. 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