be preserved, the primal
impulses should not be denied. They outlived everything; they rallied
from shock--even death; they persisted until extinction; and here was
this sweet woman with all her gracious loveliness near him. He loved
her! Yes, strange as it seemed even then to him, Truedale acknowledged
that he loved her with the love, unlike yet like the love that had been
too rudely awakened in the lonely woods when he had been still incapable
of understanding it.

Then the storm outside reached his consciousness and awakened memories
that hurt and stung him.

No. He was not as many men who could take and take and find excuse. The
very sincerity of the past and future must prove itself, now, in this
throbbing, vital present. Only so could he justify himself and his
belief in goodness. He must open his heart and soul to the woman beside
him. There was no other alternative.

But first they dined together across the hall. Truedale noted every
special dish--the meal was composed of his favourite viands. The
intimacy of sitting opposite Lynda, the smiling pleasure of old Thomas
who served them, combined to lure him again from his stern sense of
duty.

Why? Why? his yearning pleaded. Why should he destroy his own future
happiness and that of this sweet, innocent woman for a whim--that was
what he tried to term it--of conscience? Why, there were men, thousands
of them, who would call him by a harsher name than he cared to own, if
he followed such a course; and yet--then Truedale looked across at
Lynda.

"A woman should have clear vision and choice," his reason commanded, and
to this his love agreed.

But alone with Lynda, in the library later, the conflict was renewed.
Never had she been so sweet, so kind. The storm beat against the house
and instead of interfering, seemed to hold them close and--together. It
no longer aroused in Truedale recollections that smarted. It was like an
old familiar guide leading his thought into ways sacred and happy. Then
suddenly, out of a consciousness that knew neither doubt nor fear, he
said:

"You and I, Lyn, were never afraid of truth, were we?"

"Never."

She was knitting again--knitting feverishly and desperately.

"Lyn--I want to tell you--all about it! About something you must know."

Very quietly now, Lynda rolled her work together and tossed it, needles
and all, upon the glowing logs. She was done, forever, with subterfuge
and she knew it. The wool curled, blackened,