They were home at last in old William Truedale’s quiet house.  Conning went upstairs with Ann.  Generally Lynda went with him to kiss Ann good-night before they bent over Billy’s crib beside their own bed.  But now, Lynda did not join them and Ann, starry-eyed, prattled on about the play and her joy in her father’s achievement.  She was very quaint and droll.  She ran behind a screen and dropped her pretty dress, and issued forth, like a white-robed angel, in her long gown, her short brown curls falling like a beautiful frame around her gravely sweet face.

Truedale, sitting by the shaded lamp, looked at her as if, in her true character, she stood revealed.

“Little Ann,” he said huskily, “come, let me hold you while we wait for mommy-Lyn.”

Ann came gladly and nestled against his breast.

“To think it’s my daddy that made the splendid play!” she whispered, cuddling closer.  “I can tell the girls and be so proud.”  Then she yawned softly.

“Mommy-Lyn, I suppose, had to go and whisper the secret to Billy,” she went on, finding as usual an excuse instead of a rebuke.  “Billy’s missed the glory of his life because he’s so young!”

Another-a longer yawn.  Then the head lay very still and Truedale saw that she was asleep.  Reverently he kissed her.  Then he bore her to the little bed behind the white screen, with its tall angels with brooding eyes.  As he laid her down she looked up dreamily: 

“I’m a pretty big girl to be carried,” she whispered, “but my daddy is strong and-and great!”

Again Truedale kissed her, then went noiselessly to find Lynda.

He went to their bedchamber, but Lynda was not there.  Billy, rosy and with fat arms raised above his pretty blond head, was sleeping-unconscious of what was passing near.  Truedale went and looked yearningly down at him.

“My boy!” he murmured over and over again; “my boy.”  But he did not kiss Billy just then.

There was no doubt in Truedale’s mind, now, as to where he would find Lynda.  Quietly he went downstairs and into the dim library.  The fire was out upon the hearth.  The gray ashes gave no sign of life.  The ticking of the clock was cruelly loud; and there, beside the low, empty chair, knelt Lynda-her white dress falling about her in motionless folds.

Truedale, without premeditation, crossed the room and, sitting in his uncle’s chair-the long-empty chair, lifted Lynda’s face and held it in his hand.

“Lyn,” he said, fixing his dark, troubled eyes upon hers, “Lyn, who is Ann’s father?”

Lynda had not been crying; her eyes were dry and-faithful!

“You, Con,” she said, quietly.

During the past years had Lynda ever permitted herself to imagine how Conning would meet this hour she could not have asked more than now he gave.  He was ready, she saw that, to assume whatever was his to bear.  His face whitened; his mouth twitched as the truth of what he heard sunk into his soul; but his gaze never fell from that which was raised to his.

“Can you-tell me all about it, Lyn?” he asked.

For an instant Lynda hesitated.  Misunderstanding, Truedale added: 

“Perhaps you’d rather not to-night!  I can wait.  I trust you absolutely.  I am sure you acted wisely.”

“Oh!  Con, it was not I-not I. It was Nella-Rose who acted wisely.  I left it all to her!  It was she who decided.  I have always wanted, at least for years, to have you know; but it was Nella-Rose’s wish that you should not.  And now, little Ann has made it possible.”

And then Lynda told him.  He had relinquished his hold upon her and sat with tightly clenched hands gazing at the ashes on the hearth.  Lynda pressed against him, watching-watching the effect of every word.

“And, Con, at first, when I knew, every fibre of my being claimed you!  I wanted to push her and-and Ann away, but I could not!  Then I tried to act for you.  I saw that since Nella-Rose had been first in your life she should have whatever belonged to her; I knew that you would have it so.  When I could bring myself to-to stand aside, I put us all into her keeping.  She was very frightened, very pitiable, but she closed her eyes and I knew that she saw truth-the big truth that stood guard over all our lives and had to be dealt with honestly-or it would crush everything.  I could see, as I watched her quiet face, that she was feeling her way back, back.  Then she realized what it all meant.  Out of the struggle-the doubt-that big, splendid husband of hers rose supreme-her man!  He had saved her when she had been most hopelessly lost.  Whatever now threatened him had to go!  Her girlhood dream faded and the safe reality of what he stood for remained.  Then she opened her eyes and made her great decision.  Since you had never dishonoured her in your thought, she would not have you know her as she then was!  But-there remained little Ann!  Oh!  Con, I never knew, until Billy came, what Nella-Rose’s sacrifice meant!  I thought I did-but afterward, I knew!  One has to go down into the Valley to find the meaning of motherhood.  I had done, or tried to do, my duty before, but Billy taught me to love Ann and understand-the rest!”

There was silence for a moment.  Among the white ashes a tiny red spark was showing.  It glowed and throbbed; it was trying hard to find something upon which to live.

“And, Lyn, after she went back to the hills-how was it with her?”

“She laid everything but your name upon the soul of her man.  He never exacted more.  His love was big enough-divine enough-to accept.  Oh!  Con, through all the years when I have tried to-to do my part, the husband of Nella-Rose has helped me to do it!  Nella-Rose never looked back-to Ann and me.  Having laid the child upon the altar, she-trusted.”

“Yes, that would be her way.”  Truedale’s voice broke a bit.

“But, Con, I kept in touch with her through that wonderful old woman-Lois Ann.  I-oh!  Con, I made life easier, brighter for them all; just as-as you would have done.  Lois Ann has told me of the happiness of the little cabin home, of the children-there are three-

A sharp pause caused Truedale to turn and look at Lynda.

“And-now?” he asked.

“Con, Nella-Rose died last year!”

The stillness in the room pressed close; even the clock’s ticking was unnoticed.  The spark upon the hearth had become a flame; it had found something upon which to feed.  Like a radiant hope it rose, faded, then leaped higher among the white ashes.

“She went, Con, like a child tired of its play.  She was with Lois Ann; it was the hill-fever, and she was mercifully spared the knowledge of suffering or-renunciation.  She kept repeating that she saw beautiful things; she was glad-glad to the last minute.  Her children and husband have gone to Nella-Rose’s old home.  Lois Ann says they are saving everybody!  That’s all, Con-all.”

Then Truedale, his eyes dim but undaunted, leaned and drew Lynda up until, kneeling before him, her hands upon his shoulders, they faced each other.

“And this is the way women-save men!” he said.

“It is the way they try to save-themselves,” Lynda replied.

“Oh, Con, Con, when will our men learn that it is the one life, the one great love that we women want?-the full knowledge and-responsibility?”

“My darling!” Truedale kissed the tender mouth.  Then drawing her close, he asked: 

“Do you remember that day in Thornton’s studio-and his words?  Looking back at my life, I cannot understand-I may never understand-what the Creator meant, but I do know that it was all in the clay!”

Lynda drew away-her hands still holding him.  Her brave smile was softening her pale face.

“Oh! the dear, dear clay!” she whispered.  “The clay that has been pressed and moulded-how I love it.  I also do not understand, Con, but this I know:  the Master never lost the vision in the clay.”