"The little rascal. And what did Thomas do?"

"Oh! he let her. People always let her. I do myself."

"She's a fascinating kid," Truedale said with a laugh. Then, very earnestly: "I'm rather glad we do not know her antecedents, Lyn; it's safer to take her as we find her and build on that. But I'd be willing to risk a good deal that much love and goodness are back of little Ann, no matter how much else got twisted in. And the love and goodness must be her pa.s.sport through life."

"Yes, Con, and they are all that are worth while."

But every change was a period of struggle to Ann and those who dealt with her. She had a pa.s.sionate power of attachment to places and people, and readjustment caused her pain and unrest.

When school was considered, it almost made her ill. She clung to Truedale and implored him not to make her go away.

"But it's only for the day time, Ann," he explained, "and you will have children to play with--little girls like yourself."

"No; no! I don't want children--only Bobbie! I only want my folks!"

Lynda came to her defense.

"Con, we'll have a governess for a year or so."

"Is it wise, Lyn, to give way to her?"

"Yes, it is!" Ann burst in; "it is wise, I'd die if I had to go."

So she had a governess and made gratifying strides in learning. The trait that was noticeable in the child was that she developed and thrived most when not opposed. She wilted mentally and physically when forced. She had a most unusual power of winning and holding love, and under a shy and gentle exterior there were pa.s.sion and strength that at times were pathetic. While not a robust child she was generally well and as time pa.s.sed she gained in vigour. Once, and once only, was she seriously ill, and that was when she had been with Truedale and Lynda about two years. During all that time, as far as they knew, she had never referred to the past and both believed that, for her, it was dead; but when weakness and fever loosened the unchildlike control, something occurred that alarmed Lynda, but broke down forever the thin barrier that, for all her effort, had existed between her and Ann. She was sitting alone with the child during a spell of delirium, when suddenly the little hot hands reached up pa.s.sionately, and the name "mother"

quivered on the dry lips in a tone unfamiliar to Lynda's ears. She bent close.

"What, little Ann?" she whispered.

The big, burning eyes looked puzzled. Then: "Take me to--to the Hollow--to Miss Lois Ann!"

"Sh!" panted Lynda, every nerve tingling. "See, little Ann--don't you know me?"

The child seemed to half understand and moaned plaintively:

"I'm lost! I'm lost!"

Lynda took her in her arms and the sick fancy pa.s.sed, but from that hour there was a new tie between the two--a deeper dependence.

There was one day when they all felt little Ann was slipping from them.

Dr. McPherson had come as near giving up hope as he ever, outwardly, permitted himself to do.

"You had better stay at home," he said to Conning; "children are skittish little craft. The best of them haul up anchor sometimes when you least expect it."

So Truedale remained at home and, wandering through the quiet house, wondered at the intensity of his suffering as he contemplated the time on ahead without the child who had so recently come into his life from he knew not where. He attributed it all to Ann's remarkable characteristics.

Late in the afternoon of the anxious day he went into the sick room and leaned over the bed. Ann opened her eyes and smiled up at him, weakly.

"Make a light, father," she whispered, and with a fear-filled heart Truedale touched the electric b.u.t.ton. The room was already filled with sunlight, for it faced the west; but for Ann it was cold and dark.

Then, as if setting the last pitiful scene for her own departure, she turned to Lynda: "Make a mother-lap for Ann," she said. Lynda tenderly lifted the thin form from the bed and held it close.

"I--I taught you how to be a mother, didn't I, mommy-Lyn?" she had never called Lynda simply "mother," while "father" had fallen naturally from her lips.

"Yes, yes, little Ann." Lynda's eyes were filled with tears and in that moment she realized how much the child meant to her. She had done her duty, had exceeded it at times, in her determination not to fall short.

She had humoured Ann, often taking sides against Conning in her fear of being unjust. But oh! there had always been something lacking; and now, too late, she felt that, for all her struggle, she had not been true to the vow she had made to Nella-Rose!

