There are times in life that stand forth as if specially designed, and cause one to wonder, if after all, a personal God isn't directing affairs for the individual. They surely could not have just happened, those weeks in the mountains. So warm and still and cloudless they were for early June. And then there was a moon for a little while--a calm, wonderful moon that sent its fair light through the tall trees like a benediction. After that there were stars--millions of them--each in its place surrounded by that blue-blackness that is luminous and unearthly. Securing a guide, Truedale and Lynda sought their own way and slept, at night, in wayside shelters by their own campfires. They had no definite destination; they simply wandered like pilgrims, taking the day's dole with joyous hearts and going to their sleep at night with healthy weariness. Only once during those weeks did they speak of that past of Truedale's that Lynda had accepted in silence. "My wife," Truedale said--she was sitting beside him by the outdoor fire--"I want you always to remember that I am more grateful than words can express for your--bigness, your wonderful understanding. I did not expect that even you, Lyn, could be--so!" She trembled a little--he remembered that afterward--he felt her against his shoulder. "I think--I know," she whispered, "that women consider the _effect_ of such--things, Con. Had the experience been low, it would have left its mark; as it is I am sure--well, it has not darkened your vision." "No, Lyn, no!" "And lately, I have been thinking of her, Con--that little Nella-Rose." "You--have? You _could_, Lyn?" "Yes. At first I couldn't possibly comprehend--I do not now, really, but I find myself believing, in spite of my inability to understand, that the experience has cast such a light upon her way, poor child, that--off in some rude mountain home--she has a little fairer space than some. Con, knowing you, I believe you could not have--lowered her. She went back to her natural love--it must have been a strong call--but I shall never believe her depraved." "Lyn," Truedale's voice was husky, "once you made me reconciled to my uncle's death--it was the way you put it--and now you have made me dare to be--happy." "Men never grow up!" Lynda pressed her face to his shoulder, "they make a bluff at caring for us and defending us and all the rest--but we understand, we understand! I think women mother men always even when they rely upon them most, as I do upon you! It's so splendid to think, when we go home, of the great things we are going to do--together." A letter from Brace, eventually, made them turn their faces homeward. It was late July then. LYN, DEAR: