CHAPTER X

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

He had felt, for a moment, a little surprise that the bulk of his uncle's great fortune had gone to Dr. McPherson—an already rich and prosperous man; then he began to understand. Although McPherson was left free to act as he chose, there had evidently been an agreement between him and William Truedale as to the carrying out of certain affairs and, what was more startling and embarrassing, Conning was hopelessly involved in these. Under supervision, apparently, he was to be recognized 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 from being dissatisfied with the distribution of the fortune, he had been relieved 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 schemes outlined by McPherson, he knew that he would be miserably misunderstood.

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

"I ordered six months for you, Truedale," he exclaimed, viewing the result 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's own man?"

"I hadn't thought of him in just that way"—Conning reverted to his last memory of the sheriff—"but he probably showed another side to you. He has a positive reverence for you and I imagine he accepted me as a duty you 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 for government, as we poor wretches know it, is sublime; and yet he is the safest man I know. The law, he often told me, was like a lie; useful only to scoundrels—torn-down scoundrels, he called them.

"I tell you it takes a God's man to run justice in those hills! White's as simple and direct as a child and as wise as a judge ought to be. I wouldn'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 McPherson talked on, the dead uncle materialized so differently from the stupid estimate he had formed of him that a sense of shame overpowered him. Lynda had somewhat opened Truedale's eyes, but Lynda's love and compassion unconsciously coloured the picture she drew. Here was a hard-headed business man, a man who had been close to William Truedale all 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 past indifference and false pride seemed so despicable and egotistical—his return 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 to regain his own self-respect or hope to hold that of others, he must, to the exclusion of private inclination, rise as far as in him lay to the demands 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 he was inspired. It's a damnable pity that our stupidity and callousness prevent us realizing in life what we are quick enough to perceive in death—when it is too late! Truedale's faith in me, when I gave him so little to go by, is both flattering and touching. He knew he could trust me—and that knowledge is the best thing he bequeathed to me. But I expect you to do your part, boy, and by so doing to justify much that might, 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. Now there is a strip of land, which, should it suit our purpose, can be had at great advantage if taken at once, and for cash. We will run down to see 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 few days. I could start at once. You see I left rather suddenly and brought—"

But McPherson laughed and waved his hand in the wide gesture that disposed of hope and fear, lesser business and even death itself, at times.

"Oh! Jim won't tamper with anything. Certainly your traps are safe enough there. Such things can wait, but this land-deal cannot. Besides there are men to see: architects, builders, etc. The wishes of your uncle were most explicit. The building, you recall, was to be begun within 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 the tragic affairs of little Nella-Rose. Unless he was ready to lay bare his private reasons, Truedale saw he must wait a few days longer. And he certainly had no intention of confiding in McPherson.

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

"That's the way to talk!" McPherson rose and slapped Conning on the back. "I used to say to old Truedale, that if he had taken you more into his 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 and sensitive."

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

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

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

Well, he was ready to pay to the uttermost though it cost him the deepest heart-ache. As he was prepared to undertake the burden his uncle's belief in him entailed, so he was prepared, now that he saw things 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 and Brace with his amazing confession and expect them, in the first moment of shock, to open their hearts and understand him. He almost laughed, now, as he pictured the absurdity. And just then he drew himself up sharply and came to his conclusion.

He could not lay himself bare to any one as a sentimental ass; he must arrange things as soon as possible to return South; he would, just before starting, tell Lynda and Brace of his attachment for Nella-Rose. They would certainly understand why, in the stress and strain of recent events, he had not intruded his startling news before. He would neither ask nor expect sympathy or cooperation. He must assume that they could not 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 all the necessary conventions he had spurned so madly—he would bring her to his people and leave to her sweetness and tender charm the winning of that which he, in his blindness, had all but lost.

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

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

There was more, much more, of love and longing, of tender loyalty and passionate reassurance, and having concluded his letter he sealed it, addressed it, and putting it in an envelope with a short note of explanation to Jim White as to its delivery, etc., he mailed it with such 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 what carelessness mail matter was regarded in the hills, and winter had already laid its hold upon Pine Cone, he felt sure. So while he waited he plunged eagerly into each day's work and with delight saw how everything 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 in bringing her to the North.

But this hope and vision did not banish entirely Truedale's growing sorrow for the part he must inevitably take when the truth was known to Lynda and Brace. Harder and harder the telling of it appeared as the time drew near. Never had they seemed dearer or more sacred to him than now when he realized the hurt he must cause them. There were moments when 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 forgive and forget? And Brace—how could that frank, direct nature comprehend the fever of madness that had, in the name of love, betrayed the confidence and faith of a lifetime? Well, much lay in the keeping of the little mountain girl whose fascination and loveliness would plead mightily. Of Nella-Rose's power Truedale held no doubt.

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

That afternoon he had concluded the immediate claims of business, had arranged with McPherson for a week's absence, and meant in the evening to explain to Brace and Lynda the reason for his journey. He was going to start South on the morrow, whether a letter came or not. He had steeled himself for the crucial hour with his friends; had already, in his imagination, bidden farewell to the relations that had held them close through the past years. He believed, because he was capable of paying this heavy price for his love, that no further proof would be necessary 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 stand by 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 deserved better training.

There were three letters—one from a man whose son Truedale had tutored before he went away, one from the architect of the new hospital, and a bulky one from Dr. McPherson. Truedale carried them all into the library where Brace sat comfortably puffing away before the fire; and Lynda, some designs for interior decoration spread out before her on a low table, still humming, rocked gently to and fro in a very feminine rocker. Conning drew up a chair opposite Kendall and tore open the envelope from his late patron.

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

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

"Oh! I say, Lyn!" Truedale turned from his second letter. "Morgan suggests that you attend to the decorating and furnishing of the hospital. I told him to choose his man and he prefers you if I have no objection. Objection? Good Lord, I never thought of you. I somehow considered 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 words before him stood out illumined.

