arely commented upon anything concerning him or
their relations to him. They probably had rooms for themselves
comfortably furnished, but in all the years Lynda Kendall had never been
anywhere in the house except in the rooms devoted to her old friend's
use. Sometimes she had wondered how Con fared, but nothing was ever
said on the subject and she and Brace had been, in their visiting,
limited to the downstair rooms.

When Lynda was ushered now into the library from the cold, outer hall it
was like finding comfort and luxury in the midst of desolation. The
opening door had not roused the man by the great open fire. He seemed
lost in a gloomy revery and Lynda had time to note, unobserved, the
tragic, pain-racked face and the pitifully thin outlines of the figure
stretched on the invalid chair and covered by a rug of rare silver fox.

There were birds in gilded cages by the large south window--mute little
mites they were; they rarely if ever sang but they were alive! There
were plants, too, luxuriously growing in pots and boxes--but not a
flower on one! They existed, not joyously, but persistently. A Russian
hound, white as snow, lay before the fire; his soft, mournful eyes were
fixed upon Lynda, but he did not stir or announce the intrusion. A cat
and two kittens, also white, were rolled like snowballs on a crimson
cushion near the hearth; Lynda wondered whether they ever played. Alone,
like a dead thing amid the still life, William Truedale, helpless--death
ever creeping nearer and nearer to his bitter heart--passed his weary
days.

As she stood, watching and waiting, Lynda Kendall's eyes filled with
quick tears. The weeks of her absence had emphasized every tragic
detail of the room and the man. He had probably missed her terribly from
his bare life, but he had made no sign, given no call.

"Uncle William!"

Truedale turned his head and fixed his deep-sunk, brilliant eyes upon
her.

"Oh! So you've thought better of it?" was all that he said.

"Yes, I've thought better of it. Will you let me stay to dinner?"

"Take off your wraps. There now! draw up the ottoman; so long as you
have a spine, rely upon it. Never lounge if you can help it."

Lynda drew the low, velvet-covered stool near the couch-chair; the hound
raised his sharp, beautiful head and nestled against her knee. Truedale
watched it--animals never came to him unless commanded--why did they go
to Lynda? Probably for the same reason that he clung to her