th ambition and desire for justice, it was little less than
criminal that William Truedale, crippled and confined to his chair--for
he had become an invalid soon after Lynda's mother's marriage--should
misunderstand and cruelly misjudge the nephew who, brilliantly, but
under tremendous strain, was winning his way through college on a
pittance that made outside labour necessary in order to get through. She
could not understand everything, but her mother's secret, her growing
fondness for the old man, her intense interest in Conning, all held her
to her purpose. She, single-handed, would right the wrong and save them
all alive!

Then came Conning's breakdown and the possibility of his death or
permanent disability. The shock to all the golden hopes was severe and
it brought bitterness and resentment with it.

Something deep and passionate had entered into Lynda's relations with
Conning Truedale. For him, though no one suspected it, she had broken
her engagement to John Morrell--an engagement into which she had drifted
as so many girls do, at the age when thought has small part in primal
instinct. But Conning had not died; he was getting well, off in his
hidden place, and so, standing in the dim workshop, Lynda kissed her
mother's picture and began humming a glad little tune.

"I'll go and have dinner with Uncle William!" she said--the words
fitting into the tune--"we'll make it up! It will be all right." And so
she set forth.

William Truedale lived on a shabby-genteel side street of a
neighbourhood that had started out to be fashionable but had been
defeated in its ambitions. It had never lost character, but it certainly
had lost lustre. The houses themselves were well built and sternly
correct. William Truedale's was the best in the block and it stood with
a vacant lot on either side of it. The detachment gave it dignity and
seclusion.

There had been a time when Truedale hoped that the woman he loved would
choose and place furniture and hangings to her taste and his, but when
that hope failed and sickness fell upon him, he ordered only such rooms
put in order as were necessary for his restricted life. The library on
the first floor was a storehouse of splendid books and austere luxury;
beyond it were bath and bedroom, both fitted out perfectly. The long,
wide hall leading to these apartments was as empty and bare as when
carpenter and painter left it. Two servants--husband and wife--served
William Truedale, and r