Potential motherhood can endure throes of travail other than physical; and for the next week Lynda passed through all the phases of spiritual readjustment that enabled her, with blessed certainty of success, to accept what she had undertaken.

She did not speak to Truedale at once, but she went daily to Betty’s and with amazement watched the miracle Betty was performing.  She never forgot the hour, when, going softly up the stairs, she heard little Ann laugh gleefully and clap her hands.

Betty was playing with the baby and telling Ann a story at the same time.  Lynda paused to listen.

“And now come here, little Ann, and kiss Bobilink.  Isn’t he smelly-sweet and wonderful?”

“Yes.”

“That’s right.  Kiss him again.  And you once said you just naturally didn’t like babies!  Little Ann, you are a humbug.  And now tell me how much you like Bobilink.”

“Heaps and lickwigs.”

“Now kiss me, you darling, and come close-so we will not waken Bobbie.  Let me see, this is going to be the story of the little girl who adopted a-mother!  Yesterday it was Bobbie’s story of how a mother adopted a little boy.  You remember, the mother had to have a baby to fill a big empty space, so she went to a house where some lost kiddies were and found just the one that fitted in and-and-but this is Ann’s story to-day!

“Once there was a little girl-a very dear and good little girl-who knew all about a mother, and how dear a mother was; because she had one who was obliged to go away-

“For a right lil’ time?” Ann broke in.

“Of course,” Betty agreed, “a right little time; but the small girl thought, while she waited, that she would adopt a mother and not tell her about the other one, for fear she might not understand, and she’d teach the adopted mother how to be a real mother.  And now one must remember all the things little girls do to-to adopted mothers.  First-

At this point Lynda entered the room, but Betty went on calmly: 

“First, what do little girls do, Ann?”

“Teach them how to hold lil’ girls.”

“Splendid!  What next?”

“Kiss them and cuddle them right close.”

“Exactly!  Next?”

“They make mothers glad and they make them laugh-by being mighty good.”

Then both Betty and Ann looked at Lynda.  The sharp, outer air had brought colour to her cheeks, life to her eyes.  She was very handsome in her rich furs and dark, feathered hat.

“Now, little Ann, trot along and do the lesson, don’t forget!” Betty pushed the child gently toward Lynda.

With a laugh, lately learned and a bit doubtful, Ann ran to the opened arms.

“Snuggle!” commanded Betty.

“I’m learning, little Ann,” Lynda whispered, “you’re a dear teacher.  And now I have something to tell you.”

Ann leaned back and looked with suspicion at Lynda.  Her recent past had been so crowded with events that she was wary and overburdened.

“What?” she asked, with more dread than interest.

“Ann, I’m going to take you to a big house that is waiting for a-little girl.”

The child turned to Betty.

“I don’t want to go,” she said, and her pretty mouth quivered.  Was she always to be sent away?-always to have to go when she did not want to go?

Betty smiled into the worried little face.  “Oh! we’ll see each other every day,” she comforted; “and besides, this is the only way you can truly adopt a mother and play fair.  It will be another dear place for Bobilink to go for a visit, and best of all-there’s a perfectly splendid man in the big house-for a-for-a father!”

Real fear came into Ann’s eyes at this-fear that lay at the root of all her trouble.

“No!” she cried.  “I can’t play father!”

Lynda drew her to her closely.  “Ann, little Ann, don’t say that!” she pleaded passionately:  “I’ll help you, and together we’ll make it come true.  We must, we must!”

Her vehemence stilled the child.  She put her hands on either side of Lynda’s face and timidly faltered:  “I’ll-I’ll try.”

“Thank you, dear.  And now I want to tell you something else-we’re going to have a Christmas tree.”

This meant nothing to the little hill-child, so she only stared.

“And you must come and help.”

“You have something to teach her, Lyn,” Betty broke in.  There were tears in her eyes.  “Just think of a baby-thing like that not knowing the thrills of Christmas.”

Then she turned to Ann:  “Go, sweetheart,” she said, “and make a nest for Bobbie on the bed across the hall.”  And then when Ann trotted off to do the bidding, Betty asked:  “What did he say, Lyn, when you told him?”

