"Good Lord! Does any one ever take Betty seriously? I should think one of those board meetings would bear a strong family resemblance to an afternoon tea—rather a frivolous one."

"They don't. And, honestly, people are tremendously afraid of Betty. She makes them laugh, but they know she gets what she wants—and with a joke she drives her truths home."

"There's something in that." Truedale looked earnest. "She's a great Betty."

"So it's up to Betty and me, now," Lynda went on. "We can take off the shabby, faded little duds, but we've got to have something to put on at once, or the kiddies will take cold."

"Surely."

"We think that to start a child out in stripes is almost as bad as finishing him in them. To make a child feel—different—is sure to damn him."

"And so you are going to make the Saxe Home an example and set the ball rolling."

"Exactly, Con. And we're going to slam the door in the faces of the dramatic rich this Christmas. The lambies at the Saxe are going to have a nice, old-fashioned tree. They are going to dress it themselves the night before, and whisper up the chimney what they want—and there is not going to be a speech on Christmas Day within a mile of that Home!"

"That's great. I'd like to come in on that myself."

"You can, Con, we'll need you."

"Christmas always does set the children in one's thoughts, doesn't it? I suppose Betty is particularly keen—having had her baby for a day or so." Truedale's eyes were tender. Betty's baby and its fulfilled mission were sacred to him and Lynda.

"Betty is going to adopt a child, Con."

"Really?"

"Yes. She says she cannot stand Christmas without one. It's a rebuke to—to her boy."

"Poor little Bet!"

"Oh! it makes me so—so humble when I see her courage. She says if she has a dozen children of her own it will make no difference; she must have her first child's representative. She's about decided upon the one—he's the most awful of them all. She's only hesitating to see if anything awfuller will turn up. She says she's going to take a baby no one else will have—she's going to do the biggest thing she can for her own dead boy. As if her baby ever could be dead! Sometimes I think he is more alive than if he had stayed here and got all snarled up in earthly things—as so many do!"

Conning came close to Lynda and drew her head back against his breast.

"You are—crying, darling!" he said.

"It's—it's Betty. Con, what is it about her that sort of brightens the way for us all, yet dims our eyes?"

"She's very illuminating. It's a big thing—this of adopting a child. What does Brace think of it?"

"He adores everything Betty does. He says"—Lynda smiled up into the face above her—"he says he wishes Betty had chosen one with hair a little less crimson, but that doubtless he'll grow to like that tint better than any other."

"Lyn, have you ever thought of adopting a child?"

"Oh!—sometimes. Yes, Con."

"Well, if you ever feel that you ought—that you want to—I will be glad to—to help you. I see the risk—the chance, and I think I would like a handsome one. But it is Christmas time, and a man and woman, if they have their hearts in the right places, do think of children and trees and all the rest at this season. Still"—and with that Truedale pressed his lips to Lynda's hair—"I'm selfish, you seem already to fill every chink of my life."

"Con, that's a blessed thing to say to a woman—even though the woman knows you ought not to say it. And now, I'm going to tell you something else, Con. It's foolish and trifling, perhaps, but I've set my heart upon it ever since the Saxe Home got me to thinking."

"Anything in the world, Lyn! Can I help?"

"I should say you could. You'll have to be about the whole of it. Starting this Christmas, I'm going to have a tree—right here in this room—close to Uncle William's chair!"

"By Jove! and for—for whom?"

"Why, Con, how unimaginative you are! For you, for me, for Uncle William, for any one—any really right person, young or old—who needs a Christmas tree. Somehow, I have a rigid belief that some one will always be waiting. It may not be an empty-handed baby. Perhaps you and I may have to care for some dear old soul that others have forgotten. We could do this for Uncle William, couldn't we, Con?"

"Yes, my darling."

"The children cannot always know what they are missing, but the old can, and my heart aches for them often—aches until it really hurts."

"My dear girl!"

"They are so alike, Con, the babies and the very aged. They need the same things—the coddling, the play, the pretty toys to amuse them—until they fall asleep."

"Lynda, you are all nerves and fancies. Pretty ones—but dangerous. We'll have our tree—we'll call it Uncle William's. We'll take any one—every one who is sent to us—and be grateful. And that makes me think, we must have a particularly giddy celebration up at the Sanatorium. McPherson and I were speaking of it to-day."

"Con, I wonder how many secret interests you have of which I do not know?"

"Not many."

"I wonder!"

Truedale laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Well," he said, suddenly changing the subject, "talking about nerves reminds me that when the holidays are over you and I are going away on a honeymoon. After this we are to have one a year. We'll drop everything and indulge in the heaven-given luxury of loafing. You need it. Your eyes are too big and your face too pale. I don't see what has ailed me not to notice before. But right after Christmas, dear, I'm going to run away with you.... What are you thinking about, Lyn?"

"Oh, only the blessedness of being taken care of! It's strange, but I know now that all my life—before this—I was gazing at things through closed windows. Alone in my cell I looked out—sometimes through beautiful stained glass, to be sure—at trees waving and people passing. Now and then some one paused and spoke to me, but always with the barrier between. Now—I touch people—there is nothing to keep us apart. I'm just like everybody else; and your love and care, Con, have set the windows wide!"

"This will never do, Lyn. Such fancies! I may have to take you away before Christmas." Truedale spoke lightly but his look was anxious.

"In the meantime, let us go out for a walk in the snow. There's enough wind to make it a tussle. Come, dear!"



CHAPTER XX

Two days later Lynda came down from her workshop by the back stairs, and passed through William Truedale's bedchamber on the way to the library. It was only ten o'clock in the morning but Truedale had a habit, if he happened to be in the neighbourhood, of dropping in for a moment at this hour. If he should to-day Lynda wanted to confer with him about some details concerning the disrobing of the Saxe infants. She was particularly light hearted and merry. A telephone call from Betty had put her in the sunniest humour.

To her surprise, as she entered the library, she saw a small, most peculiar-looking woman sitting quite straight on the edge of a chair in the middle of the room.

It was a cast-iron rule that Lynda must not be disturbed at her morning work. Thomas generally disposed of visitors without mercy.

"Good morning!" Lynda said kindly. "Can I do anything for you? I am sorry you had to wait."

She concluded it was some one connected with the Saxe Home. That was largely in her mind at the moment.

"I want to see"—and here the strange little figure came to Lynda and held out a very dirty, crumpled piece of paper on which was written Truedale's name and address.

"Mr. Truedale may not be home until evening," Lynda said. And now she thought that this must be one of the private and pet dependents of Con's with whom she would deal very gently and tactfully. "I wonder if you won't tell me all about it and I will either tell Mr. Truedale or set a time for you to see him."

Glad of any help in this hour of extremity, the stranger said:

"I'm—I'm Nella-Rose. Do you know about me?"

Know about her? Why, after the first stunning shock, she seemed to be the only thing Lynda did know about—ever had known! She stared at the little figure before her for what seemed an hour. She noted the worried, pitiful child face that, screened behind the worn and care-lined features, looked forth like a pretty flower. Then Lynda said, weakly:

"Yes, I know about you—all about you, Nella-Rose."

The pitiful eyes brightened. What Nella-Rose had been through since leaving her hills only God understood.

"I'm right glad! And you—you are—"

"I'm Conning Truedale's—wife."

Somehow Lynda expected this to be a devastating shock, but it was not. Nella-Rose was past reservations or new impressions.

"I—I reckoned so," was all she said.

"You must sit down. You look very tired." Lynda had forgotten Truedale's possible appearance.

"I am right tired. It's a mighty long way from Pine Cone. And I was so—so frightened, but folks was certainly good and just helped me—to here! One old lady came to the door with me."

"Why—have you come, Nella-Rose?" Lynda drew her own chair close to the stranger's and as she did so, she could but wonder, now that she was herself again, how exactly Nella-Rose seemed to fit into the scene. She was like a recurrence—like some one who had played her part before—or were the scene and Nella-Rose but the materialization of something Lynda had always expected, always dreaded, but which she had always known must come some day? She was prepared now—terribly prepared! Everything depended upon her management of the crucial moments. Her kindness did not desert her, nor her merciful justice, but she meant to shield Truedale with her life—hers and Nella-Rose's, if necessary. "Why—have you—come?" she asked again, and Nella-Rose, taking for granted that this pale, strange woman did know all about her—knew everything and every one pertaining to her—fixed her sweet eyes, tear-filled but not overflowing, upon her face.

"I want—to tell him that I'm right sorry I hated him. I—I didn't know until Bill Trim died. I want to ask him to—to forgive me, and—then I can go back."

"What—did—Bill Trim tell you?" Lynda tried with all her strength to keep her mind cool, her thoughts steady. She wanted to lead Nella-Rose on and on, without losing the way herself.

"That he burned—he didn't mean to—he burned the letter I sent—asking—"

"I see! You wrote—a letter, then?"

"Yes. He told me, if I wanted him—and I did—Godda'mighty! how I wanted him then!" Nella-Rose clasped her poor little work-hardened hands close, and her small white teeth showed through the parted lips while she struggled to regain her calm.

"You see—when I gave the letter to Bill Trim, I—I told him—I had to—that it was Miss Lois Ann's, so he didn't think it mattered to me; but when he was dying—he was hurt on the big road they are making in the hills—he was brought to us-all, and Miss Lois Ann and I took care of him, and he grew right sorry for hating her and not telling about the letter—and then—he spoke it out!"

"I see. I see. And that was—how long ago—that you wrote the letter?"

Nella-Rose looked back over the weary way she had travelled, to this moment in the warm, sun-filled room.

"It was befo' lil' Ann came that I sent the letter," she faltered.

"Little Ann?" Lynda repeated the name and something terrible rose within her—something that would kill her unless she conquered it. So she asked quickly, desperately:

"Your—your child? I see. Go on—Nella-Rose."

