Lynda was blinded by her tears. She could hardly see the small figure crouching in the low chair by the fire.

"And then--Miss Lois Ann went and told my folks--told Marg, my sister.

Marg was married to Jed and she was mighty scornful of me and lil' Ann.

She wouldn't tell Jed and my father--she came alone to me. She told me what folks thought. They-all thought I'd gone away with Burke Lawson and Marg felt sorry to see me alive--with lil' Ann. But Miss Lois Ann wouldn't let her sting me with her tongue--she drove her away.

Then--Burke came! He'd been a right long way off--he'd broken his leg; he came as soon as he could, and Marg told him and--and laid lil' Ann to him!"

"And you--never spoke? You never told?" Lynda had drawn very close--her words were barely above a whisper.

"No. It was this-er-way. First, love for him held my tongue mighty still; then hate; and afterwards I couldn't!"

"But now, Nella-Rose, _now_--why have you spoken--now?"

"I haven't yet. Not to them-all. I had to come here--to him first. I reckon you don't know about Burke and me?"

Lynda shook her head. She had thought she knew--but she had wandered sadly.

"When Marg laid my trouble to Burke he just took it! First I couldn't understand. But he took my trouble--and me! He took lil' Ann and me out of Miss Lois Ann's cabin into--peace and safety. He tied every one's tongue--it seemed like he drove all the--the wrong away by his big, strong love--and set me free, like he was G.o.d! He didn't ask nothing for a right long time, not 'til I grew to--believe him and trust him. Then we went--when no one knew--and was married. Now he's my man and he's always been lil' Ann's father till--till--"

A log fell upon the hearth and both women started guiltily and affrightedly.

"Go on! go on!" breathed Lynda. "Go on!"

"Till the twins came--Burke's and mine! Then he knew the difference--even his love for me couldn't help him--it hindered; and while I--I feared, I understood!"

"Oh! oh! oh!" Lynda covered her aching eyes with her cold hands. She dared not look at Nella-Rose. That childish yet old face was crowding everything but pity from the world. Truedale, herself--what did they matter?

"He--he couldn't bear to have lil' Ann touch--the babies. I could see him--shiver! And lil' Ann--she's like a flower--she fades if you don't love her. She grew afraid and--and hid, and it seemed like the soul of me would die; for, don't you see, Burke thinks that Marg's man is--is the father, and Marg and Jed lays the trouble to Burke and they think her--his! And--and it has grown more since the big road brought us-all closer. The big road brought trouble as well as good. Once"--and here the haggard face whitened--"once Burke and Jed fought--and a fight in the hills means more fights! Just then Bill Trim was hurt and told me before he died; it was like opening a grave! I 'most died 'long with Bill Trim--'til I studied about lil' Ann! And then--I saw wide, and right far, like I hadn't since--since before I hated. I saw how I must come and--tell you-all, and how maybe you'd take lil' Ann, and then I could go back to--to my man and--there'll be peace when he knows--at last! Will you--oh! will you be with me, kind lady, when I--tell your--your--man?" Nella-Rose dropped at Lynda's feet and was pleading like a distraught child. "I've been so afraid. I did not know his world was so full of noise and--and right many things. And he will be--different--and I may not be able to make him understand. But you will--_you_ will! I must get back to the hills. I done told Burke I--I was going to prove myself to his goodness--by putting lil' Ann with them as would be mighty kind to her. I seemed to know how it would turn out--and I dared to say it; but now--now I am mighty--'fraid!"

The tears were falling from the pain-racked eyes--falling upon Lynda's cold, rigid hands--and they seemed to warm her heart and clear her vision.

"Nella-Rose," she said, "where is little Ann?"

"Lil' Ann? Why, there's lil' Ann sleeping her tire off under your pillows. She was cold and mighty wore out." Nella-Rose turned toward the deep couch under the broad window across the room.

Silently, like haunted creatures, both women stole toward the couch and the mother drew away the sheltering screen of cushions. As she did so, the little child opened her eyes, and for a moment endeavoured to find her place in the strangeness. She looked at her mother and smiled a slow, peculiar smile. Then she fixed her gaze upon Lynda. It was an old, old look--but young, too--pleading, wonder-filled. The child was so like Truedale--so unmercifully, cruelly like him--that, for a moment, reason deserted Lynda and she covered her face with both hands and swayed with silent laughter.

Nella-Rose bent over her child as if to protect her. "Lil' Ann," she whispered, "the lady is a right kind lady--right kind!" She felt she must explain and justify.

