and me. Having laid the child upon the altar,
she--trusted."

"Yes, that would be her way." Truedale's voice broke a bit.

"But, Con, I kept in touch with her through that wonderful old
woman--Lois Ann. I--oh! Con, I made life easier, brighter for them all;
just as--as you would have done. Lois Ann has told me of the happiness
of the little cabin home, of the children--there are three--"

A sharp pause caused Truedale to turn and look at Lynda.

"And--now?" he asked.

"Con, Nella-Rose died last year!"

The stillness in the room pressed close; even the clock's ticking was
unnoticed. The spark upon the hearth had become a flame; it had found
something upon which to feed. Like a radiant hope it rose, faded, then
leaped higher among the white ashes.

"She went, Con, like a child tired of its play. She was with Lois Ann;
it was the hill-fever, and she was mercifully spared the knowledge of
suffering or--renunciation. She kept repeating that she saw beautiful
things; she was glad--glad to the last minute. Her children and husband
have gone to Nella-Rose's old home. Lois Ann says they are saving
everybody! That's all, Con--all."

Then Truedale, his eyes dim but undaunted, leaned and drew Lynda up
until, kneeling before him, her hands upon his shoulders, they faced
each other.

"And this is the way women--save men!" he said.

"It is the way they try to save--themselves," Lynda replied.

"Oh, Con, Con, when will our men learn that it is the one life, the one
great love that we women want?--the full knowledge and--responsibility?"

"My darling!" Truedale kissed the tender mouth. Then drawing her close,
he asked:

"Do you remember that day in Thornton's studio--and his words? Looking
back at my life, I cannot understand--I may never understand--what the
Creator meant, but I do know that it was all in the clay!"

Lynda drew away--her hands still holding him. Her brave smile was
softening her pale face.

"Oh! the dear, dear clay!" she whispered. "The clay that has been
pressed and moulded--how I love it. I also do not understand, Con, but
this I know: the Master never lost the vision in the clay."

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Man Thou Gavest, by Harriet T. Comstock

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