"You see, Lyn, when I began to carve the thing out--the play, you know--I had no idea how to handle the tools; like many fools with a touch of talent, I thought I could manage without preparation. I've learned better. You cannot get a thing over to people unless you know something of life--speak the language. I'm learning, and when I feel that I cannot _help_ writing--I'll write."

"Good!" Lynda saw his point; "and now let's haunt the theatres--see the machinery in running order. We'll find out what people want and _why_."

So they went to the theatre and read plays. Brace made the wholesome third and their lives settled into calm enjoyment that was charming but which sometimes--not often, but occasionally--made Lynda pause and consider. It would not do--for Con--to fall into a pace that might defeat his best good.

But this thought brought a deep crimson to the girl's cheeks.

And then something happened. It was so subtle that Lynda Kendall, least of all, realized the true significance.

Once in the early days of her secured self-support, William Truedale had said to her:

"You give too much attention, girl, to your tailor and too little to your dressmaker."

Lynda had laughingly called her friend frivolous and defended her wardrobe.

"One cannot doll up for business, Uncle William."

"Is business your whole life, Lynda? If so you had better reform it. If women are going to pattern their lives after men's they must go the whole way. A sensible man recognizes the need of shutting the office door sometimes and putting on his dress suit."

"Well, but Uncle William, what is the matter with this perfectly built suit? I always slip a fresh blouse on when I am off duty. I hate to be always changing."

"If you had a mother, Lynda, she would make you see what I mean. An old fungus like me cannot be expected to command respect from such an up-to-date humbug as you!"

They had laughed it off and Lynda had, once or twice, donned a house gown to please her critical friend, but eventually had slipped back into suits and blouses.

All of a sudden one day--it was nearing holiday time--she left her workroom at midday and, almost shamefacedly, "went shopping." As the fever got into her blood she became reckless, and by five o'clock had bought and ordered home more delicate and exquisite finery than she had ever owned in all her life before.

"It's scandalous!" she murmured to her gay, young heart, "an awful waste of good money, but for the first time, I see how women can get clothes-mad."

She devoted the hour and a half before dinner to locating an artistic dressmaker and putting herself in her hands.

The result was both startling and exciting. The first gown to come home was a dull, golden-brown velvet thing so soft and clinging and individual that it put its wearer into quite a flutter. She "did" and undid her hair, and, in the process, discovered that if she pulled the "sides" loose there was a tendency to curl and the effect was distinctly charming--with the strange gown, of course! Then, marshalling all her courage, she trailed down to the library and thanked heaven when she found the room empty. It would be easier to occupy the stage than to make a late entrance when the audience was in position. So Lynda sat down, tried to read, but was so nervous that her eyes shone and her cheeks were rosy.

Brace and Conning came in together. "Look who's here!" was Kendall's brotherly greeting. "Gee! Con, look at our lady friend!" He held his sister off at arms' length and commented upon her "points."

"I didn't know your hair curled, Lyn."

"I didn't, myself, until this afternoon. You see," she trembled a bit, "now that I do not have to go in the subway to business there's no reason for excluding--this sort of thing" (she touched the pretty gown), "and once you let yourself go, you do not know where you will land.

Curls go with these frills; slippers, too--look!"

Then she glanced up at Conning.

"Do you think I'm very--frivolous?" she asked.

"I never knew"--he was gazing seriously at her--"how handsome you are, Lyn. Wear that gown morning, noon and night; it's stunning."

"I'm glad you both like it. I feel a little unusual in it--but I'll settle down. I have been a trifle prim in dress."

Like the giant's robe, Lynda Kendall's garments seemed to transform her and endow her with the attributes peculiar to themselves. So gradually, that it caused no wonder, she developed the blessed gift of charm and it coloured life for herself and others like a glow from a hidden fire.

All this did not interfere with her business. Once she donned her working garb she was the capable Lynda of the past. A little more sentiment, perhaps, appeared in her designs--a wider conception; but that was natural, for happiness had come to her--and a delicious sense of success. She, womanlike, began to rejoice in her power. She heard of John Morrell's marriage to a young western girl, about this time, with genuine delight. Her sky was clearing of all regrets.

"Morrell was in the office to-day," Brace told his sister one evening, "it seemed to me a bit brash for him to lay it on so thick about his happiness and all that sort of rot."

"Brace!"

"Well, it might be all right to another fellow, but it sounded out of tune, somehow, to me. He says she is the kind that has flung herself body and soul into love; I wager she's a fool."

Lynda looked serious at once.

"I hope not," she said thoughtfully, "and she'll be happier with John, in the long run, if she has some reservations. I did not think that once; I do now."

"But--you, Lyn? You had reservations to burn."

"I had--too many. That was where the mistake began."

"You--do not regret?"

Lynda came close to him.

"Brace, I regret nothing. I am learning that every step leads to the next--if you don't stumble. If you do--you have to pick yourself up and go back. If John learned from me, I, too, have learned from him. I'm going to try to--love his wife."

"I bet she's a cross, somehow, between a cowboy and an idiot. John protested too much about her charms. She's got a sister--sounds a bit to me as if Morrell had married them both. She's coming to live with them after awhile. When I fall in love, it's going to be with an orphan out of an asylum."

Lynda laughed and gave her brother a hug. Then she said:

"Our circle is widening and, by the way Brace, I'm going to begin to entertain a little."

"Good Lord, Lyn!"

"Oh! modestly--until I can use my stiff little wings. A dinner now and then and a luncheon occasionally when I know enough nice women to make a decent showing. Clothes and women, when adopted late in life, are difficult. But oh! Brace, it is great--this blessed home life of mine!

The coming away from my beloved work to something even better."

The pulse of a city throbs faster in the winter. All the vitality of well-nourished men and women is at its fullest, while for them who fall below the normal, the necessity of the struggle for existence keys them to a high pitch. Not so in the deep, far mountain places. There, the inhabitants hide from the elements and withdraw into themselves. For weeks at a time no human being ventures forth from the shelter and comparative comfort of the dull cabins. Families, pressed thus close and debarred from the freedom of the open, suffer mentally and spiritually as one from the wider haunts of men can hardly conceive.

When Nella-Rose turned away from Truedale that golden autumn day, she faced winter and the shut-in terrors of the cold and loneliness. In two weeks the last vestige of autumn would be past, and the girl could not contemplate being imprisoned with Marg and her father while waiting for love to return to her. She paused on the wet, leafy path and considered.

She had told Truedale that she would go home, but what did it matter.

She would go to Miss Lois Ann's. She would know when Truedale returned; she could go to him. In the meantime no human being would annoy her or question her in that cabin far back in the Hollow. And Lois Ann would while away the long hours by story and song. It seemed to her there was but one thing to do--and Nella-Rose did it! She fled to the woman whose name Truedale had barely heard.

It took her three good hours to make the distance to the Hollow and it was quite dark when she tapped on the door of the little cabin. To all appearances the place was deserted; but after the second knock a shutter to the right of the door was pushed open and a long, lean hand appeared holding a lighted candle, while a deep, rich voice called:

"Who?"

"Jes' Nella-Rose!"

The hand withdrew, the shutter was closed, and in another minute the door was flung wide and the girl drawn into the warm, comfortable room.

Supper, of a better sort than most hill-women knew, was spread out on a clean table, and in the cheer and safety Nella-Rose expanded and decided to take the old woman into her confidence at once and so secure present comfort until Truedale came back to claim her.