestly--or it would crusheverything. I could see, as I watched her quiet face, that she wasfeeling her way back, back. Then she realized what it all meant. Out ofthe struggle--the doubt--that big, splendid husband of hers rosesupreme--her man! He had saved her when she had been most hopelesslylost. Whatever now threatened him had to go! Her girlhood dream fadedand the safe reality of what he stood for remained. Then she opened hereyes and made her great decision. Since you had never dishonoured her inyour thought, she would not have you know her as she then was!But--there remained little Ann! Oh! Con, I never knew, until Billy came, what Nella-Rose's sacrifice meant! I thought I did--but afterward, Iknew! One has to go down into the Valley to find the meaning ofmotherhood. I had done, or tried to do, my duty before, but Billy taughtme to love Ann and understand--the rest!"

There was silence for a moment. Among the white ashes a tiny red sparkwas showing. It glowed and throbbed; it was trying hard to findsomething upon which to live. 

"And, Lyn, after she went back to the hills--how was it with her?"

"She laid everything but your name upon the soul of her man. He neverexacted more. His love was big enough--divine enough--to accept. Oh!Con, through all the years when I have tried to--to do my part, thehusband of Nella-Rose has helped me to do it! Nella-Rose never lookedback--to Ann and me. Having laid the child upon the altar, she--trusted. "

"Yes, that would be her way. " Truedale's voice broke a bit. 

"But, Con, I kept in touch with her through that wonderful oldwoman--Lois Ann. I--oh! Con, I made life easier, brighter for them all;just as--as you would have done. Lois Ann has told me of the happinessof the little cabin home, of the children--there are three--"

A sharp pause caused Truedale to turn and look at Lynda. 

"And--now?" he asked. 

"Con, Nella-Rose died last year!"

The stillness in the room pressed close; even the clock's ticking wasunnoticed. The spark upon the hearth had become a flame; it had foundsomething upon which to feed. Like a radiant hope it rose, faded, thenleaped higher among the white ashes. 

"She went, Con, like a child tired of its play. She was with Lois Ann;it was the hill-fever, and she was mercifully spared the knowledge ofsuffering or--renunciation. She kept repeating that she saw beautifulthings; she was glad--glad to the last minute. Her children and husbandhave gone to Nella-Rose's old home. Lois Ann says they are savingeverybody! That's all, Con--all. "

Then Truedale, his eyes dim but undaunted, leaned and drew Lynda upuntil, kneeling before him, her hands upon his shoulders, they facedeach other. 

"And this is the way women--save men!" he said. 

"It is the way they try to save--themselves, " Lynda replied. 

"Oh, Con, Con, when will our men learn that it is the one life, the onegreat love that we women want?--the full knowledge and--responsibility?"

"My darling!" Truedale kissed the tender mouth. Then drawing her close, he asked:

"Do you remember that day in Thornton's studio--and his words? Lookingback at my life, I cannot understand--I may never understand--what theCreator meant, but I do know that it was all in the clay!"

Lynda drew away--her hands still holding him. Her brave smile wassoftening her pale face. 

"Oh! the dear, dear clay!" she whispered. "The clay that has beenpressed and moulded--how I love it. I also do not understand, Con, butthis I know: the Master never lost the vision in the clay. "

THE END