"Sir—Mister Truedale." The sheriff had evidently been sorely perplexed as 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 on almost 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 feel his way through the tangle of words and catch a meaning—false, ridiculously false of course, but none the less designed as an explanation and excuse. Then the non-essentials dropped away and one bald fact remained! Truedale sank back in his chair, turned off the electric 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 make his way out of the maze into which he had been thrown. Slowly he recovered from the effect of the staggering blow and presently got to the point where he felt it was all a cruel lie or a stupid jest. There he paused. Jim was not the kind to lie or joke about such a thing. It was a mistake—surely a mistake. He would go at once to Pine Cone and make everything right. Nella-Rose could not act alone. Tradition, training, conspired to unfit her for this crisis; but that she had gone from 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 the address—she was keen and quick, even though she was helpless to cope with the lawlessness of her mountain environment. Truedale saw the necessity of caution, not for himself, but for Nella-Rose. He could not go, unaided, to search for her. Evidently there had been wild doings after he left; no one but White and Nella-Rose knew of his actual existence—he must utilize White in assisting him, but above all he must expect that Nella-Rose would make her whereabouts known. Never for a moment did he doubt her or put any credence in the conclusions White had drawn. How little Jim really knew! By to-morrow word would come from Nella-Rose; somehow she would manage, once she was safe from being followed, to get to the station and telegraph. But there could be no leaving the girl in the hills after this; he must, as soon as he located her, 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 himself unmercifully in the still room where his two friends, one believing him asleep, waited for his awakening.

Well, he was awake at last, thank God! The only difference between him and a creature such as good men and women abhor was that he meant to retrieve, as far as in him lay, the past error and injustice. All his future life should prove his purpose. And then, like a sweet fragrance or a spirit touch, his love pleaded for him. He had been weak, but not vicious. The unfettered life had clouded his reason, and his senses had played him false, but love was untarnished—and it was love. That girl of the hills was the same now as she had always been. She would accept him and his people and he would make her life such that, once the homesickness for the hills was past, she would have no regrets.

Then another phase held Truedale's thought. In that day when Nella-Rose accepted, in the fullest sense, his people and his people's code—how would he stand in her eyes? A groan escaped him, then another, and he started 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 once you 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 her laugh, "but it was the kind that eludes—words. The creeping, eating impression—sort of nightmare. Good Lord! how nerves play the deuce with you."

Brace Kendall did not speak. From his place he had been watching Truedale, for the firelight had betrayed the truth. Truedale had not been sleeping: Truedale had been terribly upset by that last letter of his!

And just then Conning leaned forward and threw his entire mail upon the blazing logs!



CHAPTER XI

For Truedale to await, calmly, further developments was out of the question. He did, however, force himself to act as sanely as possible. He felt confident that Nella-Rose, safely hidden and probably enjoying it in her own elfish way, would communicate with him in a few days at the latest, now that things had, according to White, somewhat settled into shape after the outlaw Lawson had taken himself off the scene.

To get to the station and telegraph would mean quite a feat for Nella-Rose at any time, and winter was in all likelihood already gripping the hills. To write and send a letter might be even more difficult. So Truedale reasoned; so he feverishly waited, but he was not idle. He rented a charming little suite of rooms, high up in a new apartment house, and begged Lynda to set them in order at once. Somehow he believed that in the years ahead, after she understood, Lynda would be glad that he had asked this from her.

"But why the hurry, Con?" she naturally questioned; "if people are going to 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 the luxuries I've always dreamed of."

"I had thought," Lynda's clear eyes clouded, "that your uncle's house would be your home at last. It is big enough for us all—we need not run against each other."

"Keep my room under the roof, Lyn." Truedale looked at her yearningly and she—misunderstood! "I shall often come to that—to you and Brace—but humour me in this fancy of mine."

So she humoured him—working early and late—putting more of her own heart in it than he was ever to know, for she believed—poor girl—that he would offer it to her some day and then—when he found out about the money—how exactly like a fairy tale it all would be! And Lynda had had so few fairy tales in her life.

And while she designed and Conning watched and suggested, they talked of his long-neglected work.

"You'll have time soon, Con, to give it your best thought. Did you do much while you were away?"

"Yes, Lyn, a great deal!" Truedale was sitting by the tiny hearth in his diminutive living room. He and Lynda had demanded, and finally succeeded in obtaining an open space for real logs; disdaining, much to the owner's amazement, an asbestos mat or gas monstrosity. "I really put blood in the thing."

"And when may I hear some of it? I'm wild to get back to our beaten tracks."

Truedale raised his eyes, but he was looking beyond Lynda; he was seeing Nella-Rose in the nest he was preparing for her.

"Soon, Lyn. Soon. And when you do—you, of all the world, will understand, sympathize, and approve."

"Thank you, Con, thank you. Of course I will, but it is good to have you know it! Let me see, what colour scheme shall we introduce in the living room?"

"Couldn't we have a sort of blue-gray; a rather smoky tint with sunshine in 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 real colour."

"There will be. But put what you choose, Lyn, it will surely be all right."

"Suppose, then, we make it golden brown, or—dull, soft reds?"

Truedale recalled the shabby little shawl that Nella-Rose had worn before 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 the South. While he would not acknowledge it to his anxious heart, he realized 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 been mistakes enough, heaven knew; he must no longer play the fool.

And then when the little gilded cage was ready, Truedale conceived his big and desperate idea. Two weeks had passed since Jim White's letter and no telegram or note had come from Nella-Rose. Neither love nor caution could wait longer. Truedale decided to go to Pine Cone. Not as a returned traveller, certainly not—at first—to White, but to Lone Dome, and there, passing himself off as a chance wayfarer, he would gather as much truth as he could, estimate the value of it, and upon it take his future course. In all probability, he thought—and he was almost gay now that he was about to take matters into his own hands—he would ferret out the real facts and be back with his quarry before another week. It was merely a matter of getting the truth and being on the spot.

Nella-Rose's family might, for reasons of their own, have deceived Jim White. Certainly if they did not know at the time of Nella-Rose's whereabouts they would, like others, voice the suspicion of the hills; but by now they would either have her with them or know positively where she was. For all his determination to believe this, Truedale had his moments 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 once to headquarters. He would remain, too, until Peter Greyson was sober enough to state facts. He recalled clearly Jim's estimate of Greyson and his dual nature depending so largely upon the effect of the mountain whisky.

It was late November when Truedale set forth. No one made any objection to his going now. Things were running smoothly and if he had to go at all to straighten out any loose ends, he had better go at once.

To Lynda the journey seemed simple enough. Truedale had left, among other belongings, his manuscript and books. Naturally he would not trust them to another's careless handling.

At Washington, Truedale bought a rough tramping rig and continued his journey with genuine enjoyment of the adventure. Now that he was nearing the 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 her small, 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 and White's misconception.

Truedale proceeded by deliberate stages. He wanted to gather all he possibly could as a foundation upon which to build. The first day after he left the train at the station—and it had bumped at the end of the rails just as it had on his previous trip—he walked to the Centre and there encountered Merrivale.

"Well, stranger," the old man inquired, "whar yer goin', if it ain't askin' too much?"