"I wrote the letter and—sent it. I was hid in Miss Lois Ann's cabin—it was winter—and no one found out! Miss Lois Ann wouldn't believe what I told; she said when him and me was married under the trees and God understood, it didn't make me—right! She—helped me, but she hated—him! And then when he—didn't come, she taught me to—to hate, and it was right black hate until lil' Ann came. When God let her down to me—He took the hate away."

Lynda was blinded by her tears. She could hardly see the small figure crouching in the low chair by the fire.

"And then—Miss Lois Ann went and told my folks—told Marg, my sister. Marg was married to Jed and she was mighty scornful of me and lil' Ann. She wouldn't tell Jed and my father—she came alone to me. She told me what folks thought. They-all thought I'd gone away with Burke Lawson and Marg felt sorry to see me alive—with lil' Ann. But Miss Lois Ann wouldn't let her sting me with her tongue—she drove her away. Then—Burke came! He'd been a right long way off—he'd broken his leg; he came as soon as he could, and Marg told him and—and laid lil' Ann to him!"

"And you—never spoke? You never told?" Lynda had drawn very close—her words were barely above a whisper.

"No. It was this-er-way. First, love for him held my tongue mighty still; then hate; and afterwards I couldn't!"

"But now, Nella-Rose, now—why have you spoken—now?"

"I haven't yet. Not to them-all. I had to come here—to him first. I reckon you don't know about Burke and me?"

Lynda shook her head. She had thought she knew—but she had wandered sadly.

"When Marg laid my trouble to Burke he just took it! First I couldn't understand. But he took my trouble—and me! He took lil' Ann and me out of Miss Lois Ann's cabin into—peace and safety. He tied every one's tongue—it seemed like he drove all the—the wrong away by his big, strong love—and set me free, like he was God! He didn't ask nothing for a right long time, not 'til I grew to—believe him and trust him. Then we went—when no one knew—and was married. Now he's my man and he's always been lil' Ann's father till—till—"

A log fell upon the hearth and both women started guiltily and affrightedly.

"Go on! go on!" breathed Lynda. "Go on!"

"Till the twins came—Burke's and mine! Then he knew the difference—even his love for me couldn't help him—it hindered; and while I—I feared, I understood!"

"Oh! oh! oh!" Lynda covered her aching eyes with her cold hands. She dared not look at Nella-Rose. That childish yet old face was crowding everything but pity from the world. Truedale, herself—what did they matter?

"He—he couldn't bear to have lil' Ann touch—the babies. I could see him—shiver! And lil' Ann—she's like a flower—she fades if you don't love her. She grew afraid and—and hid, and it seemed like the soul of me would die; for, don't you see, Burke thinks that Marg's man is—is the father, and Marg and Jed lays the trouble to Burke and they think her—his! And—and it has grown more since the big road brought us-all closer. The big road brought trouble as well as good. Once"—and here the haggard face whitened—"once Burke and Jed fought—and a fight in the hills means more fights! Just then Bill Trim was hurt and told me before he died; it was like opening a grave! I 'most died 'long with Bill Trim—'til I studied about lil' Ann! And then—I saw wide, and right far, like I hadn't since—since before I hated. I saw how I must come and—tell you-all, and how maybe you'd take lil' Ann, and then I could go back to—to my man and—there'll be peace when he knows—at last! Will you—oh! will you be with me, kind lady, when I—tell your—your—man?" Nella-Rose dropped at Lynda's feet and was pleading like a distraught child. "I've been so afraid. I did not know his world was so full of noise and—and right many things. And he will be—different—and I may not be able to make him understand. But you will—you will! I must get back to the hills. I done told Burke I—I was going to prove myself to his goodness—by putting lil' Ann with them as would be mighty kind to her. I seemed to know how it would turn out—and I dared to say it; but now—now I am mighty—'fraid!"

The tears were falling from the pain-racked eyes—falling upon Lynda's cold, rigid hands—and they seemed to warm her heart and clear her vision.

"Nella-Rose," she said, "where is little Ann?"

"Lil' Ann? Why, there's lil' Ann sleeping her tire off under your pillows. She was cold and mighty wore out." Nella-Rose turned toward the deep couch under the broad window across the room.

Silently, like haunted creatures, both women stole toward the couch and the mother drew away the sheltering screen of cushions. As she did so, the little child opened her eyes, and for a moment endeavoured to find her place in the strangeness. She looked at her mother and smiled a slow, peculiar smile. Then she fixed her gaze upon Lynda. It was an old, old look—but young, too—pleading, wonder-filled. The child was so like Truedale—so unmercifully, cruelly like him—that, for a moment, reason deserted Lynda and she covered her face with both hands and swayed with silent laughter.

Nella-Rose bent over her child as if to protect her. "Lil' Ann," she whispered, "the lady is a right kind lady—right kind!" She felt she must explain and justify.

After a moment or two Lynda gained control of her shaken nerves. She suddenly found herself calm, and ready to undertake the hardest, the most perilous thing that had ever come into her life. "Bring little Ann to the fire;" she said, "I'm going to order some lunch, and then—we can decide, Nella-Rose."

Nella-Rose obeyed, dumbly. She was completely under the control of the only person, who, in this perplexed and care-filled hour, seemed able to guide and guard her.

Lynda watched the two eat of the food Thomas brought in. There was no fear of Truedale coming now. There was safety ahead for some hours. Lynda herself made a pretext of eating, but she hardly took her eyes from little Ann's face. She wanted familiarity to take the place of shock. She must grow accustomed to that terrible resemblance, for she knew, beyond all doubt, that it was to hold a place in all her future life.

When the last drop of milk went gurgling down the little girl's throat, when Nella-Rose pushed her plate aside, when Thomas had taken away the tray, Lynda spoke:

"And now, Nella-Rose, what are you going to—to do with us all?"

The tired head of little Ann was pressed against her mother's breast. The food, the heat, were lulling her weary senses into oblivion again. Lynda gave a swift thought of gratitude for the momentary respite as she watched the small, dark face sink from her direct view.

"We are all in your hands," she continued.

"In my hands—mine?"

"Yes. Yours."

"I—I must—tell him—and then go home."

"Must you, Nella-Rose?"

"What else is there for me?"

"You must decide. You, alone."

"You"—the lips quivered—"you will not go with me?"

"I—cannot, Nella-Rose."

"Why?"

"Because"—and with all her might Lynda sought words that would lay low the difference between her and the simple, primitive woman close to her—felt she must use ideas and terms that would convey her meaning and not drive her and Nella-Rose apart—"because, while he is my man now, he was first yours. Because you were first, you must go alone—if go you must. Then he shall decide."

Nella-Rose grasped the deep meaning after a moment and sank back shivering. The courage and endurance that had borne her to this hour deserted her. The help, that for a time had seemed to rise up in Lynda, crumbled. Alone, drifting she knew not where, Nella-Rose waited.

"I'm—afraid!" she repeated over and over. "I'm right afraid. He's not the same; it's all, all gone—that other life—and yet I cannot let him think—!"

The two women looked at each other over all that separated them—and each comprehended! The soul of Nella-Rose demanded justification—vindication—and Lynda knew that it should have it, if the future were to be lived purely. There was just one thing Lynda had to make clear in this vital moment, one truth that must be understood without trespassing on the sacred rights of others. Surely Nella-Rose should know all that there was to know before coming to her final decision. So Lynda spoke:

"You think he"—she could not bring herself, for all her bravery and sense of justice, to speak her husband's name—"you think he remembers you as something less than you were, than you are? Nella-Rose, he never has! He did not understand, but always he has held you sacred. Whatever blame there may have been—he took it all. It was because he could; because it was possible for him to do so, that I loved him—honoured him. Had it been otherwise, as truly as God hears me, I could not have trusted him with my life. That—that marriage of yours and his was as holy to him as, I now see, it was to you; and he, in his heart, has always remembered you as he might a dear, dead—wife!"

Having spoken the words that wrung her heart, Lynda sank back exhausted. Then she made her first—her only claim for herself.

"It was when everything was past and his new life began—his man's life—that I entered in. He—he told me everything."

Nella-Rose bent over her sleeping child, and a wave of compassion overflooded her thought.

"I—I must think!" she whispered, and closed her lovely eyes. What she saw in the black space behind the burning lids no one could know, but her tangled little life must have been part of it. She must have seen it all—the bright, sunlit dream fading first into shadow, then into the dun colour of the deserted hills. Burke Lawson must have stood boldly forth, in his supreme unselfishness and Godlike power, as her redeemer—her man! The gray eyes suddenly opened and they were calm and still.

"I—I only wanted him—to remember me—like he once did," she faltered. She was taking her last look at Truedale. "So long as he—he didn't think me—less; I reckon I don't want him—to think of me as I am—now."

"Suppose"—the desperate demand for full justice to Nella-Rose drove Lynda on—"suppose it were in your power and mine to sweep everything aside; suppose I—I went away. What would you do, Nella-Rose?"

Again the eyes closed. After a moment:

"I—would go back to—my man!"

"You mean that—as truly as God hears you?—you mean that, Nella-Rose?"

"Yes. But lil' Ann?"

Now that she had made the great decision about Truedale, there was still "lil' Ann."

Lynda fought for mastery over the dread thing that was forcing its way into her consciousness. Then something Nella-Rose was saying caught her fevered thought.

"When I was a lil' child I used to dream that some day I would do a mighty big thing—maybe this is it. I don't want to hurt his life and—yours; I couldn't hurt my man and—and—the babies waiting back there for me. But—lil' Ann!"

The name came like a sob. And somehow Lynda thought of Burke Lawson! Burke, who had done his strong best, and still could not keep himself in control because of—lil' Ann! The helpless baby was—oh! yes, yes—it was Truedale's responsibility. If she, Lynda, were to keep her life—her sacred love—she, too, must do a "big thing"—perhaps the biggest a woman is ever called upon to do—to prove her faith.

For another moment she struggled; then, like a blind woman, she stretched out her hands and laid them upon the child.

"Nella-Rose, will you give—me little Ann?"

"Give her—to—you?" There was anguish, doubt, but hope, in the words.

"I want—the child! She shall have her father—her father's home—his love, God willing! And I, Nella-Rose, as I hope for God's mercy, I will do my duty by little Ann."

And now Lynda was on the floor beside the shabby pair, shielding them as best she could from the last wrench and renunciation.

"Are you doing this for—for your man?" whispered Nella-Rose.

"Yes. For my—man!" They looked long into each other's eyes. Then solemnly, slowly, Nella-Rose relinquished her hold of the child.

"I—give you—lil' Ann." So might she have spoken if, in religious fervour, she had been resigning her child to death. "I—I—give you lil' Ann." Gently she kissed the sleeping face and laid her burden in the aching, strained arms that had still to learn their tender lesson of bearing. Ann opened her eyes, her lips quivered, and she turned to her mother.

"Take—lil' Ann!" she pleaded. Then Nella-Rose drank deep of the bitter cup, but she smiled—and spoke one of the lies over which angels have wept forgivingly since the world began.

"Lil' Ann, the kind lady is going to keep yo' right safe and happy 'til mother makes things straight back there with—with yo'—father, in the hills. Jes' yo' show the lady how sweet and pretty yo' can be 'til mother comes fo' yo'! Will yo'—lil' Ann?"

"How long?"

"A mighty lil' while."

All her life the child had given up—shrunk from that which she feared but did not understand; and now she accepted it all in the dull, hopeless way in which timid children do. She received her mother's kiss—gave a kiss in return; then she looked gloomily, distrustingly, at Lynda. After that she seemed complacent and obeyed, almost stupidly, whatever she was told to do.

Lynda took Nella-Rose to the station, saw to her every comfort, put a sum of money in her hand with the words:

"You must take it, Nella-Rose—to prove your trust in me; and it will buy some—some things for—the other babies. But"—and here she went close to Nella-Rose, realizing for the first time that the most difficult part, for her, was yet to come—"how will it be with—with your man—when he knows?"

Nella-Rose looked up bravely and something crept into her eyes—the look of power that only a woman who recognizes her hold on a man ever shows.

"He'll bear it—right grateful—and it'll wipe away the hate for Jed Martin. He'll do the forgiving—since I've given up lil' Ann; and if he doubts—there's Miss Lois Ann. She's mighty powerful with men—when it's women that matters."

"It's very wonderful!" murmured Lynda. "More wonderful than I can understand." And yet as she spoke she knew that she did understand. Between her and Burke Lawson, a man she was never to know, there was a common tie—a deep comprehension.

Late that afternoon Lynda drove to Betty's with little Ann sitting rigidly on the seat beside her. The child had not spoken since she had seen the train move out of the station bearing her mother away. She had not cried or murmured. She had gone afterward, holding Lynda's hand, through amazing experiences. She had seen her shabby garments discarded in dazzling shops, and fine apparel replace them. Once she had caught a glimpse of her small, transformed self in a long mirror and her dark eyes had widened. That was all. Lynda had watched her feverishly. She had hoped that with the change of clothing the startling likeness would lessen, but it did not. Robed in the trappings of her father's world, little Ann seemed to become more wholly his.

"Do you like yourself, little Ann?" Lynda had asked when, at last, a charming hat was placed upon the dark curls.

There was no word of reply—only the wide, helpless stare—and, to cover her confusion, Lynda hurried away to Betty.

The maid who admitted her said that "Mrs. Kendall was upstairs in the nursery with the baby."

Lynda paused on the stairs and asked blankly: "The baby? What baby?"

The maid was a trusted one and close to Betty.

"The little boy from the Home, Mrs. Truedale," she replied, "and already the house is cheerfuller."

Lynda felt a distinct disappointment. She had hoped that Betty would care for little Ann for a few days, but how could she ask it of her now?

In the sunny room upstairs Betty sat in a low rocker, crooning away to a restless bundle in her arms.

"You, Lyn?" Lynda stood in the doorway; Betty's back was to her.

"Yes, Betty."

"Come and see my red-headed boy—my Bobilink! He's going to be Robert Kendall."

Then Lynda drew near with Ann. Betty stopped rocking and confronted the two with her far-reaching, strangely penetrating gaze.

"What a beautiful little girl," she whispered.

"Is she beautiful, Betty?"

"She's—lovely. Come here, dear, and see my baby." Betty put forth a welcoming hand to the child, but Ann shrank away and her long silence was broken.

"I jes' naturally hate babies!" she whispered, in the soft drawl that betrayed her.

"Lyn, who is she? Why—what is the matter?"

Lynda came close and her words did not reach past Betty's strained hearing. "I—I'm going to—adopt her. I—I must prepare, Con. I hoped you'd keep her for a few days."

"Of course I will, Lyn. I'm ready—but Lyn, tell me!"

"Betty, look at her! She has come out of—of Con's past. He doesn't know, he mustn't know—not now! She belongs to—to the future. Can you—can you understand? I never suspected until to-day. I've got to get used to it!" Then, fiercely: "But I'm going to do it, Betty! Con's road is my road; his duty my duty; it's all right—only just at first—I've got to—steady my nerves!"

Without a word Betty rose and laid the now-sleeping baby in a crib; then she came back to the low chair and opened her arms to little Ann with the heaven-given gesture that no child resists—especially a suffering, lonely child.

"Come here, little girl, to—to Aunt Betty," she said.

Fascinated, Ann walked to the shelter offered.

"Will you kiss me?" Betty asked. The kiss was given mutely.

"Will you tell Aunt Betty your name?"

"Ann."

"Ann what?"

"Jes' lil' Ann."

Then Betty raised her eyes to Lynda's face and smiled at its tragic suffering.

"Poor, old Lyn!" she said, "run home to Con. You need him and God knows he needs you. It will take the big love, Lyn, dear, the big love; but you have it—you have it!"

Without a word Lynda turned and left Betty with the children.



CHAPTER XXI

Potential motherhood can endure throes of travail other than physical; and for the next week Lynda passed through all the phases of spiritual readjustment that enabled her, with blessed certainty of success, to accept what she had undertaken.

She did not speak to Truedale at once, but she went daily to Betty's and with amazement watched the miracle Betty was performing. She never forgot the hour, when, going softly up the stairs, she heard little Ann laugh gleefully and clap her hands.

Betty was playing with the baby and telling Ann a story at the same time. Lynda paused to listen.

"And now come here, little Ann, and kiss Bobilink. Isn't he smelly-sweet and wonderful?"

"Yes."

"That's right. Kiss him again. And you once said you just naturally didn't like babies! Little Ann, you are a humbug. And now tell me how much you like Bobilink."

"Heaps and lickwigs."

"Now kiss me, you darling, and come close—so we will not waken Bobbie. Let me see, this is going to be the story of the little girl who adopted a—mother! Yesterday it was Bobbie's story of how a mother adopted a little boy. You remember, the mother had to have a baby to fill a big empty space, so she went to a house where some lost kiddies were and found just the one that fitted in and—and—but this is Ann's story to-day!

"Once there was a little girl—a very dear and good little girl—who knew all about a mother, and how dear a mother was; because she had one who was obliged to go away—"

"For a right lil' time?" Ann broke in.

"Of course," Betty agreed, "a right little time; but the small girl thought, while she waited, that she would adopt a mother and not tell her about the other one, for fear she might not understand, and she'd teach the adopted mother how to be a real mother. And now one must remember all the things little girls do to—to adopted mothers. First—"

At this point Lynda entered the room, but Betty went on calmly:

"First, what do little girls do, Ann?"

"Teach them how to hold lil' girls."

"Splendid! What next?"

"Kiss them and cuddle them right close."

"Exactly! Next?"

"They make mothers glad and they make them laugh—by being mighty good."

Then both Betty and Ann looked at Lynda. The sharp, outer air had brought colour to her cheeks, life to her eyes. She was very handsome in her rich furs and dark, feathered hat.

"Now, little Ann, trot along and do the lesson, don't forget!" Betty pushed the child gently toward Lynda.

With a laugh, lately learned and a bit doubtful, Ann ran to the opened arms.

"Snuggle!" commanded Betty.

"I'm learning, little Ann," Lynda whispered, "you're a dear teacher. And now I have something to tell you."

Ann leaned back and looked with suspicion at Lynda. Her recent past had been so crowded with events that she was wary and overburdened.

"What?" she asked, with more dread than interest.

"Ann, I'm going to take you to a big house that is waiting for a—little girl."

The child turned to Betty.

"I don't want to go," she said, and her pretty mouth quivered. Was she always to be sent away?—always to have to go when she did not want to go?

Betty smiled into the worried little face. "Oh! we'll see each other every day," she comforted; "and besides, this is the only way you can truly adopt a mother and play fair. It will be another dear place for Bobilink to go for a visit, and best of all—there's a perfectly splendid man in the big house—for a—for—a father!"

Real fear came into Ann's eyes at this—fear that lay at the root of all her trouble.

"No!" she cried. "I can't play father!"

Lynda drew her to her closely. "Ann, little Ann, don't say that!" she pleaded passionately: "I'll help you, and together we'll make it come true. We must, we must!"

Her vehemence stilled the child. She put her hands on either side of Lynda's face and timidly faltered: "I'll—I'll try."

"Thank you, dear. And now I want to tell you something else—we're going to have a Christmas tree."

This meant nothing to the little hill-child, so she only stared.

