pport to her back had always been one of her charms for William
Truedale. The old man looked at her now; how strong and fine she was!
How reliant and yet--how appealing! How she would always give and
give--be used to the breaking point--and rarely understood. Truedale
understood her through her mother!

"I want to ask you, Lynda, why do you come here--you of all the world? I
have often wondered."

"I--I like to come, generally, Uncle William."

"But--other times, out of the general? You come oftener then. Why?"

And now Lynda turned her clear, dark eyes upon him. A sudden resolve had
been taken. She was going to comfort him as she never had before, going
to recompense him for the weeks just past when she had failed him while
espousing Con's cause. She was going to share her secret with him!

"Just before mother went, Uncle William, she told me--"

The hand holding the cigar swayed--it was a very frail, thin hand.

"Told you--what?"

"That you once--loved her."

The old wound ached as it was bared. Lynda meant to comfort, but she was
causing excruciating pain.

"She--told you that? And you so young! Why should she so burden you--she
of all women?"

"And--my mother loved you, Uncle William! She found it out too late
and--and after that she did her best for--for Brace and me and--father!"

The room seemed swaying, as all else in the universe was, at that
moment, for William Truedale. Everything that had gone to his
undoing--to the causing of his bitter loneliness and despair--was beaten
down by the words that flooded the former darkness with almost
terrifying light. For a moment or two he dared not speak--dared not
trust his voice. The shock had been great. Then, very quietly:

"And--and why did she--speak at the last?"

Lynda's eyes filled with tears.

"Because," she faltered, "since she could not have come to you without
dishonour--she sent me! Her confidence has been the sacredest thing in
my life and I have tried to do as she desired. I--I have failed
sadly--lately, but try to forgive me for--my mother's sake!"

"And you--have"--the voice trembled pitifully in spite of the effort
Truedale made to steady it--"kept silence--since she went; why? Oh!
youth is so ignorant, so cruel!" This was said more to himself than to
the girl by his knee upon whose bowed head his shrivelled hand
unconsciously rested.

"First it was for father that I kept the secret. He seemed so stricken
after--after he was alone. A