But Ann was gazing up at her with a strange, penetrating look.

"It's the comfiest lap in the world," she faltered, "for little, tired girls."

"I--I love her!" Lynda gazed up at Truedale as if confessing and, at the end, seeking forgiveness.

"Of course you do!" he comforted, "but--be brave, Lyn!" He feared to excite Ann. Then the weary eyes of the child turned to him.

"Mommy-Lyn does love me!" the weak voice was barely audible; "she does, father, she does!"

It was like a confirmation--a recognition of something beautiful and sacred.

"I felt," Lynda said afterward to Betty, "as if she were not only telling Con, but G.o.d, too. I had not deserved it--but it made up for all the hard struggle, and swept everything before it."

But Ann did not die. Slowly, almost hesitatingly, she turned back to them and brought a new power with her. She, apparently, left her baby looks and nature in the shadowy place from which she had escaped. Once health came to her, she was the merriest of merry children--almost noisy at times--in the rollicking fashion of Betty's irrepressible Bobilink.

And the haunting likeness to Truedale was gone. For a year or two the lean, thready little girl looked like no one but her own elfish self; and then--it was like a revealment--she grew to be like Nella-Rose!

Lynda, at times, was breathless as she looked and remembered. She had seen the mother only once; but that hour had burned the image of face, form, and action into her soul. She recalled, too, Conning's graphic description of his first meeting with Nella-Rose. The quaint, dramatic power that had marked Ann's mother, now developed in the little daughter. She had almost entirely lost the lingering manner of speech--the Southern expressions and words--but she was as different from the children with whom she mingled as she had ever been.

When she was strong enough she resumed her studies with the governess and also began music. This she enjoyed with the pa.s.sion that marked her att.i.tude toward any person or thing she loved.

"Oh, it lets something in me, free!" she confided to Truedale. "I shall never be naughty or unkind again--I wouldn't dare!"

"Why?" Conning was no devotee of music and was puzzled by Ann's intensity.

"Why," she replied, puckering her brows in the effort to make herself clear, "I--I wouldn't be worthy of--of the beautiful music, if I were horrid."

Truedale laughed and patted her pretty cropped head, over which the new little curls were cl.u.s.tering.

Life in the old house was full and rich at that time. Conning was, as he often said, respectably busy and important enough in the affairs of men to be content; he would never be one who enjoyed personal power.

Lynda, during Ann's first years, had taken a partner who attended to interviews, conferences, and contracts; but in the room over the extension the creative work went on with unabated interest. Little Ann soon learned to love the place and had her tiny chair beside the hearth or table. There she learned the lessons of consideration for others, and self-control.

"If the day comes," Lynda told Betty, "when my work interferes with my duty to Con and Ann, it will go! But more and more I am inclined to think that the interference is a matter of choice. I prefer my profession to--well, other things."

"Of course," Betty agreed; "women should not be forever coddling their offspring, and when they learn to call things by their right names and develop some initiative, they won't whine so much."

Lynda and Truedale had sadly abandoned the hope of children of their own. It was harder for Lynda than for Con, but she accepted what seemed her fate and thanked heaven anew for little Ann and the sure sense that she could love her without reserve.

And then, after the years of change and readjustment, Lynda's boy was born! He seemed to crown everything with a sacred meaning. Not without great fear and doubt did Lynda go down into the shadow; not without an agony of apprehension did Truedale go with her to the boundary over which she must pa.s.s alone to accept what G.o.d had in store for her. They remembered with sudden and sharp anxiety the peril that Betty had endured, though neither spoke of it; and always they smiled courageously when most their hearts failed.

Then came the black hours of suffering and doubt. A wild storm was beating outside and Truedale, hearing it, wondered whether all the great events of his life were to be attended by those outbursts of nature. He walked the floor of his room or hung over Lynda's bed, and at midnight, when she no longer knew him or could soothe him by her brave smile, he went wretchedly away and upon the dim landing of the stairs came upon Ann, crouching white and haggard.