break,
they must live their lives. But the turning of the key seemed to
proclaim to the whole city a new dispensation. A declaration of
independence that spurned--tradition.

For a moment Truedale was angry, unsettled, and outraged. He strode into
the room with stern eyes; he walked half way to the closed--and
locked--door; he gazed upon it as if it were a tangible foe which he
might overcome and, by so doing, reestablish the old ideals. Then--and
it was the saving grace--Truedale smiled grimly. "To be sure," he
muttered. "Of course!" and turned to his room under the eaves.

But the following day had to be faced. There were several things that
had to be dealt with besides the condition arising from the locking of
the door of William Truedale's room.

Conning battled with this fact nearly all night, little realizing that
Lynda was feeling her way to the same conclusion in the quiet room
below.

"I'm not beaten, Uncle William," she whispered, kneeling beside the bed.
"If I could only see how to meet to-morrow I would be all right."

And then a queer sort of comfort came to her. The humour with which her
old friend would have viewed the situation pervaded the room, bringing
strength with it.

"I know," she confided to the darkness in which the old man seemed
present, in a marvellously real way, "I know I love Conning. A
make-believe love couldn't stand this--but the true thing can. And he
loves _me!_ I know it through and through. The other love of his
wasn't--what this is. But he must find this out for himself. I've always
been close when he needed me; he must come to me now--for his sake even
more than for mine. I am deserving of that, am I not, Uncle William?"

The understanding friendship did not fail the girl kneeling by the empty
bed. It seemed to come through the rays of moonlight and rest like a
helpful touch upon her.

"Little mother!"--and in her soul Lynda believed William Truedale and
her mother had come together--"little mother, you did your best without
love; I will do mine--with it! And now I am going to bed and I am going
to sleep."

The next morning Truedale and Lynda were both so precipitate about
attacking the situation that they nearly ran into each other at the
dining-room door. They both had the grace to laugh. Then they talked of
the work at hand for the morning.

"I have a studio to evolve," Lynda said, passing a slice of toast to
Truedale from the electric contrivance before her, "a wo