"And you must come and help."

"You have something to teach her, Lyn," Betty broke in. There were tears in her eyes. "Just think of a baby-thing like that not knowing the thrills of Christmas."

Then she turned to Ann: "Go, sweetheart," she said, "and make a nest for Bobbie on the bed across the hall." And then when Ann trotted off to do the bidding, Betty asked: "What did he say, Lyn, when you told him?"

"He said he was glad, very glad. He has been willing, for a long time, that I should take a child—when I saw one I wanted. He naturally connects Ann with the Saxe Home; her being with you has strengthened this belief. I shall let it go at that—for a time, Betty."

"Yes. It is better so. After he learns to know and love the child," Betty mused, "the way will be opened. And oh! Lyn, Ann is so wonderful. She has the most remarkable character—so deep and tenderly true for such a mite."

"Suppose, Betty—suppose Con notices the likeness!"

At this Betty smiled reassuringly.

"He won't. Men are so stupidly humble. A pretty little girl would escape them every time."

"But her Southern accent, Betty. It is so pronounced."

"My dear Lyn, it is! She sometimes talks like a little darkey; but to my certain knowledge there are ten small Southerners at the Saxe, of assorted ages and sexes, waiting for adoption."

"And she may speak out, Betty. Her silence as to the past will disappear when she has got over her fear and longing."

Betty looked more serious. "I doubt it. Not a word has passed her lips here—of her mother or home. It has amazed me. She's the most unusual, the most fascinating creature I ever saw, for her age. Brace is wild about her—he wants me to keep her. But, Lyn, if she does break her strange silence, it will be your big hour! Whatever Con is or isn't—and sometimes I feel like hugging him, and again, like shaking him—he's the tenderest man with women—not even excepting Brace—that I have ever seen. It never has occurred to him to reason out how much you love him—he's too busy loving you. But when he finds this out! Well, Lyn, it makes me bow my head and speak low."

"Don't, Betty! Don't suggest pedestals again," Lynda pleaded.

"No pedestal, Lyn; no pedestal—but the real, splendid you revealed at last! And now—forget it, dear. Here comes lil' Ann."

The child tiptoed in with outstretched arms.

"The nest is made right soft," she whispered, "and now let me carry Bobilink to—to the sleepy dreams."

"Where did you learn to carry babies?" Betty hazarded, testing the silence. The small, dark face clouded; the fear-look crept to the large eyes.

"I—I don't know," was the only reply, and Ann turned away—this time toward Lynda!

"And suppose he never knows?" Lynda spoke with her lips pressed to Ann's soft hair—the child was in her arms.

"Then you and Con will have something to begin heaven with." Betty's eyes were wet. "We all have something we don't talk about much on earth—we do not dare. Brace and I have our—baby!"

Two days later Lynda took Ann home. They went shopping first and the child was dazzlingly excited. She forgot her restraint and shyness in the fascinating delirium of telling what she wanted with a pretty sure belief that she would get it. No wonder that she was taken out of herself and broke upon Truedale's astonished gaze as quite a different child from the one Lynda had described.

The brilliant little thing came into the hall with Lynda, her arms filled with packages too precious to be consigned to other hands; her eyes were dancing and her voice thrilling with happiness.

"And now I'll call you muvver-Lyn 'cause you're mighty kind and this is your house! It's a right fine house."

Truedale had well timed his return home. He was ready to greet the two in the library. The prattling voice charmed him with its delightful mellowness and he went forward gladly to meet Lynda and the new little child. Ann was ahead; Lynda fell back and, with fast-throbbing heart waited by the doorway.

Ann had had a week and more of Brace Kendall to wipe away the impression Burke Lawson had imprinted upon her mind. But she was shy of men and weighed them carefully before showing favours. She stood still when she saw Truedale; she dropped, unheeded, a package; she stared at him, while he waited with extended hands. Then slowly—as if drawn against her will—Ann advanced and laid her hands in his.

"So this is the little girl who has come to help us make Christmas?"

"Yes." Still that fixed look. It seemed to Lynda the most unnatural thing she had ever seen. And oh! how alike the two were, now that they were together!

"You are little Ann and you are going to play with"—Truedale looked toward Lynda and drew her to him by the love in his eyes—"You are going to play with us, and you will call us mother and father, won't you, little Ann?" He meant to do his part in full. He would withhold nothing, now that Lynda had decided to take this step.

"Yes."

"And do you suppose you could kiss me—to begin with?"

Quaintly the child lifted herself on her toes—Truedale was half kneeling before her—and gave him a lingering kiss.

"We're going to be great friends, eh, little Ann?" Truedale was pleased, Lynda saw that. The little girl was making a deep impression.

"Yes." Then—deliberately: "Shall I have to teach you to be a father?"

"What does she mean?" Truedale looked at Lynda who explained Betty's charming foolery.

"I see. Well, yes, Ann, you must teach me to be a father."

And so they began their lives together. And after a few days Lynda saw that during the child's stay with Betty the crust of sullen reserve had departed—the little creature was the merriest, sweetest thing imaginable, once she could forget herself. Protected, cared for, and considered, she developed marvellously and soon seemed to have been with them years instead of days. The impression was almost startling and both Lynda and Truedale remarked upon it.

"There are certain things she does that appear always to have been waiting for her to do," Conning said, "it makes her very charming. She brushes the dogs and cats regularly, and she's begun to pick up books and papers in my den in a most alarming way—but she always manages to know where they belong."

"That's uncanny," Lynda ventured; "but she certainly has fitted in, bless her heart!"

There had been moments at first when Lynda feared that Thomas would remember the child, but the old eyes could hardly be expected to recognize, in the dainty little girl, the small, patched, and soiled stranger of the annoying visit. Many times had Thomas explained and apologized for the admittance of the two "forlornities," as he called them.

No, everything seemed mercifully blurred; and Ann, in her new home, apparently forgot everything that lay behind her. She never even asked to go back to Betty's though she welcomed Betty, Brace, and Bobbie with flattering joy whenever they came to visit. She learned to be very fond of Lynda—was often sweetly affectionate with her; but in the wonderful home, her very own, waited upon and cared for, it was Conning who most appealed to her. For him she watched and waited at the close of day, and if she were out with Lynda she became nervous and worried if they were delayed as darkness crept on.

"I want father to see me waiting," she would urge; "I like to see his gladness."

"And so do I!" Lynda would say, struggling to overcome the unworthy resentment that occasionally got the better of her when the child too fervently appropriated Conning.

But this trait of Ann's flattered and delighted Truedale; often he was amused, but he knew that it was the one thing above all else in the little girl that endeared her to him.

"What a darling she is!" he often said to Lynda when they were alone together. "Is she ever naughty?"

"Yes, often—the monkey!"

"I'm glad to hear it. I hate a flabby youngster. Does she ever speak of her little past, Lyn?"

"Never."

"Isn't that strange?"

"Yes, but I'm glad she doesn't. I want her to forget. She's very happy with us—but she's far from perfect." "To what form of cussedness does she tend, Lyn? With me she's as lamblike as can be."

"Oh! she has a fiery temper and, now that I think of it, she generally shows it in reference to you."

"To me?" Truedale smiled.

"Yes. Thomas found her blacking your shoes the other day. She was making an awful mess of it and he tried to take them from her. She gave him a real vicious whack with the brush. What she said was actually comical: 'He's mine; if I want to take the dirt from his shoes, I can. He shan't walk on dirt—and he's mine!'"

"The little rascal. And what did Thomas do?"

"Oh! he let her. People always let her. I do myself."

"She's a fascinating kid," Truedale said with a laugh. Then, very earnestly: "I'm rather glad we do not know her antecedents, Lyn; it's safer to take her as we find her and build on that. But I'd be willing to risk a good deal that much love and goodness are back of little Ann, no matter how much else got twisted in. And the love and goodness must be her passport through life."

"Yes, Con, and they are all that are worth while."

But every change was a period of struggle to Ann and those who dealt with her. She had a passionate power of attachment to places and people, and readjustment caused her pain and unrest.

When school was considered, it almost made her ill. She clung to Truedale and implored him not to make her go away.

"But it's only for the day time, Ann," he explained, "and you will have children to play with—little girls like yourself."

"No; no! I don't want children—only Bobbie! I only want my folks!"

Lynda came to her defense.

"Con, we'll have a governess for a year or so."

"Is it wise, Lyn, to give way to her?"

"Yes, it is!" Ann burst in; "it is wise, I'd die if I had to go."

So she had a governess and made gratifying strides in learning. The trait that was noticeable in the child was that she developed and thrived most when not opposed. She wilted mentally and physically when forced. She had a most unusual power of winning and holding love, and under a shy and gentle exterior there were passion and strength that at times were pathetic. While not a robust child she was generally well and as time passed she gained in vigour. Once, and once only, was she seriously ill, and that was when she had been with Truedale and Lynda about two years. During all that time, as far as they knew, she had never referred to the past and both believed that, for her, it was dead; but when weakness and fever loosened the unchildlike control, something occurred that alarmed Lynda, but broke down forever the thin barrier that, for all her effort, had existed between her and Ann. She was sitting alone with the child during a spell of delirium, when suddenly the little hot hands reached up passionately, and the name "mother" quivered on the dry lips in a tone unfamiliar to Lynda's ears. She bent close.

"What, little Ann?" she whispered.

The big, burning eyes looked puzzled. Then: "Take me to—to the Hollow—to Miss Lois Ann!"

"Sh!" panted Lynda, every nerve tingling. "See, little Ann—don't you know me?"

The child seemed to half understand and moaned plaintively:

"I'm lost! I'm lost!"

Lynda took her in her arms and the sick fancy passed, but from that hour there was a new tie between the two—a deeper dependence.

There was one day when they all felt little Ann was slipping from them. Dr. McPherson had come as near giving up hope as he ever, outwardly, permitted himself to do.

"You had better stay at home," he said to Conning; "children are skittish little craft. The best of them haul up anchor sometimes when you least expect it."

So Truedale remained at home and, wandering through the quiet house, wondered at the intensity of his suffering as he contemplated the time on ahead without the child who had so recently come into his life from he knew not where. He attributed it all to Ann's remarkable characteristics.

Late in the afternoon of the anxious day he went into the sick room and leaned over the bed. Ann opened her eyes and smiled up at him, weakly.

"Make a light, father," she whispered, and with a fear-filled heart Truedale touched the electric button. The room was already filled with sunlight, for it faced the west; but for Ann it was cold and dark.

Then, as if setting the last pitiful scene for her own departure, she turned to Lynda: "Make a mother-lap for Ann," she said. Lynda tenderly lifted the thin form from the bed and held it close.

"I—I taught you how to be a mother, didn't I, mommy-Lyn?" she had never called Lynda simply "mother," while "father" had fallen naturally from her lips.

"Yes, yes, little Ann." Lynda's eyes were filled with tears and in that moment she realized how much the child meant to her. She had done her duty, had exceeded it at times, in her determination not to fall short. She had humoured Ann, often taking sides against Conning in her fear of being unjust. But oh! there had always been something lacking; and now, too late, she felt that, for all her struggle, she had not been true to the vow she had made to Nella-Rose!

But Ann was gazing up at her with a strange, penetrating look.

"It's the comfiest lap in the world," she faltered, "for little, tired girls."

"I—I love her!" Lynda gazed up at Truedale as if confessing and, at the end, seeking forgiveness.

"Of course you do!" he comforted, "but—be brave, Lyn!" He feared to excite Ann. Then the weary eyes of the child turned to him.

"Mommy-Lyn does love me!" the weak voice was barely audible; "she does, father, she does!"

It was like a confirmation—a recognition of something beautiful and sacred.

"I felt," Lynda said afterward to Betty, "as if she were not only telling Con, but God, too. I had not deserved it—but it made up for all the hard struggle, and swept everything before it."

But Ann did not die. Slowly, almost hesitatingly, she turned back to them and brought a new power with her. She, apparently, left her baby looks and nature in the shadowy place from which she had escaped. Once health came to her, she was the merriest of merry children—almost noisy at times—in the rollicking fashion of Betty's irrepressible Bobilink. And the haunting likeness to Truedale was gone. For a year or two the lean, thready little girl looked like no one but her own elfish self; and then—it was like a revealment—she grew to be like Nella-Rose!

Lynda, at times, was breathless as she looked and remembered. She had seen the mother only once; but that hour had burned the image of face, form, and action into her soul. She recalled, too, Conning's graphic description of his first meeting with Nella-Rose. The quaint, dramatic power that had marked Ann's mother, now developed in the little daughter. She had almost entirely lost the lingering manner of speech—the Southern expressions and words—but she was as different from the children with whom she mingled as she had ever been.

When she was strong enough she resumed her studies with the governess and also began music. This she enjoyed with the passion that marked her attitude toward any person or thing she loved.

"Oh, it lets something in me, free!" she confided to Truedale. "I shall never be naughty or unkind again—I wouldn't dare!"

"Why?" Conning was no devotee of music and was puzzled by Ann's intensity.

"Why," she replied, puckering her brows in the effort to make herself clear, "I—I wouldn't be worthy of—of the beautiful music, if I were horrid."

Truedale laughed and patted her pretty cropped head, over which the new little curls were clustering.

Life in the old house was full and rich at that time. Conning was, as he often said, respectably busy and important enough in the affairs of men to be content; he would never be one who enjoyed personal power.

Lynda, during Ann's first years, had taken a partner who attended to interviews, conferences, and contracts; but in the room over the extension the creative work went on with unabated interest. Little Ann soon learned to love the place and had her tiny chair beside the hearth or table. There she learned the lessons of consideration for others, and self-control.

"If the day comes," Lynda told Betty, "when my work interferes with my duty to Con and Ann, it will go! But more and more I am inclined to think that the interference is a matter of choice. I prefer my profession to—well, other things."

"Of course," Betty agreed; "women should not be forever coddling their offspring, and when they learn to call things by their right names and develop some initiative, they won't whine so much."

Lynda and Truedale had sadly abandoned the hope of children of their own. It was harder for Lynda than for Con, but she accepted what seemed her fate and thanked heaven anew for little Ann and the sure sense that she could love her without reserve.

And then, after the years of change and readjustment, Lynda's boy was born! He seemed to crown everything with a sacred meaning. Not without great fear and doubt did Lynda go down into the shadow; not without an agony of apprehension did Truedale go with her to the boundary over which she must pass alone to accept what God had in store for her. They remembered with sudden and sharp anxiety the peril that Betty had endured, though neither spoke of it; and always they smiled courageously when most their hearts failed.

Then came the black hours of suffering and doubt. A wild storm was beating outside and Truedale, hearing it, wondered whether all the great events of his life were to be attended by those outbursts of nature. He walked the floor of his room or hung over Lynda's bed, and at midnight, when she no longer knew him or could soothe him by her brave smile, he went wretchedly away and upon the dim landing of the stairs came upon Ann, crouching white and haggard.

His nerves were at the breaking point and he spoke sharply.

"Why are you not in bed?" he asked.

"While—mommy-Lyn is—in—there?" gasped the girl, turning reproachful eyes up to him. "How—could I?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Always; always!"

"Ann, you must go to your room at once! Come, I will go with you." She rose and took his hand. There was fear in her eyes.

"Is—is mommy-Lyn—" she faltered, and Truedale understood.

"Good God!—no!" he replied; "not that!"

"I was to—to stay close to you." Ann was trembling as she walked beside him. "She gave you—to me! She gave you to me—to keep for her!"

Truedale stopped short and looked at Ann. Confusedly he grasped the meaning of the tie that held this child to Lynda—that held them all to the strong, loving woman who was making her fight with death, for a life.

"Little Ann," was all he could say, but he bent and kissed the child solemnly.

When morning dawned, Lynda came back—bringing her little son with her. God had spoken!

Truedale, sitting beside her, one hand upon the downy head that had nearly cost so much, saw the mother-lips move.

"You—want—the baby?" he asked.

"I—I want little Ann." Then the white lids fell, shutting away the weak tears.

"Lyn, the darling has been waiting outside your door all night—I imagine she is there now."

"Yes, I know. I want her."

"Are you able—just now, dear?"

"I—must have little Ann."

So Ann came. She was white—very much awed; but she smiled. Lynda did not open her eyes at once; she was trying to get back some of the old self-control that had been so mercilessly shattered during the hours of her struggle, but presently she looked up.

"You—kept your word, Ann," she said. Then: "You—you made a place for my baby. Little Ann—kiss your—brother."

They named the baby for William Truedale and they called him Billy, in deference to his pretty baby ways.

"He must be Uncle William's representative," said Lynda, "as Bobbie is the representative of Betty's little dead boy."

"I often think of—the money, Lyn." Truedale spoke slowly and seriously. "How I hated it; how I tried to get rid of it! But when it is used rightly it seems to secure dignity for itself. I've learned to respect it, and I want our boy to respect it also. I want to put it on a firm foundation and make it part of Billy's equipment—a big trust for which he must be trained."

"I think I would like his training to precede his knowledge of the money as far as possible," Lynda replied. "I'd like him to put up a bit of a fight—as his father did before him."

"As his father did not!" Truedale's eyes grew gloomy. "I'm afraid, Lyn, I'm constructed on the modelling plan—added to, built up. Some fellows are chiselled out. I wonder—about little Billy."

"Somehow"—Lynda gave a little contented smile—"I am not afraid for Billy. But I would not take the glory of conflict from him—no! not for all Uncle William's money! He must do his part in the world and find his place—not the place others may choose for him."

"You're going to be sterner with him than you are with Ann, aren't you, Lyn?" Truedale meant this lightly, but Lynda looked serious.

"I shall be able to, Con, for Billy brought something with him that Ann had to find."

"I see—I see! That's where a mother comes in strong, my dear."

"Oh! Con, it's where she comes in with fear and trembling—but with an awful comprehension."

This "comprehension" of the responsibilities of maternity worked forward and backward with Lynda much to Truedale's secret amusement. Confident of her duty to her son, she interpreted her duty to Ann. While Billy, red-faced and roving-eyed, gurgled or howled in his extreme youth, Lynda retraced her steps and commandingly repaired some damages in her treatment of Ann.

"Ann," she said one day, "you must go to school."

"Why?" Ann naturally asked. She was a conscientious little student and extremely happy with the governess who came daily to instruct her.

"You study and learn splendidly, Ann, but you must have—have children in your life. You'll be queer."

"I've got Bobbie, and now Billy."

"Ann, do not argue. When Billy is old enough to go to school he is going, without a word! I've been too weak with you, Ann—you'll understand by and by."

The new tone quelled any desire on Ann's part to insist further; she was rather awed by this attitude. So, with a lofty, detached air Miss Ann went to school. At first she imbibed knowledge under protest, much as she might have eaten food she disliked but which she believed was good for her. Then certain aspects of the new experience attracted and awakened her. From the mass of things she ought to know, she clutched at things she wanted to know. From the girls who shared her school hours, she selected congenial spirits and worshipped them, while the others, for her, did not exist.

"She's so intense," sighed Lynda; "she's just courting suffering. She lavishes everything on them she loves and grieves like one without hope when things go against her."

"She's the most dramatic little imp." Truedale laughed reminiscently as he spoke—he had seen Ann in two or three school performances. "I shouldn't wonder if she had genius."

