Among the notes and suggestions sprinkled through the old manuscript were lines that once had aroused the sick and bitter resentment of Truedale in the past: 

  “Thy story hath been written long since. 
  Thy part is to read and interpret.”

Over and over again he read the words and pondered upon his own change of mind.  Youth, no matter how lean and beggared it may be, craves and insists upon conflict-upon the personal loss and gain.  But as time takes one into its secrets, the soul gets the wider-Truedale now was sure it was the wider-outlook.  Having fought-because the fight was part of the written story-the craving for victory, of the lesser sort, dwindled, while the higher call made its appeal.  To be part of the universal; to look back upon the steps that led up, or even down, and hold the firm belief that here, or elsewhere-what mattered in the mighty chain of many links-the “interpretation” told!

Truedale came to the conclusion that fatalism was no weak and spineless philosophy, but one for the making of strong souls.

Failure, even wrong, might they not, if unfettered by the narrow limitations of here and now, prove miracle-working elements?

Then the effect upon others entered into Truedale’s musings as it had in the beginning.  The “stories” of others!  He leaned his head at this juncture upon his clasped hands and thought of Nella-Rose!  Thought of her as he always did-tenderly, gently, but as holding no actual part in his real life.  She was like something that had gained power over an errant and unbridled phase of his past existence.  He could not make her real in the sense of the reality of the men, women, and affairs that now sternly moulded and commanded him.  She was-she always would be to him-a memory of something lovely, dear, but elusive.  He could no longer place and fix her.  She belonged to that strange period of his life when, in the process of finding himself, he had blindly plunged forward without stopping to count the cost or waiting for clear-sightedness.

“What has she become?” he thought, sitting apart with his secret work.  And then most fervently he hoped that what Lynda had once suggested might indeed be true.  He prayed, as such men do pray, that the experience which had enabled him to understand himself and life better might also have given Nella-Rose a wider, freer space in which to play her chosen part.

He recalled his knowledge of the hill-women as Jim White had described them-women to whom love, in its brightest aspect, is denied.  Surely Nella-Rose had caught a glimpse more radiant than they.  Had it pointed her to the heaven of good women-or ?

And eventually this theme held and swayed the play-this effect of a deep love upon such a nature as Nella-Rose’s, the propelling power-the redeeming and strengthening influence.  In the end Truedale called his work “The Interpretation.”

And while this was going on behind the attic door, a seemingly slight incident had the effect of reinforcing Truedale’s growing belief in his philosophy.

He and Lynda went one day to the studio of a sculptor who had suddenly come into fame because of a wonderful figure, half human, half divine, that had startled the sophisticated critics out of their usual calm.

The man had done much good work before, but nothing remarkable; he had taken his years of labour with patient courage, insisting that they were but preparation.  He had half starved in the beginning-had gradually made his way to what every one believed was a mediocre standstill; but he kept his faith and his cheerful outlook, and then-he quietly presented the remarkable figure that demanded recognition and appreciation.

The artist had sold his masterpiece for a sum that might reasonably have caused some excitement in his life-but it had not!

“I’m sorry I let the thing go,” he confided to a chosen few; “come and help me bid it good-bye.”

Lynda and Conning were among the chosen, and upon the afternoon of their call they happened to be alone with him in the studio.

All other pieces of work had been put away; the figure, in the best possible light, stood alone; and the master, in the most impersonal way, stood guard over it with reverent touch and hushed voice.

Had his attitude been a pose it would have been ridiculous; but it was so detached, so sincere, so absolutely humble, that it rose to the height of dignified simplicity.

“Thornton, where did you get your inspiration-your model?” Truedale asked, after the beauty of the thing had sunk into his heart.

“In the clay.  Such things are always in the clay,” was the quiet reply.

Lynda was deeply moved, not only by the statue, but by its creator.  “Tell us, please,” she said earnestly, “just what you mean.  I think it will help us to understand.”

Thornton gave a nervous laugh.  He was a shy, retiring man but he thought now only of this thing he had been permitted to portray.

“I always”-he began hesitatingly-“take my plaster in big lumps, squeeze it haphazard, and then sit and look at it.  After that, it is a mere matter of choice and labour and-determination.  When this”-he raised his calm eyes to the figure-“came to me-in the clay-I saw it as plainly as I see it now.  I couldn’t forget, or, if I did, I began again.  Sometimes, I confess, I got weird results as I worked; once, after three days of toil, a-a devil was evolved.  It wasn’t bad, either, I almost decided to-to keep it; but soon again I caught a glimpse of the vision, always lurking close.  So I pinched and smoothed off and added to, and, in the end, the vision stayed.  It was in the clay-everything is, with me.  If I cannot see it there, I might as well give up.”