And Truedale expansively explained. He was tramping through the mountains for pure enjoyment; had heard of the hospitality he might expect 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 soon learned his lesson and absorbed what was offered without openly claiming more. He remained over night with Merrivale and stocked up the next morning from the store.

He had heard much, but little to any purpose. He carried away with him a pretty clear picture of Burke Lawson who, by Merrivale's high favour, appeared heroic. The storm, the search, Lawson's escape and supposed carrying 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 upon Peter, sober and surprisingly respectable, sunning himself on the west side of the house.

The first glance at the stately old figure, gone to decay like a tree with dead rot, startled and amazed Truedale and he thanked heaven that the master of Lone Dome was himself and therefore to be relied upon; no one could possibly suspect Peter of cunning or deceit in his present condition.

Greyson greeted the stranger cordially. He was in truth desperately forlorn and near the outer edge of endurance. An hour more and he would have defied the powers that had recently taken control of him, and made for the still in the deep woods; but the coming of Truedale saved him from that and diverted his tragic thoughts.

The fact was Marg and Jed had gone away to be married. Owing to the death of the near-by minister in the late storm, they had to travel a considerable distance in order to begin life according to Marg's strict ideas of propriety. Before leaving she had impressed upon her father the necessity of his keeping a clear head in her absence.

"We-all may be gone days, father," she had said, "and yo' certainly do drop 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 the evening 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 drop in yo' own home? But fo' she started forth Marg spilled every jug onto the 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 to agree with your daughter; and—" raising the concoction Peter had evolved—"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 in the 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 reason Peter shrank from leaving his guest. Then, risking a great deal, Truedale asked nonchalantly:

"Have you other children besides this daughter who is on her wedding trip? It's rather hard—leaving you alone to shift for yourself."

Greyson was alert. Not only did he share the mountain dweller's wariness of question, but he instantly conceived the idea that the stranger had heard gossip and he was in arms to defend his own. His ancestors, who long ago had shielded the recreant great-aunt, were no keener than Peter now was to protect and preserve the honour of the little girl who, by her recent acts—and Greyson had only Jed's words and the mountain talk to go by—had aroused in him all that was fine enough to suffer. And Greyson was suffering as only a man can who, in a rare period of sobriety, 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, at Truedale's question, the father of Nella-Rose, with the gesture inherited from a time of prosperity, rallied his forces and lied! Lied like 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 concerning what he heard. He, watching the weak and agonized face, believed Greyson was making the best of a sad business; but that he was weaving from whole cloth the garment that must cover the past, Truedale in his own misery never suspected. While he listened something died within him never 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's distorted face.

"Lil' Nella-Rose. I have to keep in mind her youth and enjoying ways or I'd be right hard on Nella-Rose. Yo' may have heard, while travelling about—o' Nella-Rose?" This was asked nervously—searchingly.

"I've—I've heard that name," Truedale ventured. "It's a name that—somehow clings and, being a writer-man, everything interests me."

Then Greyson gave an account of the trap episode tallying so exactly with White's version that it established a firm structure upon which to lay all that was to follow.

"And there ain't nothing as can raise a woman's tenderness and loyalty to 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 told her Burke had come back. Merrivale told me that. Naturally it upset her and 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 had played with and flouted but loved, without knowing it! Nella-Rose was like that. She lit on things and took her fun—but in the big parts she always did come out strong."

Truedale shifted his position.

"I reckon I'm wearying you with my troubles?" Greyson spoke apologetically.

"No, no. Go on. This interests me very much."

"Well, sir, Burke Lawson and Jed Martin came on each other in the deep woods the night of the big storm and Burke and Jed had words and a scene. Jed owned up to that. It was life and death and I ain't blaming any one and I have one thing to thank Burke for—he might have done different and left a stain on a lady's name, sir! He told Jed how he had seen Nella-Rose and how she had scorned him for being a coward, but how she 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, and he and Nella-Rose was going off to Cataract Falls where the Lawsons hailed from, on the mother's side."

"But—how do you know that your daughter kept her word? This Lawson may have been obliged to make away with himself—alone." Truedale grew more daring. 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 the hills. Well, a dog as can fetch a bone can carry one!" With that conclusion reached, Peter made his master stroke.

"I've heard from her," he half whispered.

"Heard from her?" gasped Truedale, and even then Greyson seemed unaware of 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—but trusty. Nella-Rose went with Lawson—she 'lowed she had to. He came on her in the woods and held her to her word. She said as how she wanted to—to come home, but Lawson set forth as how an hour might mean his life—and put it up to lil' Nella-Rose! He—he swore as how he'd shoot himself if she didn't go with him—and it was like Burke to do it. He was always crazy mad for Nella-Rose, and there ain't anything he wouldn't do when he got balked. She—she had ter go—or see Lawson kill himself; 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't worthy 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 tears ran down his lined face. Taking advantage of the tense moment Truedale asked desperately:

"Will you show me that letter, Mr. Greyson?"

So direct was the request, so apparently natural to the old man's unguarded suffering, that it drove superficialities before it and merely confirmed Greyson in his determination to save Nella-Rose's reputation at any cost. Ignoring the unwarrantable curiosity, alert to the necessity of quick defense, he said:

"I can't. I wish to Gawd I could and then I could stop any tongue what dares to tech my lil' gal's name."

"Why can you not show me the letter?" Truedale was towering above the old man. By some unknown power he had got control of the situation. "I have a reason for—asking this, Mr. Greyson."

"Marg burned it! It was allus Marg or lil' Nella-Rose for Lawson, and Nella-Rose got him! When Marg knew this fur certain, there was no length to which she—didn't go! This is my home, sir; I'm old—Marg is a good girl 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 the truth for lil' Nella-Rose. I know how the tongues are wagging and I have to sit still fo'—since Marg and Jed took up with each other—my future lies 'long o' them. I'm an old man and mighty dependent; time was when—" 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 and twitching of the outstretched hands, and feared what might be the result of trouble and enforced sobriety. He pulled a large flask from his pocket 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 before Truedale could control him.

"God bless yo'!" whined Greyson, sinking back into his chair, "bless and—and keep yo'!"

Truedale dared not leave the house though his soul recoiled from the sight before him. He waited an hour, watching the effect of the stimulant. Greyson grew mellow after a time—at peace with the world; he smiled foolishly and became maudlinly familiar. Finally, Truedale approached him again. He bent over him and shook him sharply.

