But for Lynda and Truedale the steady gleam was necessary. They never questioned--never doubted--after the night when they came home from the little house in the woods. To them both happiness was no new thing; it was a precious old thing given back after a dark period of testing. The days were all too short, and when night brought Conning running and whistling to the door, Lynda smiled and realized that at last the fire was burning briskly on her nice, clean hearth. They had so much in common--so much that demanded them both in the doing of it.

"No bridges for us, here and there, over which to reach each other,"

thought Lynda; "it's the one path for us both." Then her eyes grew tenderly brooding as she remembered how 'twas a little child that had led them--not theirs, but another's.

The business involved in setting old William Truedale's money in circulation was absorbing Conning at this time. Once he set his feet upon the way, he did not intend to turn back; but he sometimes wondered if the day would ever come when he could, with a clear conscience, feel poor enough to enjoy himself, selfishly, once more.

From McPherson he heard constantly of the work in the southern hills.

Truedale was, indeed, a strong if silent and unsuspected force there. As once he had been an unknown quant.i.ty, so he remained; but the work went on, supervised by Jim White, who used with sagacity and cleverness the power placed in his hands.

Truedale's own particular interests were nearly all educational. Even here, he held himself in reserve--placed in more competent hands the power they could wield better than he. Still, he was personally known and gratefully regarded by many young men and women who were struggling--as he once had struggled--for what to them was dearer than all else. He always contrived to leave them their independence and self-respect. Naturally all this was gratifying and vital to Lynda.

Achievement was dear to her temperament, and the successes of others, especially those nearest to her, were more precious to her than her own.

She saw Truedale drop his old hesitating, bewildered manner like a discarded mantle. She grew to rely upon his calm strength that developed with the demands made upon it. She approved of him so! And that realization brought out the best in her.

One November evening she and Con were sitting in the library, Truedale at his desk, Lynda idly and luxuriously rocking to and fro, her hands clasped over her head. She had learned, at last, the joy of absolute relaxation.

"There's a big snow-storm setting in," she said, smiling softly. Then, apropos of nothing: "Con, we've been married four years and over!"

"Only that, Lyn? It seems to me like my whole life."

"Oh, Con--so long as that?"

"Blessedly long."

After another pause Lynda spoke merrily: "Con, I want some of Uncle William's money. A lot of it."

Truedale tossed her a new check book. "Now that you see there is no string tied to it," he said, "may I ask what for? Just sympathetic interest, you know."

"Of course. Well, it's this way. Betty and I are broke. It's fine for you to make roads and build schools and equip the youth of America for getting all the learning they can carry, but Betty and I are after the babies. We've been agonizing over the Saxe Home--Betty's on the Board--and before Christmas we are going to undress all those poor standardized infants and start their cropped hair to growing."

Truedale laughed heartily. "Intimacy with Betty," he said, "has coloured your descriptive powers, Lyn, dear."

"Oh, all happy women talk one tongue."

"And you _are_ happy, Lyn?"

"Happy? Yes--happy, Con!"

They smiled at each other across the broad table.

"Betty has told the superintendent that if there is a blue stripe or a cropped head on December twenty-fourth, she's going to recommend the dismissal of the present staff."

"Good Lord! Does any one ever take Betty seriously? I should think one of those board meetings would bear a strong family resemblance to an afternoon tea--rather a frivolous one."

"They don't. And, honestly, people are tremendously afraid of Betty. She makes them laugh, but they know she gets what she wants--and with a joke she drives her truths home."

"There's something in that." Truedale looked earnest. "She's a great Betty."

"So it's up to Betty and me, now," Lynda went on. "We can take off the shabby, faded little duds, but we've got to have something to put on at once, or the kiddies will take cold."

"Surely."

"We think that to start a child out in stripes is almost as bad as finishing him in them. To make a child feel--different--is sure to d.a.m.n him."

"And so you are going to make the Saxe Home an example and set the ball rolling."

"Exactly, Con. And we're going to slam the door in the faces of the dramatic rich this Christmas. The lambies at the Saxe are going to have a nice, old-fashioned tree. They are going to dress it themselves the night before, and whisper up the chimney what they want--and there is not going to be a speech on Christmas Day within a mile of that Home!"

"That's great. I'd like to come in on that myself."

"You can, Con, we'll need you."

"Christmas always does set the children in one's thoughts, doesn't it? I suppose Betty is particularly keen--having had her baby for a day or so." Truedale's eyes were tender. Betty's baby and its fulfilled mission were sacred to him and Lynda.

"Betty is going to adopt a child, Con."

"Really?"

"Yes. She says she cannot stand Christmas without one. It's a rebuke to--to her boy."

"Poor little Bet!"

"Oh! it makes me so--so humble when I see her courage. She says if she has a dozen children of her own it will make no difference; she must have her first child's representative. She's about decided upon the one--he's the most awful of them all. She's only hesitating to see if anything awfuller will turn up. She says she's going to take a baby no one else will have--she's going to do the biggest thing she can for her own dead boy. As if her baby ever could be dead! Sometimes I think he is more alive than if he had stayed here and got all snarled up in earthly things--as so many do!"

Conning came close to Lynda and drew her head back against his breast.

"You are--crying, darling!" he said.

"It's--it's Betty. Con, what is it about her that sort of brightens the way for us all, yet dims our eyes?"

"She's very illuminating. It's a big thing--this of adopting a child.

What does Brace think of it?"

"He adores everything Betty does. He says"--Lynda smiled up into the face above her--"he says he wishes Betty had chosen one with hair a little less crimson, but that doubtless he'll grow to like that tint better than any other."

"Lyn, have you ever thought of adopting a child?"

"Oh!--sometimes. Yes, Con."

"Well, if you ever feel that you ought--that you want to--I will be glad to--to help you. I see the risk--the chance, and I think I would like a handsome one. But it is Christmas time, and a man and woman, if they have their hearts in the right places, do think of children and trees and all the rest at this season. Still"--and with that Truedale pressed his lips to Lynda's hair--"I'm selfish, you seem already to fill every c.h.i.n.k of my life."

"Con, that's a blessed thing to say to a woman--even though the woman knows you ought not to say it. And now, I'm going to tell you something else, Con. It's foolish and trifling, perhaps, but I've set my heart upon it ever since the Saxe Home got me to thinking."

"Anything in the world, Lyn! Can I help?"

"I should say you could. You'll have to be about the whole of it.

Starting this Christmas, I'm going to have a tree--right here in this room--close to Uncle William's chair!"

"By Jove! and for--for whom?"