“Thornton, that’s why you never lost courage!” Truedale exclaimed.

“Yes, that’s the reason, old man.”

Lynda came close.  “Thank you,” she said with deep feeling in her voice, “I do understand; I thought I would if you explained, and-I think your method is-Godlike!”

Thornton flushed and laughed.  “Hardly that,” he returned, “it’s merely my way and I have to take it.”

It was late summer when Truedale completed the play.  Lynda and the children were away; the city was hot and comparatively empty.  It was a time when no manager wanted to look at manuscripts, but if one was forced upon him, he would have more leisure to examine it than he would have later on.

Taking advantage of this, Truedale-anxious but strangely insistent-fought his way past the men hired to defeat such a course, and got into the presence of a manager whose opinion he could trust.

After much argument-and the heat was terrific-the great man promised, in order to rid himself of Truedale’s presence, to read the stuff.  He hadn’t the slightest intention of doing so, and meant to start it on its downward way back to the author as soon as the proper person-in short his private secretary-came home from his vacation.

But that evening an actress who was fine enough and charmingly temperamental enough to compel attention, bore down through the heat upon the manager, with the appalling declaration that she was tired to death of the part selected for her in her play, and would have none of it!

“But good Lord!” cried the manager, fanning himself with his panama-they were at a roof garden restaurant-“this is August-and you go on in October.”

“Not as a depraved and sensual woman, Mr. Camden; I want to be for once in my life a character that women can remember without blushing.”

“But, my poor child, that’s your splendid art.  You are a-an angel-woman, but you can play a she-devil like an inspired creature.  You don’t mean that you seriously contemplate ruining my reputation and your own-by-

“I mean,” said the angel-woman, sipping her sauterne, “that I don’t care a flip for your reputation or mine-the weather’s too hot-but I’m not going to trail through another slimy play!  No; I’ll go into the movies first!”

Camden twisted his collar; he felt as if he were choking.  “Heaven forbid!” was all he could manage.

“I want woods and the open!  I want a character with a little, twisted, unawakened soul to be unsnarled and made to behave itself.  I don’t mind being a bit naughty-if I can be spanked into decorum.  But when the curtain goes down on my next play, Camden, the women are going out of the theatre with a kind thought of me, not throbbing with disapproval-good women, I mean!”

And then, because Camden was a bit of a sentimentalist with a good deal of superstition tangled in his make-up, he took Truedale’s play out of his pocket-it had been spoiling the set of his coat all the evening-and spread it out on the table that was cleared now of all but the coffee and the cigarettes which the angel-woman-Camden did not smoke-was puffing luxuriously.

“Here’s some rot that a fellow managed to drop on me to-day.  I didn’t mean to undo it, but if it has an out-of-door setting, I’ll give it a glance!”

“Has it?” asked the angel, watching the perspiring face of Camden.

“It has!  Big open.  Hills-expensive open.”

“Is it rot?”

“Umph-listen to this!” Camden’s sharp eye lighted on a vivid sentence or two.  “Not the usual type of villain-and the girl is rather unique.  Up to tricks with her eyes shut.  I wonder how she’ll pan out?” Camden turned the pages rapidly, overlooking some of Con’s best work, but getting what he, himself, was after.

“By Jove! she doesn’t do it!”

“What-push those matches this way-what doesn’t she do?” asked the angel.

“Eternally damn the man and claim her sex privilege of unwarranted righteousness!”

“Does she damn herself-like an idiot?” The angel was interested.

“She does not!  She plays her own little rôle by the music of the experience she lived through.  It’s not bad, by the lord Harry!  It’s got to be tinkered-and painted up-but it’s original.  Just look it over.”

Truedale’s play was pushed across the table and the angel-woman seized upon it.  The taste Camden had given her-like caviar-sharpened her appetite.  She read on in the swift, skipping fashion that would have crushed an author’s hopes, but which grasped the high lights and caught the deep tones.  Then the woman looked up and there were genuine tears in her eyes.

“The little brick!” said the voice of loveliness and thrills, “the splendid little trump!  Why, Camden, she had her ideals-real, fresh, woman-ideals-not the ideals plastered on us women by men, who would loathe them for themselves!  She just picked up the scraps of her damaged little affairs and went, without a whimper, to the doing of the only job she could ever hope to succeed in.  And she let the man-who-learned go!  Gee! but that was a big decision.  She might so easily have muddled the whole scheme of things, but she didn’t!  The dear, little, scrimpy, patched darling.