After a moment or two Lynda gained control of her shaken nerves. She suddenly found herself calm, and ready to undertake the hardest, the most perilous thing that had ever come into her life. "Bring little Ann to the fire;" she said, "I'm going to order some lunch, and then--we can decide, Nella-Rose."

Nella-Rose obeyed, dumbly. She was completely under the control of the only person, who, in this perplexed and care-filled hour, seemed able to guide and guard her.

Lynda watched the two eat of the food Thomas brought in. There was no fear of Truedale coming now. There was safety ahead for some hours.

Lynda herself made a pretext of eating, but she hardly took her eyes from little Ann's face. She wanted familiarity to take the place of shock. She must grow accustomed to that terrible resemblance, for she knew, beyond all doubt, that it was to hold a place in all her future life.

When the last drop of milk went gurgling down the little girl's throat, when Nella-Rose pushed her plate aside, when Thomas had taken away the tray, Lynda spoke:

"And now, Nella-Rose, what are you going to--to do with us all?"

The tired head of little Ann was pressed against her mother's breast.

The food, the heat, were lulling her weary senses into oblivion again.

Lynda gave a swift thought of grat.i.tude for the momentary respite as she watched the small, dark face sink from her direct view.

"We are all in your hands," she continued.

"In _my_ hands--_mine_?"

"Yes. Yours."

"I--I must--tell him--and then go home."

"Must you, Nella-Rose?"

"What else is there for me?"

"You must decide. You, alone."

"You"--the lips quivered--"you will not go with me?"

"I--cannot, Nella-Rose."

"Why?"

"Because"--and with all her might Lynda sought words that would lay low the difference between her and the simple, primitive woman close to her--felt she _must_ use ideas and terms that would convey her meaning and not drive her and Nella-Rose apart--"because, while he is my man now, he was first yours. Because you were first, you must go alone--if go you must. Then he shall decide."

Nella-Rose grasped the deep meaning after a moment and sank back shivering. The courage and endurance that had borne her to this hour deserted her. The help, that for a time had seemed to rise up in Lynda, crumbled. Alone, drifting she knew not where, Nella-Rose waited.

"I'm--afraid!" she repeated over and over. "I'm right afraid. He's not the same; it's all, all gone--that other life--and yet I cannot let him think--!"

The two women looked at each other over all that separated them--and each comprehended! The soul of Nella-Rose demanded justification--vindication--and Lynda knew that it should have it, if the future were to be lived purely. There was just one thing Lynda had to make clear in this vital moment, one truth that must be understood without trespa.s.sing on the sacred rights of others. Surely Nella-Rose should know all that there was to know before coming to her final decision. So Lynda spoke:

"You think he"--she could not bring herself, for all her bravery and sense of justice, to speak her husband's name--"you think he remembers you as something less than you were, than you are? Nella-Rose, he never has! He did not understand, but always he has held you sacred. Whatever blame there may have been--he took it all. It was because he could; because it was possible for him to do so, that I loved him--honoured him. Had it been otherwise, as truly as G.o.d hears me, I could not have trusted him with my life. That--that marriage of yours and his was as holy to him as, I now see, it was to you; and he, in his heart, has always remembered you as he might a dear, dead--wife!"

Having spoken the words that wrung her heart, Lynda sank back exhausted.

Then she made her first--her only claim for herself.

"It was when everything was past and his new life began--his man's life--that I entered in. He--he told me everything."

Nella-Rose bent over her sleeping child, and a wave of compa.s.sion overflooded her thought.

"I--I must think!" she whispered, and closed her lovely eyes. What she saw in the black s.p.a.ce behind the burning lids no one could know, but her tangled little life must have been part of it. She must have seen it all--the bright, sunlit dream fading first into shadow, then into the dun colour of the deserted hills. Burke Lawson must have stood boldly forth, in his supreme unselfishness and G.o.dlike power, as her redeemer--her man! The gray eyes suddenly opened and they were calm and still.

"I--I only wanted him--to remember me--like he once did," she faltered.

She was taking her last look at Truedale. "So long as he--he didn't think me--less; I reckon I don't want him--to think of me as I am--now."

"Suppose"--the desperate demand for full justice to Nella-Rose drove Lynda on--"suppose it were in your power and mine to sweep everything aside; suppose I--I went away. What would you do, Nella-Rose?"

Again the eyes closed. After a moment: