money somehow. Now that we both know how little it means,
we'll begin again and--free from Uncle William's wrong conceptions--Lyn--"
He put his cup down and rose quickly.

"Wait!" she whispered, shrinking back into her low armchair and holding
him off by her smile of detachment more than by her word of command.

"I--I cannot face life without you," Truedale spoke hoarsely, "I never
really had to contemplate it before. I need you--must have you."

He came a step nearer, but Lynda shook her head.

"Something has happened to us, Con. Something rather tremendous. We must
not bungle."

"One thing looms high. Only one, Lyn."

"Many things do, Con. They have been crowding thick around me all day.
There are worse things than losing each other!"

"No!" Truedale denied, vehemently.

"Yes. We could lose ourselves! This thing that makes you fling aside
what went before, this thing that makes me long--oh! how I long, Con--to
come to you and forget, this thing--what is it? It is the holiest thing
we know, and unless we guard it sacredly we shall hurt and kill it and
then, by and by, Con, we shall look at each other with frightened
eyes--over a dead, dead love."

"Lynda, how--can you? How dare you say these things when you
confess--Oh! my--wife!"

"Because"--and she seemed withdrawing from Truedale as he
advanced--"because I have confessed! You and I, Con, have reached
to-day, by different routes, the most important and vital problem. All
my life I have been pushing doors open as I came along. Sometimes I have
only peered in and hurried on; sometimes I have stayed and learned a
lesson. It will always be so with me. I must know. I think you are
willing not to know unless you are forced."

Truedale winced and went back slowly to his chair.

"Con, dear, unless you wish it otherwise, I want, as far as possible, to
begin from to-day and find out just how much we do mean to each other.
Let us push open the doors ahead until we make sure we both want the
same abiding place. Should you find a spot better, safer for you than
this that we thought we knew, I will never hold you by a look or word,
dear."

"And you--Lyn?" Truedale's voice shook.

"For myself I ask the same privilege."

"You mean that we--live together, yet apart?"

"Unless you will it otherwise, dear. In that case, we will close this
door and say--good-bye, now."

Her strength, her tenderness, unmanned Truedale. Again he felt that call
upon him which she had