“He said he was glad, very glad.  He has been willing, for a long time, that I should take a child-when I saw one I wanted.  He naturally connects Ann with the Saxe Home; her being with you has strengthened this belief.  I shall let it go at that-for a time, Betty.”

“Yes.  It is better so.  After he learns to know and love the child,” Betty mused, “the way will be opened.  And oh!  Lyn, Ann is so wonderful.  She has the most remarkable character-so deep and tenderly true for such a mite.”

“Suppose, Betty-suppose Con notices the likeness!”

At this Betty smiled reassuringly.

“He won’t.  Men are so stupidly humble.  A pretty little girl would escape them every time.”

“But her Southern accent, Betty.  It is so pronounced.”

“My dear Lyn, it is!  She sometimes talks like a little darkey; but to my certain knowledge there are ten small Southerners at the Saxe, of assorted ages and sexes, waiting for adoption.”

“And she may speak out, Betty.  Her silence as to the past will disappear when she has got over her fear and longing.”

Betty looked more serious.  “I doubt it.  Not a word has passed her lips here-of her mother or home.  It has amazed me.  She’s the most unusual, the most fascinating creature I ever saw, for her age.  Brace is wild about her-he wants me to keep her.  But, Lyn, if she does break her strange silence, it will be your big hour!  Whatever Con is or isn’t-and sometimes I feel like hugging him, and again, like shaking him-he’s the tenderest man with women-not even excepting Brace-that I have ever seen.  It never has occurred to him to reason out how much you love him-he’s too busy loving you.  But when he finds this out!  Well, Lyn, it makes me bow my head and speak low.”

“Don’t, Betty!  Don’t suggest pedestals again,” Lynda pleaded.

“No pedestal, Lyn; no pedestal-but the real, splendid you revealed at last!  And now-forget it, dear.  Here comes lil’ Ann.”

The child tiptoed in with outstretched arms.

“The nest is made right soft,” she whispered, “and now let me carry Bobilink to-to the sleepy dreams.”

“Where did you learn to carry babies?” Betty hazarded, testing the silence.  The small, dark face clouded; the fear-look crept to the large eyes.

“I-I don’t know,” was the only reply, and Ann turned away-this time toward Lynda!

“And suppose he never knows?” Lynda spoke with her lips pressed to Ann’s soft hair-the child was in her arms.

“Then you and Con will have something to begin heaven with.”  Betty’s eyes were wet.  “We all have something we don’t talk about much on earth-we do not dare.  Brace and I have our-baby!”

Two days later Lynda took Ann home.  They went shopping first and the child was dazzlingly excited.  She forgot her restraint and shyness in the fascinating delirium of telling what she wanted with a pretty sure belief that she would get it.  No wonder that she was taken out of herself and broke upon Truedale’s astonished gaze as quite a different child from the one Lynda had described.

The brilliant little thing came into the hall with Lynda, her arms filled with packages too precious to be consigned to other hands; her eyes were dancing and her voice thrilling with happiness.

“And now I’ll call you muvver-Lyn ’cause you’re mighty kind and this is your house!  It’s a right fine house.”

Truedale had well timed his return home.  He was ready to greet the two in the library.  The prattling voice charmed him with its delightful mellowness and he went forward gladly to meet Lynda and the new little child.  Ann was ahead; Lynda fell back and, with fast-throbbing heart waited by the doorway.

Ann had had a week and more of Brace Kendall to wipe away the impression Burke Lawson had imprinted upon her mind.  But she was shy of men and weighed them carefully before showing favours.  She stood still when she saw Truedale; she dropped, unheeded, a package; she stared at him, while he waited with extended hands.  Then slowly-as if drawn against her will-Ann advanced and laid her hands in his.

“So this is the little girl who has come to help us make Christmas?”

“Yes.”  Still that fixed look.  It seemed to Lynda the most unnatural thing she had ever seen.  And oh! how alike the two were, now that they were together!

“You are little Ann and you are going to play with”-Truedale looked toward Lynda and drew her to him by the love in his eyes-“You are going to play with us, and you will call us mother and father, won’t you, little Ann?” He meant to do his part in full.  He would withhold nothing, now that Lynda had decided to take this step.

“Yes.”

“And do you suppose you could kiss me-to begin with?”

Quaintly the child lifted herself on her toes-Truedale was half kneeling before her-and gave him a lingering kiss.

“We’re going to be great friends, eh, little Ann?” Truedale was pleased, Lynda saw that.  The little girl was making a deep impression.

“Yes.”  Then-deliberately:  “Shall I have to teach you to be a father?”

“What does she mean?” Truedale looked at Lynda who explained Betty’s charming foolery.

“I see.  Well, yes, Ann, you must teach me to be a father.”

And so they began their lives together.  And after a few days Lynda saw that during the child’s stay with Betty the crust of sullen reserve had departed-the little creature was the merriest, sweetest thing imaginable, once she could forget herself.  Protected, cared for, and considered, she developed marvellously and soon seemed to have been with them years instead of days.  The impression was almost startling and both Lynda and Truedale remarked upon it.

“There are certain things she does that appear always to have been waiting for her to do,” Conning said, “it makes her very charming.  She brushes the dogs and cats regularly, and she’s begun to pick up books and papers in my den in a most alarming way-but she always manages to know where they belong.”

“That’s uncanny,” Lynda ventured; “but she certainly has fitted in, bless her heart!”

There had been moments at first when Lynda feared that Thomas would remember the child, but the old eyes could hardly be expected to recognize, in the dainty little girl, the small, patched, and soiled stranger of the annoying visit.  Many times had Thomas explained and apologized for the admittance of the two “forlornities,” as he called them.

No, everything seemed mercifully blurred; and Ann, in her new home, apparently forgot everything that lay behind her.  She never even asked to go back to Betty’s though she welcomed Betty, Brace, and Bobbie with flattering joy whenever they came to visit.  She learned to be very fond of Lynda-was often sweetly affectionate with her; but in the wonderful home, her very own, waited upon and cared for, it was Conning who most appealed to her.  For him she watched and waited at the close of day, and if she were out with Lynda she became nervous and worried if they were delayed as darkness crept on.

“I want father to see me waiting,” she would urge; “I like to see his gladness.”

“And so do I!” Lynda would say, struggling to overcome the unworthy resentment that occasionally got the better of her when the child too fervently appropriated Conning.

But this trait of Ann’s flattered and delighted Truedale; often he was amused, but he knew that it was the one thing above all else in the little girl that endeared her to him.

“What a darling she is!” he often said to Lynda when they were alone together.  “Is she ever naughty?”

“Yes, often-the monkey!”

“I’m glad to hear it.  I hate a flabby youngster.  Does she ever speak of her little past, Lyn?”

“Never.”

“Isn’t that strange?”

“Yes, but I’m glad she doesn’t.  I want her to forget.  She’s very happy with us-but she’s far from perfect.”  “To what form of cussedness does she tend, Lyn?  With me she’s as lamblike as can be.”

“Oh! she has a fiery temper and, now that I think of it, she generally shows it in reference to you.”

“To me?” Truedale smiled.

“Yes.  Thomas found her blacking your shoes the other day.  She was making an awful mess of it and he tried to take them from her.  She gave him a real vicious whack with the brush.  What she said was actually comical:  ’He’s mine; if I want to take the dirt from his shoes, I can.  He shan’t walk on dirt-and he’s mine!’”

“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 passport 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 passionate 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 passion and strength that at times were pathetic.  While not a robust child she was generally well and as time passed 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 passionately, 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 passed, 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 button.  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 God, 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 passion that marked her attitude 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 clustering.

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 pass alone to accept what God 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.

His nerves were at the breaking point and he spoke sharply.

“Why are you not in bed?” he asked.

“While-mommy-Lyn is-in-there?” gasped the girl, turning reproachful eyes up to him.  “How-could I?”

“How long have you been here?”

“Always; always!”

“Ann, you must go to your room at once!  Come, I will go with you.”  She rose and took his hand.  There was fear in her eyes.

“Is-is mommy-Lyn-” she faltered, and Truedale understood.

“Good God!-no!” he replied; “not that!”

“I was to-to stay close to you.”  Ann was trembling as she walked beside him.  “She gave you-to me!  She gave you to me-to keep for her!”

