"Somehow"--Lynda gave a little contented smile--"I am not afraid for
Billy. But I would not take the glory of conflict from him--no! not for
all Uncle William's money! He must do his part in the world and find
his place--not the place others may choose for him."

"You're going to be sterner with him than you are with Ann, aren't you,
Lyn?" Truedale meant this lightly, but Lynda looked serious.

"I shall be able to, Con, for Billy brought something with him that Ann
had to find."

"I see--I see! That's where a mother comes in strong, my dear."

"Oh! Con, it's where she comes in with fear and trembling--but with an
awful comprehension."

This "comprehension" of the responsibilities of maternity worked forward
and backward with Lynda much to Truedale's secret amusement. Confident
of her duty to her son, she interpreted her duty to Ann. While Billy,
red-faced and roving-eyed, gurgled or howled in his extreme youth, Lynda
retraced her steps and commandingly repaired some damages in her
treatment of Ann.

"Ann," she said one day, "you must go to school."

"Why?" Ann naturally asked. She was a conscientious little student and
extremely happy with the governess who came daily to instruct her.

"You study and learn splendidly, Ann, but you must have--have children
in your life. You'll be queer."

"I've got Bobbie, and now Billy."

"Ann, do not argue. When Billy is old enough to go to school he is
going, without a word! I've been too weak with you, Ann--you'll
understand by and by."

The new tone quelled any desire on Ann's part to insist further; she was
rather awed by this attitude. So, with a lofty, detached air Miss Ann
went to school. At first she imbibed knowledge under protest, much as
she might have eaten food she disliked but which she believed was good
for her. Then certain aspects of the new experience attracted and
awakened her. From the mass of things she ought to know, she clutched at
things she wanted to know. From the girls who shared her school hours,
she selected congenial spirits and worshipped them, while the others,
for her, did not exist.

"She's so intense," sighed Lynda; "she's just courting suffering. She
lavishes everything on them she loves and grieves like one without hope
when things go against her."

"She's the most dramatic little imp." Truedale laughed reminiscently as
he spoke--he had seen Ann in two or three school performances. "I
shouldn't wonder if she had genius."

Betty