ng the
fourth, and she had come to Lynda with a touching appeal.

"You helped make a home of my house, Mrs. Truedale, but I always managed
the nursery--myself before; now I cannot. I want you to put joy and
welcome in it for me. If I were to undertake it I should fail miserably,
and evolve only gloom and fear. It will be different--afterward. But you
understand and--you will?"

Lynda had understood and had set herself to her work with the new, happy
insight that Betty's little baby had made possible. It had all gone
well until the "sleeping corner" was reached, and then--something
happened. A memory of one of Betty's confessions started it. "Lyn," she
had said, just before her baby came, "I kneel by this small, waiting
crib and pray--as only mothers know how to pray--and God teaches them
afresh every time! I do so want to be worthy of the confidence of--God."

"And I--am never to know!" Lynda bowed her head. "I with my love--with
my desire to hear God speak--am never to hear. Why?"

Then it was that Lynda wept. Wept first from a desolate sense of defeat;
then--and God sometimes speaks to women kneeling beside the beds of
children not their own--she raised her head and trembled at the flood of
joy that overcame her. It was like a mirage, seen in another woman's
world, of her own blessed heritage.

Filled with this vision she had fled to Betty's, only to find that Betty
had fled on her own account!

There was no moment of indecision; welcome or not, Lynda had to reach
Betty--and at once!

She had tarried, after setting her face to the river. She even stopped
at a quiet little tea room and ate a light meal. Then she waited until
the throng of business men had crossed the ferry to their homes. It was
quite dark when she reached the wooded spot where, hidden deep among the
trees, was Betty's retreat.

There was a light in the house--the living room faced the path--and
through the uncurtained window Lynda saw Betty sitting before the fire
with her little dog upon her lap.

"Oh, Betty," she whispered, stretching her arms out to the lonely little
figure in the low, deep chair. "Betty! Betty!" She waited a moment, then
she tapped lightly upon the glass. The dog sprang to the floor, its
sharp ears twitching, but he did not bark. Betty came to the door and
stood in the warm, lighted space with arms extended. She knew no fear,
there was only doubt upon her face.

"Lyn, is it you?"

"Yes! How did you guess?"

"All da