at tint
better than any other."

"Lyn, have you ever thought of adopting a child?"

"Oh!--sometimes. Yes, Con."

"Well, if you ever feel that you ought--that you want to--I will be glad
to--to help you. I see the risk--the chance, and I think I would like a
handsome one. But it is Christmas time, and a man and woman, if they
have their hearts in the right places, do think of children and trees
and all the rest at this season. Still"--and with that Truedale pressed
his lips to Lynda's hair--"I'm selfish, you seem already to fill every
chink of my life."

"Con, that's a blessed thing to say to a woman--even though the woman
knows you ought not to say it. And now, I'm going to tell you something
else, Con. It's foolish and trifling, perhaps, but I've set my heart
upon it ever since the Saxe Home got me to thinking."

"Anything in the world, Lyn! Can I help?"

"I should say you could. You'll have to be about the whole of it.
Starting this Christmas, I'm going to have a tree--right here in this
room--close to Uncle William's chair!"

"By Jove! and for--for whom?"

"Why, Con, how unimaginative you are! For you, for me, for Uncle
William, for any one--any really right person, young or old--who needs a
Christmas tree. Somehow, I have a rigid belief that some one will
always be waiting. It may not be an empty-handed baby. Perhaps you and I
may have to care for some dear _old_ soul that others have forgotten. We
could do this for Uncle William, couldn't we, Con?"

"Yes, my darling."

"The children cannot always know what they are missing, but the old can,
and my heart aches for them often--aches until it really hurts."

"My dear girl!"

"They are so alike, Con, the babies and the very aged. They need the
same things--the coddling, the play, the pretty toys to amuse
them--until they fall asleep."

"Lynda, you are all nerves and fancies. Pretty ones--but dangerous.
We'll have our tree--we'll call it Uncle William's. We'll take any
one--every one who is sent to us--and be grateful. And that makes me
think, we must have a particularly giddy celebration up at the
Sanatorium. McPherson and I were speaking of it to-day."

"Con, I wonder how many secret interests you have of which I do not
know?"

"Not many."

"I wonder!"

Truedale laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Well," he said, suddenly changing
the subject, "talking about nerves reminds me that when the holidays are
over you and I are going away on a honeymoon. Aft