Betty looked serious when she heard this. "I hope not!" was all she said, and from then on she watched Ann with brooding eyes; she urged Lynda to keep her much out of doors in the companionship of Bobbie and Billy who were normal to a relieving extent. Ann played and enjoyed the babies—she adored Billy and permitted him to rule over her with no light hand—but when she could, she read poetry and talked of strange, imaginative things with the few girls in whose presence she became rapt and reverent.

Brace was the only one who took Ann as a joke.

"She's working out her fool ideas, young," he comforted; "let her alone. A boy would go behind some barn and smoke and revel in the idea that he was a devil of a fellow. Annie"—he, alone, called her that—"Annie is smoking her tobacco behind her little barns. She'll get good and sick of it. Let her learn her lesson."

"That's right," Betty admitted, "girls ought to learn, just as boys do—but if I ever find Bobbie smoking—"

"What will you do to him, Betty?"

"Well, I'm not sure, but I do know I'd insist upon his coming from behind barns."

And that led them all to consider Ann from the barn standpoint. If she wanted the tragic and sombre she should have it—in the sunlight and surrounded with love. So she no longer was obliged to depend on the queer little girls who fluttered like blind bats in the crude of their adolescent years. Lynda, Betty, Truedale, and Brace read bloodcurdling horrors to her and took her to plays—the best. And they wedged in a deal of wholesome, commonplace fun that presently awoke a response and developed a sense of humour that gave them all a belief that the worst was past.

"She has forgotten everything that lies back of her sickness," Lynda once said to Betty; "it's strange, but she appears to have begun from that."

Then Betty made a remark that Lynda recalled afterward:

"I don't believe she has, Lyn. I'm not worried about Ann as you and Con are. Her Lady Macbeth pose is just plain girl; but she has depths we have never sounded. Sometimes I think she hides them to prove her gratitude and affection, and because she is so helpless. She was nearly five when she came to you, Lyn, and I believe she does remember the hills and her mother!"

"Why, Betty, what makes you think this?" Lynda was appalled.

"It is her eyes. There are moments when she is looking back—far back. She is trying to hold to something that is escaping her. Love her, Lyn, love her as you never have before."

"If I thought that, Betty!" Lynda was aghast. "Oh! Betty—the poor darling! I cannot believe she could be so strong—so—terrible."

"It's more or less subconscious—such things always are—but I think Ann will some day prove what I say. In a way, it's like the feeling I have for—for my own baby, Lyn. I see him in Bobbie; I feel him in Bobbie's dearness and naughtiness. Ann holds what went before in what is around her now. Sometimes it puzzles her as Bobbie puzzles me."

About this time—probably because he was happier than he had ever been before, possibly because he had more time that he could conscientiously call his own than he had had for many a well-spent year—Truedale repaired to his room under the eaves, sneaking away, with a half-guilty longing, to his old play! So many times had he resurrected it, then cast it aside; so many hopes and fears had been born and killed by the interruption to his work, that he feared whatever strength it might once have had must be gone now forever.

Still he retreated to his attic room once more—and Lynda asked no questions. With strange understanding Ann guarded that door like a veritable dragon. When Billy's toddling steps followed his father Ann waylaid him; and many were the swift, silent struggles near the portal before the rampant Billy was carried away kicking with Ann's firm hand stifling his outraged cries.

"What Daddy doing there?" Billy would demand when once conquered.

"That's nobody's business but Daddy's," Ann unrelentingly insisted.

"I—I want to know!" Billy pleaded.

"Wait until Daddy wants you to know."

Under the eaves, hope grew in Truedale's heart. The old play had certainly the subtle human interest that is always vital. He was sure of that. Once, he almost decided to take Ann into his confidence. The child had such a dramatic sense. Then he laughed. It was absurd, of course!

No! if the thing ever amounted to anything—if, by putting flesh upon the dry bones and blood into the veins, he could get it over—it was to be his gift to Lynda! And the only thing that encouraged him as he worked, rather stiffly after all the years, was the certainty that at times he heard the heart beat in the shrunken and shrivelled thing! And so—he reverently worked on.



CHAPTER XXII

Among the notes and suggestions sprinkled through the old manuscript were lines that once had aroused the sick and bitter resentment of Truedale in the past:

"Thy story hath been written long since. Thy part is to read and interpret."

Over and over again he read the words and pondered upon his own change of mind. Youth, no matter how lean and beggared it may be, craves and insists upon conflict—upon the personal loss and gain. But as time takes one into its secrets, the soul gets the wider—Truedale now was sure it was the wider—outlook. Having fought—because the fight was part of the written story—the craving for victory, of the lesser sort, dwindled, while the higher call made its appeal. To be part of the universal; to look back upon the steps that led up, or even down, and hold the firm belief that here, or elsewhere—what mattered in the mighty chain of many links—the "interpretation" told!

Truedale came to the conclusion that fatalism was no weak and spineless philosophy, but one for the making of strong souls.

Failure, even wrong, might they not, if unfettered by the narrow limitations of here and now, prove miracle-working elements?

Then the effect upon others entered into Truedale's musings as it had in the beginning. The "stories" of others! He leaned his head at this juncture upon his clasped hands and thought of Nella-Rose! Thought of her as he always did—tenderly, gently, but as holding no actual part in his real life. She was like something that had gained power over an errant and unbridled phase of his past existence. He could not make her real in the sense of the reality of the men, women, and affairs that now sternly moulded and commanded him. She was—she always would be to him—a memory of something lovely, dear, but elusive. He could no longer place and fix her. She belonged to that strange period of his life when, in the process of finding himself, he had blindly plunged forward without stopping to count the cost or waiting for clear-sightedness.

"What has she become?" he thought, sitting apart with his secret work. And then most fervently he hoped that what Lynda had once suggested might indeed be true. He prayed, as such men do pray, that the experience which had enabled him to understand himself and life better might also have given Nella-Rose a wider, freer space in which to play her chosen part.

He recalled his knowledge of the hill-women as Jim White had described them—women to whom love, in its brightest aspect, is denied. Surely Nella-Rose had caught a glimpse more radiant than they. Had it pointed her to the heaven of good women—or—?

And eventually this theme held and swayed the play—this effect of a deep love upon such a nature as Nella-Rose's, the propelling power—the redeeming and strengthening influence. In the end Truedale called his work "The Interpretation."

And while this was going on behind the attic door, a seemingly slight incident had the effect of reinforcing Truedale's growing belief in his philosophy.

He and Lynda went one day to the studio of a sculptor who had suddenly come into fame because of a wonderful figure, half human, half divine, that had startled the sophisticated critics out of their usual calm.

The man had done much good work before, but nothing remarkable; he had taken his years of labour with patient courage, insisting that they were but preparation. He had half starved in the beginning—had gradually made his way to what every one believed was a mediocre standstill; but he kept his faith and his cheerful outlook, and then—he quietly presented the remarkable figure that demanded recognition and appreciation.

The artist had sold his masterpiece for a sum that might reasonably have caused some excitement in his life—but it had not!

"I'm sorry I let the thing go," he confided to a chosen few; "come and help me bid it good-bye."

Lynda and Conning were among the chosen, and upon the afternoon of their call they happened to be alone with him in the studio.

All other pieces of work had been put away; the figure, in the best possible light, stood alone; and the master, in the most impersonal way, stood guard over it with reverent touch and hushed voice.

Had his attitude been a pose it would have been ridiculous; but it was so detached, so sincere, so absolutely humble, that it rose to the height of dignified simplicity.

"Thornton, where did you get your inspiration—your model?" Truedale asked, after the beauty of the thing had sunk into his heart.

"In the clay. Such things are always in the clay," was the quiet reply.

Lynda was deeply moved, not only by the statue, but by its creator. "Tell us, please," she said earnestly, "just what you mean. I think it will help us to understand."

Thornton gave a nervous laugh. He was a shy, retiring man but he thought now only of this thing he had been permitted to portray.

"I always"—he began hesitatingly—"take my plaster in big lumps, squeeze it haphazard, and then sit and look at it. After that, it is a mere matter of choice and labour and—determination. When this"—he raised his calm eyes to the figure—"came to me—in the clay—I saw it as plainly as I see it now. I couldn't forget, or, if I did, I began again. Sometimes, I confess, I got weird results as I worked; once, after three days of toil, a—a devil was evolved. It wasn't bad, either, I almost decided to—to keep it; but soon again I caught a glimpse of the vision, always lurking close. So I pinched and smoothed off and added to, and, in the end, the vision stayed. It was in the clay—everything is, with me. If I cannot see it there, I might as well give up."

"Thornton, that's why you never lost courage!" Truedale exclaimed.

"Yes, that's the reason, old man."

Lynda came close. "Thank you," she said with deep feeling in her voice, "I do understand; I thought I would if you explained, and—I think your method is—Godlike!"

Thornton flushed and laughed. "Hardly that," he returned, "it's merely my way and I have to take it."

It was late summer when Truedale completed the play. Lynda and the children were away; the city was hot and comparatively empty. It was a time when no manager wanted to look at manuscripts, but if one was forced upon him, he would have more leisure to examine it than he would have later on.

Taking advantage of this, Truedale—anxious but strangely insistent—fought his way past the men hired to defeat such a course, and got into the presence of a manager whose opinion he could trust.

After much argument—and the heat was terrific—the great man promised, in order to rid himself of Truedale's presence, to read the stuff. He hadn't the slightest intention of doing so, and meant to start it on its downward way back to the author as soon as the proper person—in short his private secretary—came home from his vacation.

But that evening an actress who was fine enough and charmingly temperamental enough to compel attention, bore down through the heat upon the manager, with the appalling declaration that she was tired to death of the part selected for her in her play, and would have none of it!

"But good Lord!" cried the manager, fanning himself with his panama—they were at a roof garden restaurant—"this is August—and you go on in October."

