The bitterness was past. The shock had left her a bit weak and helpless but she no longer thought of the human need of Betty. She went home and sat down before the fire in the library and waited for light. At ten o'clock she came to a conclusion. Truedale must decide this thing for himself! It was, after all, his great opportunity. She could not, with honour and self-respect, throw herself upon him and so complicate the misunderstanding. If her life with him since June had not convinced him of her simple love and faith--her words, now, could not. He must seek her--must realize everything. And in this decision Lynda left herself so stranded and desolate that she looked up with wet eyes and saw--William Truedale's empty chair! A great longing for her old friend rose in her breast--a longing that not even death had taken from her. The clock struck the half-hour and Lynda got up and with no faltering went toward the bedroom door behind which the old man had started forth on his journey to find peace. And just as she went, with blinded eyes and aching heart, to shut herself away from the dreariness of the present, Truedale entered the house and, from the hall, watched her. He believed that she had heard him enter, he hoped she was going to turn toward him--but no! she went straight to the never-used room, shut the door, and--locked it! Truedale stood rooted to the spot. What he had hoped--what trusted--he could hardly have told. But manlike he was the true conservative and with the turning of that key his traditions and established position crumbled around him. Lynda and he were married and, unless they decided upon an open break, they must live their lives. But the turning of the key seemed to proclaim to the whole city a new dispensation. A declaration of independence that spurned--tradition. For a moment Truedale was angry, unsettled, and outraged. He strode into the room with stern eyes; he walked half way to the closed--and locked--door; he gazed upon it as if it were a tangible foe which he might overcome and, by so doing, reestablish the old ideals. Then--and it was the saving grace--Truedale smiled grimly. "To be sure," he muttered. "Of course!" and turned to his room under the eaves. But the following day had to be faced. There were several things that had to be dealt with besides the condition arising from the locking of the door of William Truedale's room. Conning battled with this fact nearly all night, little realizing that Lynda was feeling her way to the same conclusion in the quiet room below. "I'm not beaten, Uncle William," she whispered, kneeling beside the bed. "If I could only see how to meet to-morrow I would be all right." And then a queer sort of comfort came to her. The humour with which her old friend would have viewed the situation pervaded the room, bringing strength with it.