"Did you tell me—the truth—about—Nella-Rose?" he whispered to the sagging, 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 time he left Greyson's until he knocked on the door of White's cabin; but it was broad daylight and bitingly cold when Jim flung the door open and looked at the stranger with no idea, for a moment, that he had ever seen him before. Then, putting his hand out wonderingly, he muttered:

"Gawd!" and drew Truedale in. Breakfast was spread on the table; the dogs 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 filled Truedale 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 what you 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." Truedale made 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's suffering; he no longer had any desire to let even White break through it. Once, during the afternoon, the sheriff spoke of Nella-Rose and without flinching Truedale listened.

"That gal will have Burke eatin' out o' her hand in no time. Lawson is all right at the kernel, all he needed was some one ter steady him. Once I 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 the pretty little thing; it would have been damnable to—to hurt her."

"I scrooged the main fact out o' old Pete, her father. There was a mighty lot o' talk in the hills, but I was glad ter get the facts and shut the mouths o' them that take ter—ter hissin' like all-fired scorpions! Nella-Rose had writ to her father, but Marg, the sister, tore the letter up in stormin' rage 'cause Nella-Rose had got the man she had sot 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 in the 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' put it—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't ever set his mind to no woman but Nella-Rose."

That night Truedale went to his old cabin. He built a fire on the hearth, drew the couch before it, and then the battle was on—the fierce, relentless struggle. In it—Nella-Rose escaped. Like a bit of the mist that the sun burns, so she was purified—consumed by the fire of Truedale's remorse and shame. Not for a moment did he let the girl bear a shadow of blame—he was done with that forever!—but he held himself before the judgment seat of his own soul and he passed sentence upon himself in terms that stern morality has evolved for its own protection. But from out the wreck and ruin Truedale wrenched one sacred truth to which he knew he must hold—or sink utterly. He could not expect any one in God's world to understand; it must always be hidden in his own soul, but that marriage of his and Nella-Rose's in the gray dawn after the storm had been holy and binding to him. From now on he must look upon the little mountain girl as a dear, dead wife—one whose childish sweetness was part of a time when he had learned to laugh and play, and forget the hard years that had gone to his un-making, not his upbuilding.



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 and papers were the excuse for his journey; for the rest, no one suspected nor—so thought Truedale—was any one ever to know. That part of his life-story was done with; it had been interpreted bunglingly and ignorantly to be sure, but the lesson, learned by failure, had sunk deep in his heart.

He arranged his private work in the little room under the eaves. He intended, if time were ever his again, to begin where he had left off when broken health interrupted.

In the extension room over William Truedale's bedchamber Lynda carried on her designing and her study; her office, uptown, was reserved for interviews and outside business. Her home workshop had the feminine touch 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 the cats were welcome in the pleasant room and sedately slept or rolled about while the mistress worked.

But Truedale, while much in the old home, still kept his five-room flat. He bought a good, serviceable dog that preferred a bachelor life to any other and throve upon long evening strolls and erratic feeding. There were plants growing in the windows—and these Conning looked after with conscientious care.

When the first suffering and sense of abasement passed, Truedale discovered that life in his little apartment was not only possible, but also his salvation. All the spiritual essence left in him survived best in 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 she gradually became to Truedale.

He plunged into business, as many a man had before him, to fill the gaps in his life; and he found, as others had, that the taste of power—the discovery that he could meet and fulfil the demands made upon him—carried him out of the depths and eventually secured a place for him in the world of men that he valued and strove to prove himself worthy of. He wisely went slowly and took the advice of such men as McPherson and his uncle's old lawyer. He grew in time to enjoy the position of trust as his duties multiplied, and he often wondered how he could ever have despised the common lot of his fellows. He deliberately, and from choice, set his personal tastes aside—time enough for his reading and writing when he had toughened his mental muscles, he thought. Lynda deplored this, but Truedale explained:

"You see, Lyn, when I began to carve the thing out—the play, you know—I had no idea how to handle the tools; like many fools with a touch of talent, I thought I could manage without preparation. I've learned better. You cannot get a thing over to people unless you know something of life—speak the language. I'm learning, and when I feel that I cannot help writing—I'll write."

"Good!" Lynda saw his point; "and now let's haunt the theatres—see the machinery in running order. We'll find out what people want and why."

So they went to the theatre and read plays. Brace made the wholesome third and their lives settled into calm enjoyment that was charming but which sometimes—not often, but occasionally—made Lynda pause and consider. It would not do—for Con—to fall into a pace that might defeat 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, least of all, realized the true significance.

Once in the early days of her secured self-support, William Truedale had said to her:

"You give too much attention, girl, to your tailor and too little to your dressmaker."

Lynda had laughingly called her friend frivolous and defended her wardrobe.

"One cannot doll up for business, Uncle William."

"Is business your whole life, Lynda? If so you had better reform it. If women are going to pattern their lives after men's they must go the whole way. A sensible man recognizes the need of shutting the office door sometimes and putting on his dress suit."

"Well, but Uncle William, what is the matter with this perfectly built suit? I always slip a fresh blouse on when I am off duty. I hate to be always changing."

"If you had a mother, Lynda, she would make you see what I mean. An old fungus like me cannot be expected to command respect from such an up-to-date humbug as you!"

They had laughed it off and Lynda had, once or twice, donned a house gown to please her critical friend, but eventually had slipped back into suits and blouses.

All of a sudden one day—it was nearing holiday time—she left her workroom at midday and, almost shamefacedly, "went shopping." As the fever got into her blood she became reckless, and by five o'clock had bought and ordered home more delicate and exquisite finery than she had ever owned in all her life before.

"It's scandalous!" she murmured to her gay, young heart, "an awful waste of good money, but for the first time, I see how women can get clothes-mad."

She devoted the hour and a half before dinner to locating an artistic dressmaker and putting herself in her hands.

The result was both startling and exciting. The first gown to come home was a dull, golden-brown velvet thing so soft and clinging and individual that it put its wearer into quite a flutter. She "did" and undid her hair, and, in the process, discovered that if she pulled the "sides" loose there was a tendency to curl and the effect was distinctly charming—with the strange gown, of course! Then, marshalling all her courage, she trailed down to the library and thanked heaven when she found the room empty. It would be easier to occupy the stage than to make a late entrance when the audience was in position. So Lynda sat down, tried to read, but was so nervous that her eyes shone and her cheeks were rosy.

Brace and Conning came in together. "Look who's here!" was Kendall's brotherly greeting. "Gee! Con, look at our lady friend!" He held his sister 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 no reason 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'll settle down. I have been a trifle prim in dress."

Like the giant's robe, Lynda Kendall's garments seemed to transform her and endow her with the attributes peculiar to themselves. So gradually, that it caused no wonder, she developed the blessed gift of charm and it coloured life for herself and others like a glow from a hidden fire.

