as
the girl and woman who, her life through, had put herself aside and
considered others. He saw himself in the light such a woman as he
believed Lynda to be would regard him. He might have known, he bitterly
acknowledged, that Lynda could not have overlooked in her pure woman
soul the lapse of his earlier life. He remembered how, that night of his
confession, she had begged to be alone--to think! Later, her
silence--oh! he understood it now. It was her only safeguard. And that
once, in the woods, when he had blindly believed in his great joy--how
she had solemnly made the best of the experience that was too deep in
both hearts to be resurrected. What a fool he had been to dream that so
wrong a step as he had once taken could lead him to perfect peace.
Thinking these thoughts, how could he, as yet, comprehend the wrong he
was doing Lynda? Why, he was grieving over her, almost breaking his
heart in his desire to do something--anything--to free her from the
results of her useless sacrifice.

At six o'clock Truedale went downstairs, but the house was empty. Lynda
had gone, taking all sense of home with her. He did not wait to see what
the dinner hour might bring about; he could not trust himself just
then. Indeed--having blasted every familiar landmark--he was utterly and
hopelessly lost. He couldn't imagine how he was ever to find his way
back to Lynda, and yet they would have to meet--have to consider.

Lynda, after leaving her workshop, had only one desire--she wanted Betty
more than she wanted anything else. She put on her hat and coat and
started headlong for her brother's apartment farther uptown. She felt
she must get there before Brace arrived and lay her trouble before the
astoundingly clear, unfaltering mind and heart of the little woman who,
so short a time ago, had come into their lives. But after a few blocks,
Lynda's steps halted. If this were just her own trouble--but what
trouble is just one's own?--she need not hesitate; but how could she
reveal what was deepest and most unfailing in her soul to any living
person--even to Betty of the unhesitating vision?

Presently Lynda retraced her steps. The calm autumn night soothed and
protected her. She looked up at the stars and thought of the old words:
"Why so hot, little man, why so hot?" Why, indeed? And then in the still
dimness--for she had turned into the side streets--she let Truedale come
into her thoughts to the exclusion, for the moment, of her own bit