this background stood the strong, fine form of the young
mistress.

"Welcome home, Con!"

Truedale, for a moment, dared not trust his voice. He gripped her hands
and felt as if he were emerging from a trance. Then, of a sudden, a deep
resentment overpowered him. They could not understand, of course, but
every word and tone of appropriation seemed an insult to the reality
that he knew existed. He no longer belonged to them, to the life into
which they were trying to draw him. To-morrow he would explain; he was
eager to do so and end the restraint that sprang into being the moment
he touched Lynda's hands.

Lynda watched the tense face confronting her and believed Conning was
suffering pangs of remorse and regret. She was filled with pity and
sympathy shone in her eyes. She led him to the library and there
familiarity greeted him--the room was unchanged. Lynda had respected
everything; it was as it always had been except that the long, low chair
was empty.

They talked together softly in the quiet place until dinner--talked of
indifferent things, realizing that they must keep on the surface.

"This room and his bedchamber, Con," Lynda explained, "are the same.
For the rest? Well, I hope you will like it."

Truedale did like it. He gave an exclamation of delight when later they
entered the dining room, which had never been furnished in the past;
like much of the house it had been a sad tribute to the emptiness and
disappointment that had overcome William Truedale's life. Now it shone
with beauty and cheer.

"It is not merely a place in which to eat," explained Lynda; "a dining
room should be the heart of the home, as the library is the soul."

"Think of living up to that!"--Brace gave a laugh--"and not having it
interfere with your appetite!" They were all trying to keep cheerful
until such time as they dared recall the recent past without restraint.

Such an hour came when they gathered once more in the library. Brace
seized his pipe in the anticipation of play upon his emotions. By tacit
consent the low chair was left vacant and by a touch of imagination it
almost seemed as if the absent master were waiting to be justified.

"And now," Truedale said, huskily, "tell me all, Lynda."

"He and I were sitting here just as we all are sitting now, that last
night. He had forgiven me for--for staying away" (Lynda's voice shook),
"and we were very happy and confidential. I told him some things--quite
intimate things,