All this did not interfere with her business. Once she donned her working garb she was the capable Lynda of the past. A little more sentiment, perhaps, appeared in her designs—a wider conception; but that was natural, for happiness had come to her—and a delicious sense of success. She, womanlike, began to rejoice in her power. She heard of John Morrell's marriage to a young western girl, about this time, with genuine 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 his happiness and all that sort of rot."

"Brace!"

"Well, it might be all right to another fellow, but it sounded out of tune, somehow, to me. He says she is the kind that has flung herself body 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 that once; 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 the next—if you don't stumble. If you do—you have to pick yourself up and go back. If John learned from me, I, too, have learned from him. I'm going to try to—love his wife."

"I bet she's a cross, somehow, between a cowboy and an idiot. John protested too much about her charms. She's got a sister—sounds a bit to me as if Morrell had married them both. She's coming to live with them after awhile. When I fall in love, it's going to be with an orphan out of 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 to entertain a little."

"Good Lord, Lyn!"

"Oh! modestly—until I can use my stiff little wings. A dinner now and then and a luncheon occasionally when I know enough nice women to make a decent showing. Clothes and women, when adopted late in life, are difficult. 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 of well-nourished men and women is at its fullest, while for them who fall below the normal, the necessity of the struggle for existence keys them to a high pitch. Not so in the deep, far mountain places. There, the inhabitants hide from the elements and withdraw into themselves. For weeks at a time no human being ventures forth from the shelter and comparative comfort of the dull cabins. Families, pressed thus close and debarred from the freedom of the open, suffer mentally and spiritually as one from the wider haunts of men can hardly conceive.

When Nella-Rose turned away from Truedale that golden autumn day, she faced winter and the shut-in terrors of the cold and loneliness. In two weeks the last vestige of autumn would be past, and the girl could not contemplate being imprisoned with Marg and her father while waiting for love 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 or question her in that cabin far back in the Hollow. And Lois Ann would while away the long hours by story and song. It seemed to her there was but one thing to do—and Nella-Rose did it! She fled to the woman whose name Truedale had barely heard.

It took her three good hours to make the distance to the Hollow and it was quite dark when she tapped on the door of the little cabin. To all appearances the place was deserted; but after the second knock a shutter to the right of the door was pushed open and a long, lean hand appeared holding a lighted candle, while a deep, rich voice called:

"Who?"

"Jes' Nella-Rose!"

The hand withdrew, the shutter was closed, and in another minute the door 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 a clean table, and in the cheer and safety Nella-Rose expanded and decided to take the old woman into her confidence at once and so secure present comfort until Truedale came back to claim her.

This Lois Ann, in whose sunken eyes eternal youth burned and glowed, was a 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 was but one sure passport to her sanctuary. That was—trouble! Once misfortune overtook one, sex was forgotten, but at other times it was understood that Miss Lois Ann had small liking or sympathy for men, while on the other hand she brooded over women and children with the everlasting strength of maternity.

It was suspected, and with good reason, that many refugees from justice passed through Miss Lois Ann's front door and escaped by other exits. Officers of the law had, more than once, traced their quarry to the dreary cabin and demanded entrance for search. This was always promptly given, but never had a culprit been found on the premises! White understood and admired the old woman; he always halted justice, if possible, outside her domain, but, being a hill-man, Jim had his suspicions which he never voiced.

"So now, honey, what yo' coming to me fo' this black night?" said Lois Ann to Nella-Rose after the evening meal was cleared away, the fire replenished, and "with four feet on the fender" the two were content. "Trouble?" The wonderful eyes searched the happy, young face and at the glance, Nella-Rose knew that she was compelled to confide! There was no choice. She felt the power closing in about her, she found it not so easy as she had supposed, to explain. She sparred for time.

"Tell me a right, nice story, Miss Lois Ann," she pleaded, "and of course it's no trouble that has brought me here! Trouble! Huh!"

"What then?" And now Nella-Rose sank to the hearthstone and bent her head on the lap of the old woman. It was more possible to speak when she could escape those seeking eyes. She closed her own and tried to call Truedale 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—that Lawson?" Lois Ann, for a moment, knew relief.

"It—it isn't Burke," the words came lingeringly. "Yes, I know he's back—is he here?" This affrightedly.

"No—but he's been. He may come again. His maw's always empty, but I will say this for the scoundrel—he gives more than he takes, in the long 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 young and 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 soft hair—the woman-heart was ready to bear another burden. Not a word did the closed lips utter while the amazing tale ran on and on in the gentle drawl. Consternation, even doubt of the girl's sanity, held part in the old woman's keen mind, but gradually the truth of the confession established itself, and once the fact was realized that a stranger—and such a one—had been hidden in the hills while this thing, that the girl was telling, was going on—the strong, clear mind of the listener interpreted 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; and I want to hide here till he comes to take me up, up into heaven with him. And no one else must know."

Lois Ann had torn the cawl from Nella-Rose's baby face—had felt, in her superstitious heart, that the child was mysteriously destined to see wide and far; and now, with agony that she struggled to conceal, she knew that to her was given the task of drawing the veil from the soul of the girl at her feet in order that she might indeed see far and wide into the kingdom of suffering women.

For a moment the woman fenced, she would put the cup from her if she could, like all humans who understand.

"You—are yo' lying to me?" she asked faintly, and oh, but she would have given much to hear the girl's impish laugh of assent. Instead, she saw 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 face and held it firmly while the firelight played full upon it, meanwhile the keen old eyes bored into Nella-Rose's very soul.

"But he—he is my man! You forget the—marrying on the hill, Miss Lois Ann!"

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 God care for women? It's the men as God made things for, and us-all has to fend them off—men and God are agin us women!"

"No, no! Let me free. I was so happy until—Oh! Miss Lois Ann, you shall 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 the pretty, quivering face.

"We'll wait—oh! certainly we-all will wait a week; two weeks; then three. An' we-all will hide close and see what we-all shall see!" A hard, pitiful laugh echoed through the room. "And now to bed! Take the closet back o' my chamber. No one can reach yo' there, chile. Sleep and dream and—forget."

And that night Burke Lawson, after an hour's struggle, determined to come forth among his kind and take his place. Nella-Rose had decided him. He was tired of hiding, tired of playing his game. One look at the face he had loved from its babyhood had turned the tide. Lawson had never before been so long shut away from his guiding star. And she had said that he might ask again when he dared—and so he came forth from his cave-place. Once outside, he drew a deep, free breath, turned his handsome face to the sky, and felt the prayer that another might have voiced.