“Oh!  Camden, I want to be that girl for as long a run as you can force.  After the first few weeks you won’t have to bribe folks to come-it’ll take hold, after they have got rid of bad tastes in their mouths and have found out what we’re up to!  Don’t count the cost, Camden.  This is a chance for civic virtue.”

“Do you want more cigarettes, my dear?”

“No.  I’ve smoked enough.”

Camden drew the manuscript toward him.  “It’s a damned rough diamond,” he murmured.

“But you and I know it is a diamond, don’t we, Camby?”

“Well, it sparkles-here and there.”

“And it mustn’t be ruined in the cutting and setting, must it?” The angel was wearing her most devout and flattering expression.  She was handling her man with inspired touch.

“Umph!  Well, no.  The thing needs a master hand; no doubt of that.  But good Lord! think of the cost.  This out-of-door stuff costs like all creation.  Your gowns will let you out easy-you can economize on this engagement-but have a heart and think of me!”

“I-I do think of you, Camby.  You know as well as I that New York is at your beck and call.  What you say-goes!  Call them now to see something that will make them sure the world isn’t going to the devil, Camden.  In this scene”-and here the woman pulled the manuscript back-“when that little queen totes her heavy but sanctified heart up the trail, men and women will shed tears that will do them good-tears that will make them see plain duty clearer.  Men and-yes, women, too, Camby-want to be decent, only they’ve lost the way.  This will help them to find it!”

“We’ve got to have two strong men.”  Camden dared not look at the pleading face opposite.  But something was already making him agree with it.

“And, by heavens, I don’t know of but one who isn’t taken.”

“There’s a boy-he’s only had minor parts so far-but I want him for the man-who-learned-his-lesson.  You can give the big wood-giant to John Harrington-I heard to-day that he was drifting, up to date-but I want Timmy Nichols for the other part.”

“Nichols?  Thunder!  He’s only done-what in the dickens has he done?  I remember him, but I can’t recall his parts.”

“That’s it!  That’s it!  Now I want him to drive his part home-with himself!”

Camden looked across at the vivid young face that a brief but brilliant career had not ruined.

“I begin to understand,” he muttered.

“Do you, Camden?  Well, I’m only beginning to understand myself!”

“Together, you’ll be corking!” Camden suddenly grew enthusiastic.

“Won’t we?  And he did so hate to have me slimy.  No one but Timmy and my mother ever cared!”

“We’ll have this-this fellow who wrote the play-what’s his name?”

“Truedale.”  The woman referred to the manuscript.

“Yes.  Truedale.  We’ll have him to dinner to-morrow.  I’ll get Harrington and Nichols.  Where shall we go?”

“There’s a love of a place over on the East Side.  They give you such good things to eat-and leave you alone.”

“We’ll go there!”

It was November before the rush and hurry of preparation were over and Truedale’s play announced.  His name did not appear on it so his people were not nerve-torn and desperate.  Truedale often was, but he managed to hide the worst and suffer in silence.  He had outlived the anguish of seeing his offspring amputated, ripped open, and stuffed.  He had come to the point where he could hear his sacredest expressions denounced as rot and supplanted by others that made him mentally ill.  But in the end he acknowledged, nerve-racked as he was, that the thing of which he had dreamed-the thing he had tried to do-remained intact.  His eyes were moist when the curtain fell upon his “Interpretation” at the final rehearsal.

Then he turned his attention to his personal drama.  He chose his box; there were to be Lynda and Ann, Brace and Betty, McPherson and himself in it.  Betty, Brace, and the doctor were to have the three front chairs-not because of undue humility on the author’s part, but because there would, of course, be a big moment of revelation-a moment when Lynda would know!  When that came it would be better to be where curious eyes could not behold them.  Perhaps-Truedale was a bit anxious over this-perhaps he might have to take Lynda away after the first act, and before the second began, in order to give her time and opportunity to rally her splendid serenity.

And after the play was over-after he knew how the audience had taken it-there was to be a small supper-just the six of them-and during that he would confess, for better or worse.  He would revel in their joy, if success were his, or lean upon their sympathy if Fate proved unkind.

Truedale selected the restaurant, arranged for the flowers, and then grew so rigidly quiet and pale that Lynda declared that the summer in town had all but killed him and insisted that he take a vacation.

“We haven’t had our annual honeymoon trip, Con,” she pleaded; “let’s take it now.”

“We’ll-we’ll go, Lyn, just before Christmas.”

“Not much!” Lynda tossed her head.  “It will take our united efforts from December first until after Christmas to meet the demands of Billy and Ann.”

“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 assistance.

“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 sexes 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!