"Not as a depraved and sensual woman, Mr. Camden; I want to be for once in my life a character that women can remember without blushing."

"But, my poor child, that's your splendid art. You are a—an angel-woman, but you can play a she-devil like an inspired creature. You don't mean that you seriously contemplate ruining my reputation and your own—by—"

"I mean," said the angel-woman, sipping her sauterne, "that I don't care a flip for your reputation or mine—the weather's too hot—but I'm not going to trail through another slimy play! No; I'll go into the movies first!"

Camden twisted his collar; he felt as if he were choking. "Heaven forbid!" was all he could manage.

"I want woods and the open! I want a character with a little, twisted, unawakened soul to be unsnarled and made to behave itself. I don't mind being a bit naughty—if I can be spanked into decorum. But when the curtain goes down on my next play, Camden, the women are going out of the theatre with a kind thought of me, not throbbing with disapproval—good women, I mean!"

And then, because Camden was a bit of a sentimentalist with a good deal of superstition tangled in his make-up, he took Truedale's play out of his pocket—it had been spoiling the set of his coat all the evening—and spread it out on the table that was cleared now of all but the coffee and the cigarettes which the angel-woman—Camden did not smoke—was puffing luxuriously.

"Here's some rot that a fellow managed to drop on me to-day. I didn't mean to undo it, but if it has an out-of-door setting, I'll give it a glance!"

"Has it?" asked the angel, watching the perspiring face of Camden.

"It has! Big open. Hills—expensive open."

"Is it rot?"

"Umph—listen to this!" Camden's sharp eye lighted on a vivid sentence or two. "Not the usual type of villain—and the girl is rather unique. Up to tricks with her eyes shut. I wonder how she'll pan out?" Camden turned the pages rapidly, overlooking some of Con's best work, but getting what he, himself, was after.

"By Jove! she doesn't do it!"

"What—push those matches this way—what doesn't she do?" asked the angel.

"Eternally damn the man and claim her sex privilege of unwarranted righteousness!"

"Does she damn herself—like an idiot?" The angel was interested.

"She does not! She plays her own little role by the music of the experience she lived through. It's not bad, by the lord Harry! It's got to be tinkered—and painted up—but it's original. Just look it over."

Truedale's play was pushed across the table and the angel-woman seized upon it. The taste Camden had given her—like caviar—sharpened her appetite. She read on in the swift, skipping fashion that would have crushed an author's hopes, but which grasped the high lights and caught the deep tones. Then the woman looked up and there were genuine tears in her eyes.

"The little brick!" said the voice of loveliness and thrills, "the splendid little trump! Why, Camden, she had her ideals—real, fresh, woman-ideals—not the ideals plastered on us women by men, who would loathe them for themselves! She just picked up the scraps of her damaged little affairs and went, without a whimper, to the doing of the only job she could ever hope to succeed in. And she let the man-who-learned go! Gee! but that was a big decision. She might so easily have muddled the whole scheme of things, but she didn't! The dear, little, scrimpy, patched darling.

"Oh! Camden, I want to be that girl for as long a run as you can force. After the first few weeks you won't have to bribe folks to come—it'll take hold, after they have got rid of bad tastes in their mouths and have found out what we're up to! Don't count the cost, Camden. This is a chance for civic virtue."

"Do you want more cigarettes, my dear?"

"No. I've smoked enough."

Camden drew the manuscript toward him. "It's a damned rough diamond," he murmured.

"But you and I know it is a diamond, don't we, Camby?"

"Well, it sparkles—here and there."

"And it mustn't be ruined in the cutting and setting, must it?" The angel was wearing her most devout and flattering expression. She was handling her man with inspired touch.

"Umph! Well, no. The thing needs a master hand; no doubt of that. But good Lord! think of the cost. This out-of-door stuff costs like all creation. Your gowns will let you out easy—you can economize on this engagement—but have a heart and think of me!"

"I—I do think of you, Camby. You know as well as I that New York is at your beck and call. What you say—goes! Call them now to see something that will make them sure the world isn't going to the devil, Camden. In this scene"—and here the woman pulled the manuscript back—"when that little queen totes her heavy but sanctified heart up the trail, men and women will shed tears that will do them good—tears that will make them see plain duty clearer. Men and—yes, women, too, Camby—want to be decent, only they've lost the way. This will help them to find it!"

"We've got to have two strong men." Camden dared not look at the pleading face opposite. But something was already making him agree with it.

"And, by heavens, I don't know of but one who isn't taken."

"There's a boy—he's only had minor parts so far—but I want him for the man-who-learned-his-lesson. You can give the big wood-giant to John Harrington—I heard to-day that he was drifting, up to date—but I want Timmy Nichols for the other part."

"Nichols? Thunder! He's only done—what in the dickens has he done? I remember him, but I can't recall his parts."

"That's it! That's it! Now I want him to drive his part home—with himself!"

Camden looked across at the vivid young face that a brief but brilliant career had not ruined.

"I begin to understand," he muttered.

"Do you, Camden? Well, I'm only beginning to understand myself!"

"Together, you'll be corking!" Camden suddenly grew enthusiastic.

"Won't we? And he did so hate to have me slimy. No one but Timmy and my mother ever cared!"

"We'll have this—this fellow who wrote the play—what's his name?"

"Truedale." The woman referred to the manuscript.

"Yes. Truedale. We'll have him to dinner to-morrow. I'll get Harrington and Nichols. Where shall we go?"

"There's a love of a place over on the East Side. They give you such good things to eat—and leave you alone."

"We'll go there!"

It was November before the rush and hurry of preparation were over and Truedale's play announced. His name did not appear on it so his people were not nerve-torn and desperate. Truedale often was, but he managed to hide the worst and suffer in silence. He had outlived the anguish of seeing his offspring amputated, ripped open, and stuffed. He had come to the point where he could hear his sacredest expressions denounced as rot and supplanted by others that made him mentally ill. But in the end he acknowledged, nerve-racked as he was, that the thing of which he had dreamed—the thing he had tried to do—remained intact. His eyes were moist when the curtain fell upon his "Interpretation" at the final rehearsal.

Then he turned his attention to his personal drama. He chose his box; there were to be Lynda and Ann, Brace and Betty, McPherson and himself in it. Betty, Brace, and the doctor were to have the three front chairs—not because of undue humility on the author's part, but because there would, of course, be a big moment of revelation—a moment when Lynda would know! When that came it would be better to be where curious eyes could not behold them. Perhaps—Truedale was a bit anxious over this—perhaps he might have to take Lynda away after the first act, and before the second began, in order to give her time and opportunity to rally her splendid serenity.

And after the play was over—after he knew how the audience had taken it—there was to be a small supper—just the six of them—and during that he would confess, for better or worse. He would revel in their joy, if success were his, or lean upon their sympathy if Fate proved unkind.

Truedale selected the restaurant, arranged for the flowers, and then grew so rigidly quiet and pale that Lynda declared that the summer in town had all but killed him and insisted that he take a vacation.

"We haven't had our annual honeymoon trip, Con," she pleaded; "let's take it now."

"We'll—we'll go, Lyn, just before Christmas."

"Not much!" Lynda tossed her head. "It will take our united efforts from December first until after Christmas to meet the demands of Billy and Ann."

"But, Lyn, the theatre season has just opened—and—"

"Don't be a silly, Con. What do we care for that? Besides, we can go to some place where there are theatres. It's too cold to go into the wilds."

"But New York is the place, Lyn."

"Con, I never saw you so obstinate and frivolous. Why, you're thin and pale, and you worry me. I will never leave you again during the summer. Ann was edgy about it this year. She told me once that she felt all the hotness you were suffering. I believe she did! Now will you come away for a month?"

"I—I cannot, Lyn."

"For two weeks, then? One?"

"Darling, after next week, yes! For a week or ten days."

"Good old Con! Always so reasonable and—kind," Lynda lifted her happy face to his....

But things did not happen as Truedale arranged—not all of them. There was a brief tussle, the opening night of the play, with McPherson. He didn't see why he should be obliged to sit in the front row.

"I'm too tall and fat!" he protested; "it's like putting me on exhibition. Besides, my dress suit is too small for me and my shirt-front bulges and—and I'm not pretty. Put the women in front, Truedale. What ails you, anyway?"

Conning was desperate. For a moment it looked as if the burly doctor were going to defeat everything.

"I hate plays, you know!" McPherson was mumbling; "why didn't you bring us to a musical comedy or vaudeville? Lord! but it's hot here."

Betty, watching Truedale's exasperated face, came to his assistance.

"When at a party you're asked whether you will have tea or coffee, Dr. McPherson," she said, tugging at his huge arm, "you mustn't say 'chocolate,' it isn't polite. If Con wants to mix up the sexes he has a perfect right to, after he's ruined himself buying this box. Do sit down beside me, doctor. When the audience looks at my perfectly beautiful new gown they'll forget your reputation and shirt-front."

So, muttering and frowning, McPherson sat down beside Betty, and Brace in lamblike mood dropped beside him.

"It's wicked," McPherson turned once more; "I don't believe Ann can see a thing."

"Yes, I can, Dr. McPherson—if you keep put! I want to sit between father and mommy-Lyn. When I thrill, I have to have near me some one particular, to hold on to."

"You ought to be in bed!"

Little Ann leaned against his shoulder. "Don't be grumpy," she whispered, "I like you best of all—when you're not the doctor."

"Umph!" grunted McPherson, but he stayed "put" after that, until the curtain went down on the first act. Then he turned to Truedale. He had been laughing until the tears stood in his eyes.

"Did that big woodsman make you think of any one?" he asked.

"Did he remind you of any one?" Truedale returned. He was weak with excitement. Lynda, sitting beside him, was almost as white as the gown she wore—for she had remembered the old play!

