ter
wrong. She looked back at his strange, lonely boyhood with so little in
it that could cause him to view justly his uncle's last deed. She
remembered his pride and struggle--his reserve and almost abnormal
sensitiveness. Then--the experience in the mountain! How terribly deep
that had sunk into Truedale's life; how unable he had been to see in it
any wrong but his own. Lynda had always honoured him for that. It had
made it possible for her to trust him absolutely. She had respected his
fine position and had never blurred it by showing him how she, as a
woman, could see the erring on the woman's part. No, she had left
Nella-Rose to him as his high-minded chivalry had preserved her--she had
dared do all that because she felt so secure in the love and sincerity
of the present.

"And now--what?"

The bitterness was past. The shock had left her a bit weak and helpless
but she no longer thought of the human need of Betty. She went home and
sat down before the fire in the library and waited for light. At ten
o'clock she came to a conclusion. Truedale must decide this thing for
himself! It was, after all, his great opportunity. She could not, with
honour and self-respect, throw herself upon him and so complicate the
misunderstanding. If her life with him since June had not convinced him
of her simple love and faith--her words, now, could not. He must seek
her--must realize everything. And in this decision Lynda left herself so
stranded and desolate that she looked up with wet eyes and saw--William
Truedale's empty chair! A great longing for her old friend rose in her
breast--a longing that not even death had taken from her. The clock
struck the half-hour and Lynda got up and with no faltering went toward
the bedroom door behind which the old man had started forth on his
journey to find peace.

And just as she went, with blinded eyes and aching heart, to shut
herself away from the dreariness of the present, Truedale entered the
house and, from the hall, watched her. He believed that she had heard
him enter, he hoped she was going to turn toward him--but no! she went
straight to the never-used room, shut the door, and--locked it!

Truedale stood rooted to the spot. What he had hoped--what trusted--he
could hardly have told. But manlike he was the true conservative and
with the turning of that key his traditions and established position
crumbled around him.

Lynda and he were married and, unless they decided upon an open