He thought of Nella-Rose, remembered her love of adventure, her splendid courage and spirit. Nothing so surely could win her as the proposal he was about to make. To ask her to remain at Pine Cone and settle down with him as her hill-billy would hold small temptation, but to take her away to new and wider fields—that was another matter! And go they would—he and she. He would get a horse somewhere, somehow. With Nella-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 Jed Martin had materialized and made it imperative that he be dealt with summarily and definitely.

After confiding his immediate future to the subjugated Martin—having forced him to cover at the point of a pistol—Burke, with his big, wholesome laugh, crawled again out of the cave. Then, raising himself to his full height, he strode over the sodden trail toward White's cabin with the lightest, purest heart he had carried for many a day. But Fate had an ugly trick in store for him. He was half way to White's when he heard steps. Habit was strong. He promptly climbed a tree. The moon came out just then and disclosed the follower. "Blake's dawg," muttered Lawson and, as the big hound took his stand under the tree, he understood matters. Blake was his worst enemy; he had a score to settle about the revenue men and a term in jail for which Lawson was responsible. While the general hunt was on, Blake had entered in, thinking to square things, while not bringing himself into too much prominence.

"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 here goes."

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 a dash back, get White to help him, and bear off his prize, but for the moment 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, he had met with misfortune and, during that long, hard winter, unable to fend for himself, he was safely hidden by a timely friend and served by a doctor who was smuggled to the scene and well paid for his help and silence.

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 to the conversation of the first night but the girl was sure she was being watched and shielded and she felt the doubt and scorn in the attitude of Lois Ann.

"I'll—I'll send for my man," at last she desperately decided at the end of the second week. But she dared not risk a journey to the far station in order to send a telegram. So she watched for a chance to send a 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 the trail, on a cold, bitterly cold, November morning. He bore a load of "grateful gifts" to Lois Ann from men and women whom she had succoured in 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 the community. He carried mail into the remotest districts—when there was any to carry. He "toted" heavy loads and gathered gossip and spilled it liberally. He was impersonal, ignorant, and illiterate, but he did his poor best and grovelled at the feet of any one who showed him the least affection. He was horribly afraid of Lois Ann for no reason that he could 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 she gave and then darted away to eat it in comfort beyond the reach of those glances he dreaded.

And there Nella-Rose sought him and sat beside him with a choice morsel she had saved from her finer fare.

"Trim," she whispered when he was about to start, "here is a letter—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 for the letter and then keep the rest. And if you ever see Marg, and she asks about me—and whether you've seen me—tell her" (and here Nella-Rose's white teeth gleamed in the mischievous smile), "tell her you saw me walking in the Hollow with Burke Lawson!"

The dull fellow shook with foolish laughter. "I sho' will!" he said, and then tucked the letter and dollar bill in the breast of his shirt. "And now, lil' doney-gal, let me touch yo' hand," he pleaded, "this—er—way." And like a poor frayed, battered knight he pressed his lips to the small, brown hand of the one person who had always been kind to him.

At sunset Bill halted to eat his supper and warm his stiffened body. He tried 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 shield him from the cold, and utilized them to start the pine cones. He rested and feasted and later went his way. At the post office he searched among his rags for the letter and the money. Then his face went white as ashes:

"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." Then Bill explained the fire building but, recalling Lois Ann, withheld any further information.

"Here, you fool," Merrivale said not unkindly, "take all the papers you want. And take this old coat, too. And look, lad, in yo' wandering have yo' 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 he laughed his foolish laugh.

"I thought as much!" Merrivale nodded, with the trouble a good man knows at times in his eyes; but his faith in Burke coming to his aid. "You mean—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. Winter clutched and held Pine Cone Settlement in a deadly grip. Old people died and little children were born. Lois Ann, when it was physically possible, got to the homes of suffering and eased the women, while she berated the men for bringing poor souls to such dread passes. But always Nella-Rose hid and shrank from sight. No need, now, to warn her. A new and terrible look had come into her eyes, and when Lois Ann saw that creeping terror she knew that her hour had come. To save Nella-Rose, she believed, she must lay low every illusion and, with keen and deliberate force, she pressed the apple of the knowledge of life between the girlish lips. The bitter truth at last ate its way into the girl's soul and gradually hate, such as she had never conceived, grew and consumed her.

"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 in Truedale, the fine, first glow of pure faith and passion, untouched by the world's interpretation, faded and shrivelled forever.

The long winter hid the secret in the dreary cabin. The roads and trails were closed; none drew near for shelter or succour.

By springtime Nella-Rose was afraid of every living creature except the faithful soul who stood guard over her. She ran and trembled at the least sound; she was white and hollow-eyed, but her hate was stronger and fiercer than ever.

Early summer came—the gladdest time of the year. The heat was broken by soft showers; the flowers bloomed riotously, and in July the world-old miracle occurred in Lois Ann's cabin—Nella-Rose's child was born! With its coming the past seemed blotted out; hate gave place to reverent awe and tenderness. In the young mother the woman rose supreme and she would not permit her mind to hold a harmful thought.

Through the hours of her travail, when Lois Ann, desperate and frightened, had implored, threatened, and commanded that she should tell the name of the father of her child, she only moaned and closed her lips the firmer. But when she looked upon her baby she smiled radiantly and whispered to the patient old creature beside her:

"Miss Lois Ann, this lil' child has no father. It is my baby and God sent it. I shall call her Ann—cuz you've been right good to me—you sholy have."

So it was "lil' Ann" and, since the strange reticence and misunderstood joyousness remained, Lois Ann, at her wit's end, believing that death or insanity threatened, went secretly to the Greyson house to confess and get assistance.

Peter was away with Jed. The two hung together now like burrs. Whatever of relaxation Martin could hope for lay in Greyson; whatever of material comfort Peter could command, must come through Jed, and so they laboured, in slow, primitive fashion, and edged in a little pleasure together. Marg, having achieved her ambition, was content and, for the first time in her life, easy to get along with. And into this comparative Eden Lois Ann came with words that shattered the peace and calm.

In Marg's private thought she had never doubted that her sister had often been with Burke Lawson in the Hollow. When he disappeared, she believed Nella-Rose was with him, but she had supported and embellished her father's story concerning them because it secured her own self-respect and covered the tracks of the degenerate pair with a shield that they in no wise deserved, but which put their defenders in a truly Christian attitude.

Marg was alone in the cabin when Lois Ann entered. She looked up flushed and eager.

"How-de," she said genially. "Set and have a bite."

"I ain't got no time," the old woman returned pantingly. "Nella-Rose is down 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 I dare 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 a sudden she realized how useless it would be to voice the wild tale Nella-Rose held to. So she only nodded.