"He's enough like old Jim White to be his twin! I haven't laughed so much in a month. I feel as if I'd had a vacation in the hills."

Then the curtain went up on the big scene! Camden had spared no expense. That was his way. The audience broke into appreciative applause as it gazed at the realistic reproduction of deep woods, dim trails, and a sky of gold. It was an empty stage—a waiting moment!

In the first act the characters had been more or less subservient to the big honest sheriff, with his knowledge of the people and his amazing interpretation of justice. He had been so wise—so deliciously anarchistic—that the real motive of the play had only begun to appear. But now into the beautiful, lonely woods the woman came! The shabby, radiant little creature with her tremendous problem yet to solve. Through the act she rose higher, clearer; she won sympathy, she revealed herself; and, at the end, she faced her audience with an appeal that was successful to the last degree.

In short, she had got Truedale's play over the footlights! He knew it; every one knew it. And when the climax came and the decision was made—leaving the man-who-had-learned-his-lesson unaware of the divine renunciation but strong enough to take up his life clear-sightedly; when the little heroine lifted her eyes and her empty arms to the trail leading up and into the mysterious woods—and to all that she knew they held—something happened to Truedale! He felt the clutch of a small cold hand on his. He looked around, and into the wide eyes of Ann! The child seemed hypnotized and, as if touched by a magic power, her resemblance to her mother fairly radiated from her face. She was struggling for expression. Seeking to find words that would convey what she was experiencing. It was like remembering indistinctly another country and scene, whose language had been forgotten. Then—and only Lynda and Truedale heard—little Ann said:

"It's Nella-Rose! Father, it's Nella-Rose!"

Betty had been right. The shock had, for a moment, drawn the veil aside, the child was looking back—back; she heard what others had called the one she now remembered—the sacreder name had escaped her!

"Father, it's Nella-Rose!"

Truedale continued to look at Ann. Like a dying man—or one suddenly born into full life—he gradually understood! As Ann looked at that moment, so had Nella-Rose looked when, in Truedale's cabin, she turned her eyes to the window and saw his face!

This was Nella-Rose's child, but why had Lynda—? And with this thought such a wave of emotion swept over Truedale that he feared, strong as he was, that he was going to lose consciousness. For a moment he struggled with sheer physical sensation, but he kept his eyes upon the small, dark face turned trustingly to his. Then he realized that people were moving about; the body of the house was nearly empty; McPherson, while helping Betty on with her cloak, was commenting upon the play.

"Good stuff!" he admitted. "Some muscle in that. Not the usual appeal to the uglier side of life. But come, come, Mrs. Kendall, stop crying. It's only a play, after all."

"Oh! I know," Betty quiveringly replied, "but it's so human, Dr. McPherson. That dear little woman has almost broken my heart; but she'd have broken it utterly if she had acted differently. I don't believe the author ever guessed her! Somewhere she lived and played her part. I just know it!"

Truedale heard all this while he watched the strained look fading from Ann's face. The past was releasing her, giving her back to the safe, normal present. Presently she laughed and said: "Father, I feel so queer. Just as if I'd been—dreaming."

Then she turned with a deep, relieving sigh to Lynda. "Thank you for bringing me, mommy-Lyn," she said, "it was the best play I've ever seen in all my life. Only I wish that nice actress-lady had gone with the man who didn't know. I—I feel real sorry for him. And why didn't she go?—I'd have gone as quick as anything."

The door had closed between Ann's past and her future! Truedale got upon his feet, but he was still dazed and uncertain as to what he should do next. Then he heard Lynda say, and it almost seemed as if she spoke from a distance she could not cross, "Little Ann, bring father."

He looked at Lynda and her white face startled him, but she smiled the kind, true smile that called upon him to play his part.

Somehow the rest of the plan ran as if no cruel jar had preceded it. The supper was perfect—the guests merry—and, when he could command himself, Truedale—keeping his eyes on Lynda's face—confessed.

For a moment every one was quiet. Surprise, delight, stayed speech. Then Ann asked: "And did you do it behind the locked door, father?"

"Yes, Ann."

"Well, I'm glad I kept Billy out!"

"And Lyn—did you know?" Betty said, her pretty face aglow.

"I—I guessed."

But the men kept still after the cordial handshakes. McPherson was recalling something Jim White had said to him recently while he was with the sheriff in the hills.

"Doc, that thar chap yo' once sent down here—thar war a lot to him us-all didn't catch onter."

And Brace was thinking of the night, long, long ago, when Conning threw some letters upon the glowing coals and groaned!



CHAPTER XXIII

They were home at last in old William Truedale's quiet house. Conning went upstairs with Ann. Generally Lynda went with him to kiss Ann good-night before they bent over Billy's crib beside their own bed. But now, Lynda did not join them and Ann, starry-eyed, prattled on about the play and her joy in her father's achievement. She was very quaint and droll. She ran behind a screen and dropped her pretty dress, and issued forth, like a white-robed angel, in her long gown, her short brown curls falling like a beautiful frame around her gravely sweet face.

Truedale, sitting by the shaded lamp, looked at her as if, in her true character, she stood revealed.

"Little Ann," he said huskily, "come, let me hold you while we wait for mommy-Lyn."

Ann came gladly and nestled against his breast.

"To think it's my daddy that made the splendid play!" she whispered, cuddling closer. "I can tell the girls and be so proud." Then she yawned softly.

"Mommy-Lyn, I suppose, had to go and whisper the secret to Billy," she went on, finding as usual an excuse instead of a rebuke. "Billy's missed the glory of his life because he's so young!"

Another—a longer yawn. Then the head lay very still and Truedale saw that she was asleep. Reverently he kissed her. Then he bore her to the little bed behind the white screen, with its tall angels with brooding eyes. As he laid her down she looked up dreamily:

"I'm a pretty big girl to be carried," she whispered, "but my daddy is strong and—and great!"

Again Truedale kissed her, then went noiselessly to find Lynda.

He went to their bedchamber, but Lynda was not there. Billy, rosy and with fat arms raised above his pretty blond head, was sleeping—unconscious of what was passing near. Truedale went and looked yearningly down at him.

"My boy!" he murmured over and over again; "my boy." But he did not kiss Billy just then.

There was no doubt in Truedale's mind, now, as to where he would find Lynda. Quietly he went downstairs and into the dim library. The fire was out upon the hearth. The gray ashes gave no sign of life. The ticking of the clock was cruelly loud; and there, beside the low, empty chair, knelt Lynda—her white dress falling about her in motionless folds.

Truedale, without premeditation, crossed the room and, sitting in his uncle's chair—the long-empty chair, lifted Lynda's face and held it in his hand.

"Lyn," he said, fixing his dark, troubled eyes upon hers, "Lyn, who is Ann's father?"

Lynda had not been crying; her eyes were dry and—faithful!

"You, Con," she said, quietly.

During the past years had Lynda ever permitted herself to imagine how Conning would meet this hour she could not have asked more than now he gave. He was ready, she saw that, to assume whatever was his to bear. His face whitened; his mouth twitched as the truth of what he heard sunk into his soul; but his gaze never fell from that which was raised to his.

"Can you—tell me all about it, Lyn?" he asked.

For an instant Lynda hesitated. Misunderstanding, Truedale added:

"Perhaps you'd rather not to-night! I can wait. I trust you absolutely. I am sure you acted wisely."

"Oh! Con, it was not I—not I. It was Nella-Rose who acted wisely. I left it all to her! It was she who decided. I have always wanted, at least for years, to have you know; but it was Nella-Rose's wish that you should not. And now, little Ann has made it possible."

And then Lynda told him. He had relinquished his hold upon her and sat with tightly clenched hands gazing at the ashes on the hearth. Lynda pressed against him, watching—watching the effect of every word.

"And, Con, at first, when I knew, every fibre of my being claimed you! I wanted to push her and—and Ann away, but I could not! Then I tried to act for you. I saw that since Nella-Rose had been first in your life she should have whatever belonged to her; I knew that you would have it so. When I could bring myself to—to stand aside, I put us all into her keeping. She was very frightened, very pitiable, but she closed her eyes and I knew that she saw truth—the big truth that stood guard over all our lives and had to be dealt with honestly—or it would crush everything. I could see, as I watched her quiet face, that she was feeling her way back, back. Then she realized what it all meant. Out of the struggle—the doubt—that big, splendid husband of hers rose supreme—her man! He had saved her when she had been most hopelessly lost. Whatever now threatened him had to go! Her girlhood dream faded and the safe reality of what he stood for remained. Then she opened her eyes and made her great decision. Since you had never dishonoured her in your thought, she would not have you know her as she then was! But—there remained little Ann! Oh! Con, I never knew, until Billy came, what Nella-Rose's sacrifice meant! I thought I did—but afterward, I knew! One has to go down into the Valley to find the meaning of motherhood. I had done, or tried to do, my duty before, but Billy taught me to love Ann and understand—the rest!"

There was silence for a moment. Among the white ashes a tiny red spark was showing. It glowed and throbbed; it was trying hard to find something upon which to live.

"And, Lyn, after she went back to the hills—how was it with her?"

"She laid everything but your name upon the soul of her man. He never exacted more. His love was big enough—divine enough—to accept. Oh! Con, through all the years when I have tried to—to do my part, the husband of Nella-Rose has helped me to do it! Nella-Rose never looked back—to Ann and me. Having laid the child upon the altar, she—trusted."

"Yes, that would be her way." Truedale's voice broke a bit.

"But, Con, I kept in touch with her through that wonderful old woman—Lois Ann. I—oh! Con, I made life easier, brighter for them all; just as—as you would have done. Lois Ann has told me of the happiness of the little cabin home, of the children—there are three—"

THE END