Truedale stopped short and looked at Ann.  Confusedly he grasped the meaning of the tie that held this child to Lynda-that held them all to the strong, loving woman who was making her fight with death, for a life.

“Little Ann,” was all he could say, but he bent and kissed the child solemnly.

When morning dawned, Lynda came back-bringing her little son with her.  God had spoken!

Truedale, sitting beside her, one hand upon the downy head that had nearly cost so much, saw the mother-lips move.

“You-want-the baby?” he asked.

“I-I want little Ann.”  Then the white lids fell, shutting away the weak tears.

“Lyn, the darling has been waiting outside your door all night-I imagine she is there now.”

“Yes, I know.  I want her.”

“Are you able-just now, dear?”

“I-must have little Ann.”

So Ann came.  She was white-very much awed; but she smiled.  Lynda did not open her eyes at once; she was trying to get back some of the old self-control that had been so mercilessly shattered during the hours of her struggle, but presently she looked up.

“You-kept your word, Ann,” she said.  Then:  “You-you made a place for my baby.  Little Ann-kiss your-brother.”

They named the baby for William Truedale and they called him Billy, in deference to his pretty baby ways.

“He must be Uncle William’s representative,” said Lynda, “as Bobbie is the representative of Betty’s little dead boy.”

“I often think of-the money, Lyn.”  Truedale spoke slowly and seriously.  “How I hated it; how I tried to get rid of it!  But when it is used rightly it seems to secure dignity for itself.  I’ve learned to respect it, and I want our boy to respect it also.  I want to put it on a firm foundation and make it part of Billy’s equipment-a big trust for which he must be trained.”

“I think I would like his training to precede his knowledge of the money as far as possible,” Lynda replied.  “I’d like him to put up a bit of a fight-as his father did before him.”

“As his father did not!” Truedale’s eyes grew gloomy.  “I’m afraid, Lyn, I’m constructed on the modelling plan-added to, built up.  Some fellows are chiselled out.  I wonder-about little Billy.”

“Somehow”-Lynda gave a little contented smile-“I am not afraid for Billy.  But I would not take the glory of conflict from him-no! not for all Uncle William’s money!  He must do his part in the world and find his place-not the place others may choose for him.”

“You’re going to be sterner with him than you are with Ann, aren’t you, Lyn?” Truedale meant this lightly, but Lynda looked serious.

“I shall be able to, Con, for Billy brought something with him that Ann had to find.”

“I see-I see!  That’s where a mother comes in strong, my dear.”

“Oh!  Con, it’s where she comes in with fear and trembling-but with an awful comprehension.”

This “comprehension” of the responsibilities of maternity worked forward and backward with Lynda much to Truedale’s secret amusement.  Confident of her duty to her son, she interpreted her duty to Ann.  While Billy, red-faced and roving-eyed, gurgled or howled in his extreme youth, Lynda retraced her steps and commandingly repaired some damages in her treatment of Ann.

“Ann,” she said one day, “you must go to school.”

“Why?” Ann naturally asked.  She was a conscientious little student and extremely happy with the governess who came daily to instruct her.

“You study and learn splendidly, Ann, but you must have-have children in your life.  You’ll be queer.”

“I’ve got Bobbie, and now Billy.”

“Ann, do not argue.  When Billy is old enough to go to school he is going, without a word!  I’ve been too weak with you, Ann-you’ll understand by and by.”

The new tone quelled any desire on Ann’s part to insist further; she was rather awed by this attitude.  So, with a lofty, detached air Miss Ann went to school.  At first she imbibed knowledge under protest, much as she might have eaten food she disliked but which she believed was good for her.  Then certain aspects of the new experience attracted and awakened her.  From the mass of things she ought to know, she clutched at things she wanted to know.  From the girls who shared her school hours, she selected congenial spirits and worshipped them, while the others, for her, did not exist.

“She’s so intense,” sighed Lynda; “she’s just courting suffering.  She lavishes everything on them she loves and grieves like one without hope when things go against her.”

“She’s the most dramatic little imp.”  Truedale laughed reminiscently as he spoke-he had seen Ann in two or three school performances.  “I shouldn’t wonder if she had genius.”