"I'll come with you," Marg decided at once, "and don't you let on to father or Jed—they'd do some killing this time, sure!"

Together the two made their way to the Hollow and found Nella-Rose in the quiet room with her baby nestling against her tender breast. The look on her face might well stay the reproaches on Marg's lips—she almost reeled back as the deep, true eyes met hers. All the smothered sisterliness came to the surface for an instant as she trembled and drew near 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), "tell me 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 to distraction.

"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 touch them. Go! Dying or mad—the girl belongs to me and not to such as has viper blood in their veins. Go!" And Marg went with the sound of Nella-Rose's crooning to her child ringing in her ears.

Things happened dramatically after that in the deep woods. Marg kept the secret of the Hollow cabin in her seething heart. She was frightened, fearing her father or Jed might discover Nella-Rose. But she was, at times, filled with a strange longing to see her sister and touch that wonderful 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 the Hollow as she dared to go. She hoped for news but none came; and it was late August when, one sunny noon, she confronted Burke Lawson!

Lawson's face was strange and awful to look on. Marg drew away from him in fear. She could not know but Burke had had a terrific experience that day and he was on the path for revenge and any one in his way must suffer. Freed at last from his captivity, he had travelled across the range and straight to Jim White. And the sheriff, ready for the recreant, greeted him without mercy, judging him guilty until he proved himself otherwise.

"What you done with Nella-Rose?" he asked, standing before Burke with slow fire in his deep eyes.

Lawson could never have been the man he was if he were not capable of holding 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 I swear I'll toss yo' ter the dogs, as is after you, with as little feelin' as I would if yo' were a chunk o' dead meat—if you've harmed that lil' gal."

"Well, I ain't harmed her, Jim. And now let's set down and talk it over. I want to—to bring her home; I want ter live a decent life 'mong yo'-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 reinstated friend, and gave him the gossip of the hills. Lawson ate because he was well-nigh starved and he knew he had some rough work ahead; he listened because he needed all the guiding possible and he shielded the name and reputation of Nella-Rose with the splendid courage that filled his young heart 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-Rose home and live like a man from now on. Wipe off my sins, Jim; make a place 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 a pretty clear idea of what had occurred. Not having heard any suggestion of Truedale, he was as ignorant of him as though Truedale had never existed. Jed, then, was the only man to hold guilty. Jed had, in passion and revenge, wronged Nella-Rose and had after, like the sneak and coward he was, sought to secure his own safety by marrying Marg. But what had they done with Nella-Rose? She had, according to White, disappeared the night that Jed had been tied in the cave. Well, Jed must confess and pay!—pay to the uttermost. But between him and Jed Marg now stood!

"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 awed Marg, 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 wronged that 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 all winter. No one but me knows; you've time to make good—before—before father and Jed get yo'."

Lawson took this like a blow between the eyes. He could not speak—for a moment he could not think; then a lurid fire of conviction burned into his very soul.

"So—that's it!" he muttered, coming so close to Marg that she shrank back afraid. "So that's it! Yo'-all have damned and all but killed the po' lil' girl—then flung her to—to the devil! You've taken the leavings—you! 'cause yo' couldn't get anything else. Yo' and Jed" (here Lawson laughed a fearless, terrifying laugh), "yo' and Jed is honourably married, you two, and she—lil' Nella-Rose—left to—" Emotion choked Lawson; then he plunged on: "He—he wronged her—the brute, and you took him to—to save him and yourself you—! And she?—why, she's the only holy 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 with you. Miss Lois Ann hid her—I only knew a week ago. I ain't told a soul!"

A look of contempt grew upon Burke's face and hardened there. He was thinking quick and desperately. In a vague way he realized that he had the reins in his hands; his only concern was to know whither he should drive. But, above and beyond all—deep true, and spiritual—were his love and pity for Nella-Rose.

They had all betrayed and deserted her. Not for an instant did Lawson doubt that. Their cowardice and duplicity neither surprised nor daunted him; but his pride—his sense of superiority—bade him pause and reflect before he plunged ahead. Finally he said:

"So you-all depend upon her safety for your safety! Take it—and be damned! 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 her will 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'm strong enough to outbid him with the devil, but from now on him and you—mind this well, Marg Greyson—him and you are to be our loving brother 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 things much as the old gentleman would have liked. Often Lynda Kendall, sitting beside the long, low, empty chair, longed to tell her old friend all about it. Strange to say, the recluse in life had become very vital in death. He had wrought, in his silent, lonely detachment, better even than he knew. His charities, shorn of the degrading elements of many similar ones, were carried on without a hitch. Dr. McPherson, under his crust of hardness, was an idealist and almost a sentimentalist; but above all he was a man to inspire respect and command obedience. No hospital 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 would say 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 already attracting wide attention. The finest men to be obtained were on the staff; specially trained nurses were selected; and Lynda had put her best thought and energy into the furnishing of the small rooms and spacious wards.

Conning, becoming used to the demands made upon him, was at last dependable, and grew to see, in each sufferer the representative of the uncle he had never understood; whom he had neglected and, too late, had learned to respect. He was almost ashamed to confess how deeply interested he was in the sanatorium. Recalling at times the loneliness and weariness of William Truedale's days—picturing the sad night when he had, as Lynda put it, opened the door himself, to release and hope—Conning sought to ease the way for others and so fill the waiting hours that less opportunity was left for melancholy thought. He introduced amusements and pastimes in the hospital, often shared them himself, and still attended to the other business that William Truedale's affairs involved.

The men who had been appointed to direct and control these interests eventually let the reins fall into the hands eager to grasp them and, in the endless labour and sense of usefulness, Conning learned to know content and comparative peace. He grew to look upon his present life as a kind of belated reparation. He was not depressed; with surprising adaptability he accepted what was inevitable and, while reserving, in the personal sense, his past for private hours, he managed to construct a philosophy and cheerfulness that carried him well on the tide of events.

It was something of a shock to him one evening, nearly three years after his visit to Pine Cone, to find himself looking at Lynda Kendall as if he had never seen her before.

She was going out with Brace and was in evening dress. Truedale had never seen her gowned so, and he realized that she was extremely handsome and—something more. She came close to him, drawing on her long, loose, white gloves.

"I cannot bear to go and leave you—all alone!" she said, raising her eyes to his.

"You see, John Morrell is showing us his brand-new wife to-night—and I couldn't resist; but I'll try to break away early."

"You are eager to see—Mrs. Morrell?" Truedale asked, and suddenly recalled the relation Lynda had once held to Morrell. He had not thought of 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 were trembling 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 and gets off scot-free as well?"

