h it! I'm
going to surprise every one and have a gala time myself. I'm going to
set things spinning and then I'm going on a journey. It's queer" (the
sneering voice fell to a murmur), "all my prison-years I've thought of
this and planned it; the doing of it seems quite the simplest part. I
wonder now why I have kept behind the bars when, by a little exertion--a
little indifference to opinion--I might have broadened my horizon. But
good Lord! I haven't wasted time. I've studied every detail; nothing has
escaped me. This" (he touched his head--a fine, almost noble head,
covered by a wealth of white hair), "this has been doing double duty
while these" (he pointed to his useless legs) "have refused to play
their part. While I felt conscientiously responsible, I stuck to my job;
but a man has a right to a little freedom of his own!"

Lynda drew so close that her stool touched the chair. She bent her cheek
upon the shrivelled hand resting upon the arm. The excitement and
feverish banter of Truedale affected her painfully. She reproached
herself bitterly for having left him to the mercy of his loneliness and
imagination. Her interest in, her resentment for, Conning faded before
the pitiful display of feeling expressed in every tone and word of
Truedale.

The touch of the warm cheek against his hand stirred the man. His eyes
softened, his face twitched and, because the young eyes were hidden, he
permitted his gaze to rest reverently upon the bowed head. She was the
only thing on earth he loved--the only thing that cut through his crust
of hardness and despair and made him human. Then, from out the
unexpected, he asked:

"Lynda, when did you break your engagement to John Morrell?"

The girl started, but she did not change her position. She never lied or
prevaricated to Truedale--she might keep her own counsel, but when she
spoke it was simple truth.

"About six months ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"There was nothing to tell, Uncle William."

"There was the fact, wasn't there?"

"Oh! yes, the fact."

"Why did you do it?"

"That--is--a long story." Lynda looked up, now, and smiled the rare
smile that only the stricken man understood. Appeal, confusion, and
detachment marked it. She longed, helplessly, for sympathy and
understanding.

"Well, long stories are welcome enough here, child; especially after the
dearth of them. Ring the bell; let's have dinner. Pull down the shades
and" (Truedale gave a wide gesture)