Betty looked serious when she heard this.  “I hope not!” was all she said, and from then on she watched Ann with brooding eyes; she urged Lynda to keep her much out of doors in the companionship of Bobbie and Billy who were normal to a relieving extent.  Ann played and enjoyed the babies-she adored Billy and permitted him to rule over her with no light hand-but when she could, she read poetry and talked of strange, imaginative things with the few girls in whose presence she became rapt and reverent.

Brace was the only one who took Ann as a joke.

“She’s working out her fool ideas, young,” he comforted; “let her alone.  A boy would go behind some barn and smoke and revel in the idea that he was a devil of a fellow.  Annie”-he, alone, called her that-“Annie is smoking her tobacco behind her little barns.  She’ll get good and sick of it.  Let her learn her lesson.”

“That’s right,” Betty admitted, “girls ought to learn, just as boys do-but if I ever find Bobbie smoking-

“What will you do to him, Betty?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but I do know I’d insist upon his coming from behind barns.”

And that led them all to consider Ann from the barn standpoint.  If she wanted the tragic and sombre she should have it-in the sunlight and surrounded with love.  So she no longer was obliged to depend on the queer little girls who fluttered like blind bats in the crude of their adolescent years.  Lynda, Betty, Truedale, and Brace read bloodcurdling horrors to her and took her to plays-the best.  And they wedged in a deal of wholesome, commonplace fun that presently awoke a response and developed a sense of humour that gave them all a belief that the worst was past.

“She has forgotten everything that lies back of her sickness,” Lynda once said to Betty; “it’s strange, but she appears to have begun from that.”

Then Betty made a remark that Lynda recalled afterward: 

“I don’t believe she has, Lyn.  I’m not worried about Ann as you and Con are.  Her Lady Macbeth pose is just plain girl; but she has depths we have never sounded.  Sometimes I think she hides them to prove her gratitude and affection, and because she is so helpless.  She was nearly five when she came to you, Lyn, and I believe she does remember the hills and her mother!”

“Why, Betty, what makes you think this?” Lynda was appalled.

“It is her eyes.  There are moments when she is looking back-far back.  She is trying to hold to something that is escaping her.  Love her, Lyn, love her as you never have before.”

“If I thought that, Betty!” Lynda was aghast.  “Oh!  Betty-the poor darling!  I cannot believe she could be so strong-so-terrible.”

“It’s more or less subconscious-such things always are-but I think Ann will some day prove what I say.  In a way, it’s like the feeling I have for-for my own baby, Lyn.  I see him in Bobbie; I feel him in Bobbie’s dearness and naughtiness.  Ann holds what went before in what is around her now.  Sometimes it puzzles her as Bobbie puzzles me.”

About this time-probably because he was happier than he had ever been before, possibly because he had more time that he could conscientiously call his own than he had had for many a well-spent year-Truedale repaired to his room under the eaves, sneaking away, with a half-guilty longing, to his old play!  So many times had he resurrected it, then cast it aside; so many hopes and fears had been born and killed by the interruption to his work, that he feared whatever strength it might once have had must be gone now forever.

Still he retreated to his attic room once more-and Lynda asked no questions.  With strange understanding Ann guarded that door like a veritable dragon.  When Billy’s toddling steps followed his father Ann waylaid him; and many were the swift, silent struggles near the portal before the rampant Billy was carried away kicking with Ann’s firm hand stifling his outraged cries.

“What Daddy doing there?” Billy would demand when once conquered.

“That’s nobody’s business but Daddy’s,” Ann unrelentingly insisted.

“I-I want to know!” Billy pleaded.

“Wait until Daddy wants you to know.”

Under the eaves, hope grew in Truedale’s heart.  The old play had certainly the subtle human interest that is always vital.  He was sure of that.  Once, he almost decided to take Ann into his confidence.  The child had such a dramatic sense.  Then he laughed.  It was absurd, of course!

No! if the thing ever amounted to anything-if, by putting flesh upon the dry bones and blood into the veins, he could get it over-it was to be his gift to Lynda!  And the only thing that encouraged him as he worked, rather stiffly after all the years, was the certainty that at times he heard the heart beat in the shrunken and shrivelled thing!  And so-he reverently worked on.