They looked at each other for a moment and then Lynda drew away her hand.

"Thanks, Con, and please miss us a little, but not too much. What will you do to pass the time until we return?"

"I think"—Truedale pulled himself up sharply—"I think I'll go up under the 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 neglecting better things. Good-night, Lyn. Tuck your coat up close, the night's bad."

And then, alone in the warm, bright room, Truedale had a distinct sense of Lynda having taken something besides herself away. She had left the room hideously lonely; it became unbearable to remain there and, like a boy, 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 Pine Cone! He laid it before him and presently became absorbed in reading it from the beginning. It was after eleven when he raised his tired eyes from the pages and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm like—all men!" he muttered. "All men—and I thought things had gone deeper with me."

What he was recognizing was that the play and the subtle influence that Nella-Rose had had upon him had both lost their terrific hold. He could contemplate the past without the sickening sense of wrong and shock that had once overpowered him. Realizing the full meaning of all that had gone into his past experience, he found himself thinking of Lynda as she had looked a few hours before. He resented the lesser hold the past still had upon him—he wanted to shake it free. Not bitterly—not with contempt—but, he argued, why should his life be shadowed always by a mistake, cruel and unpardonable as it was, when she, that little ignorant partner in the wrong, had gone her way and had doubtless by now put him forever from her mind?

How small a part it had played with her, poor child. She had been betrayed by her strange imagination and suddenly awakened passion; she had followed blindly where he had led, but when catastrophe had threatened one who had been part of her former life—familiar with all that was real to her—how readily the untamed instinct had reverted to its own!

And he—Truedale comforted himself—he had come back to his own, and his own had made its claim upon him. Why should he not have his second chance? He wanted love—not friendship; he wanted—Lynda! All else faded and Lynda, the new Lynda—Lynda with the hair that had learned to curl, the girl with the pretty white shoulders and sweet, kind eyes—stood pleadingly close in the shabby old room and demanded recognition. "She thinks," and here Truedale covered his eyes, "that I am—as I was when I began my life—here! What would she say—if she knew? She, God bless her, is not like others. Faithful, pure, she could not forgive the truth!"

Truedale, thinking so of Lynda Kendall, owned to his best self that because the woman who now filled his life held to her high ideals—would never lower them—he could honour and reverence her. If she, like him, could change, and accept selfishly that which she would scorn in another, she would not be the splendid creature she was. And yet—without conceit or vanity—Truedale believed that Lynda felt for him 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. She knew 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 this late day, tell Lynda of the past. For her sake he dare not venture any further concealment. Once she understood—once she recovered from her surprise and shock—she would be his friend, he felt confident of that; but she would be spared any deeper personal interest. It was Lynda's magnificent steadfastness that now appealed to Truedale. With the passing of his own season of madness, he looked upon this calm serenity of 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 to fall from what he knows a woman holds highest, and then look to her to change her ideals to fit his pattern?"

Arriving at this conclusion, Truedale wrapped the tattered shreds of his self-respect about him and accepted, as best he could, the prospect of Lynda's adjustment to the future.

Brace and Lynda did not return in time to see Truedale that night. At twelve, with a resigned sigh, he put away his play and went to his lonely rooms in the tall apartment farther uptown. His dog was waiting for him with the reproachful look in his faithful eyes that reminded Truedale that the poor beast had not had an outing for twenty-four hours.

"Come on, old fellow," he said, "better late than never," and the two descended to the street. They walked sedately for an hour. The dog longed to gambol; he was young enough to associate outdoors with license; but being a friend as well as a dog, he felt that this was rather a time for close comradeship, so he pattered along at his master's heels and once in a while pushed his cold nose into the limp hand 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 bunch of violets. Lynda telephoned on the second day and asked him if he were quite 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 hideous house and want me to get them out of the scrape by remodelling the inside. They're awfully rich and impossible—it's a sort of duty to the public, 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 that sweep everything before them. The bubbles danced on the pavements, the gutters ran floods, and fragments of umbrellas and garments floated incongruously on the tide.

Battling against the wind, Conning made his way to Lynda's. As he drew near the house the glow from the windows seemed to meet and touch him with welcome.

"I'll economize somewhere," Lynda often said, "but when darkness comes I'm always going to do my best to get the better of it."

Just for one blank moment Truedale had a sickening thought: "Suppose that welcome was never again for him, after this night?" Then he laughed derisively. Lynda might have her ideals, her eternal reservations, but she also had her superb faithfulness. After she knew all, she would still be his friend.

When he went into the library Lynda sat before the fire knitting a long strip of vivid wools. Conning had never seen her so employed and it had the effect of puzzling him; it was like seeing her—well, smoking, as some of her friends did! Nothing wrong in it—but, inharmonious.

"What are you making, Lyn?" he asked, taking the ottoman and drawing close to her.

"It—it isn't anything, Con. No one wants trash like this. It fulfils its mission when it is ravelled and knitted, then unravelled. You know what Stevenson says: 'I travel for travel's sake; the great affair is to move.' I knit for knitting's sake; it keeps my hands busy while my—my soul basks."

She looked up with a smile and Truedale saw that she was ill at ease. It was the one thing that unnerved him. Had she been her old, self-contained self he could have depended upon her to bear her part while he eased his soul by burdening hers; but now he caught in her the appealing tenderness that had always awakened in old William Truedale the effort to save her from herself—from the cares others laid upon her.

Conning, instead of plunging into his confession, looked at her in such a protecting, yearning way that Lynda's eyes fell, and the soft colour slowly crept in her cheeks.

In the stillness, that neither knew how to break, Truedale noticed the gown Lynda wore. It was blue and clinging. The whiteness of her slim arms showed through the loose sleeves; the round throat was bare and girlish in its drooping curve.

For one mad moment Truedale tried to stifle his conscience. Why should he not have this love and happiness that lay close to him? In what was he different from the majority of men? Then he thought—as others before him had thought—that, since the race must be preserved, the primal impulses should not be denied. They outlived everything; they rallied from shock—even death; they persisted until extinction; and here was this sweet woman with all her gracious loveliness near him. He loved her! Yes, strange as it seemed even then to him, Truedale acknowledged that he loved her with the love, unlike yet like the love that had been too rudely awakened in the lonely woods when he had been still incapable of understanding it.

Then the storm outside reached his consciousness and awakened memories that hurt and stung him.

No. He was not as many men who could take and take and find excuse. The very sincerity of the past and future must prove itself, now, in this throbbing, vital present. Only so could he justify himself and his belief in goodness. He must open his heart and soul to the woman beside him. There was no other alternative.