"But, Lyn, the theatre season has just opened--and--"

"Don't be a silly, Con. What do we care for that? Besides, we can go to some place where there are theatres. It's too cold to go into the wilds."

"But New York is _the_ place, Lyn."

"Con, I never saw you so obstinate and frivolous. Why, you're thin and pale, and you worry me. I will never leave you again during the summer.

Ann was edgy about it this year. She told me once that she felt all the hotness you were suffering. I believe she did! _Now_ will you come away for a month?"

"I--I cannot, Lyn."

"For two weeks, then? One?"

"Darling, after next week, yes! For a week or ten days."

"Good old Con! Always so reasonable and--kind," Lynda lifted her happy face to his....

But things did not happen as Truedale arranged--not all of them. There was a brief tussle, the opening night of the play, with McPherson. He didn't see why he should be obliged to sit in the front row.

"I'm too tall and fat!" he protested; "it's like putting me on exhibition. Besides, my dress suit is too small for me and my shirt-front bulges and--and I'm not pretty. Put the women in front, Truedale. What ails you, anyway?"

Conning was desperate. For a moment it looked as if the burly doctor were going to defeat everything.

"I hate plays, you know!" McPherson was mumbling; "why didn't you bring us to a musical comedy or vaudeville? Lord! but it's hot here."

Betty, watching Truedale's exasperated face, came to his a.s.sistance.

"When at a party you're asked whether you will have tea or coffee, Dr.

McPherson," she said, tugging at his huge arm, "you mustn't say 'chocolate,' it isn't polite. If Con wants to mix up the s.e.xes he has a perfect right to, after he's ruined himself buying this box. Do sit down beside me, doctor. When the audience looks at my perfectly beautiful new gown they'll forget your reputation and shirt-front."

So, muttering and frowning, McPherson sat down beside Betty, and Brace in lamblike mood dropped beside him.

"It's wicked," McPherson turned once more; "I don't believe Ann can see a thing."

"Yes, I can, Dr. McPherson--if you keep put! I want to sit between father and mommy-Lyn. When I thrill, I have to have near me some one particular, to hold on to."

"You ought to be in bed!"

Little Ann leaned against his shoulder. "Don't be grumpy," she whispered, "I like you best of all--when you're not the doctor."

"Umph!" grunted McPherson, but he stayed "put" after that, until the curtain went down on the first act. Then he turned to Truedale. He had been laughing until the tears stood in his eyes.

"Did that big woodsman make you think of any one?" he asked.

"Did he remind _you_ of any one?" Truedale returned. He was weak with excitement. Lynda, sitting beside him, was almost as white as the gown she wore--for she had remembered the old play!

"He's enough like old Jim White to be his twin! I haven't laughed so much in a month. I feel as if I'd had a vacation in the hills."

Then the curtain went up on the big scene! Camden had spared no expense. That was his way. The audience broke into appreciative applause as it gazed at the realistic reproduction of deep woods, dim trails, and a sky of gold. It was an empty stage--a waiting moment!

In the first act the characters had been more or less subservient to the big honest sheriff, with his knowledge of the people and his amazing interpretation of justice. He had been so wise--so deliciously anarchistic--that the real motive of the play had only begun to appear.

But now into the beautiful, lonely woods the woman came! The shabby, radiant little creature with her tremendous problem yet to solve.

Through the act she rose higher, clearer; she won sympathy, she revealed herself; and, at the end, she faced her audience with an appeal that was successful to the last degree.

In short, she had got Truedale's play over the footlights! He knew it; every one knew it. And when the climax came and the decision was made--leaving the man-who-had-learned-his-lesson unaware of the divine renunciation but strong enough to take up his life clear-sightedly; when the little heroine lifted her eyes and her empty arms to the trail leading up and into the mysterious woods--and to all that she knew they held--something happened to Truedale! He felt the clutch of a small cold hand on his. He looked around, and into the wide eyes of Ann! The child seemed hypnotized and, as if touched by a magic power, her resemblance to her mother fairly radiated from her face. She was struggling for expression. Seeking to find words that would convey what she was experiencing. It was like remembering indistinctly another country and scene, whose language had been forgotten. Then--and only Lynda and Truedale heard--little Ann said:

"It's Nella-Rose! Father, it's Nella-Rose!"

Betty had been right. The shock had, for a moment, drawn the veil aside, the child was looking back--back; she heard what others had called the one she now remembered--the sacreder name had escaped her!

"Father, it's Nella-Rose!"

Truedale continued to look at Ann. Like a dying man--or one suddenly born into full life--he gradually understood! As Ann looked at that moment, so had Nella-Rose looked when, in Truedale's cabin, she turned her eyes to the window and saw his face!

This was Nella-Rose's child, but why had Lynda--? And with this thought such a wave of emotion swept over Truedale that he feared, strong as he was, that he was going to lose consciousness. For a moment he struggled with sheer physical sensation, but he kept his eyes upon the small, dark face turned trustingly to his. Then he realized that people were moving about; the body of the house was nearly empty; McPherson, while helping Betty on with her cloak, was commenting upon the play.

"Good stuff!" he admitted. "Some muscle in that. Not the usual appeal to the uglier side of life. But come, come, Mrs. Kendall, stop crying. It's only a play, after all."

"Oh! I know," Betty quiveringly replied, "but it's so human, Dr.

McPherson. That dear little woman has almost broken my heart; but she'd have broken it utterly if she had acted differently. I don't believe the author ever _guessed_ her! Somewhere she _lived_ and played her part. I just know it!"

Truedale heard all this while he watched the strained look fading from Ann's face. The past was releasing her, giving her back to the safe, normal present. Presently she laughed and said: "Father, I feel so queer. Just as if I'd been--dreaming."

Then she turned with a deep, relieving sigh to Lynda. "Thank you for bringing me, mommy-Lyn," she said, "it was the best play I've ever seen in all my life. Only I wish that nice actress-lady had gone with the man who didn't know. I--I feel real sorry for him. And why didn't she go?--I'd have gone as quick as anything."

The door had closed between Ann's past and her future! Truedale got upon his feet, but he was still dazed and uncertain as to what he should do next. Then he heard Lynda say, and it almost seemed as if she spoke from a distance she could not cross, "Little Ann, bring father."

He looked at Lynda and her white face startled him, but she smiled the kind, true smile that called upon him to play his part.

Somehow the rest of the plan ran as if no cruel jar had preceded it. The supper was perfect--the guests merry--and, when he could command himself, Truedale--keeping his eyes on Lynda's face--confessed.

For a moment every one was quiet. Surprise, delight, stayed speech. Then Ann asked: "And did you do it behind the locked door, father?"

"Yes, Ann."

"Well, I'm glad I kept Billy out!"

"And Lyn--did you know?" Betty said, her pretty face aglow.

"I--I guessed."

But the men kept still after the cordial handshakes. McPherson was recalling something Jim White had said to him recently while he was with the sheriff in the hills.

"Doc, that thar chap yo' once sent down here--thar war a lot to him us-all didn't catch onter."

And Brace was thinking of the night, long, long ago, when Conning threw some letters upon the glowing coals and groaned!