"I know," she confided to the darkness in which the old man seemed present, in a marvellously real way, "I know I love Conning. A make-believe love couldn't stand this--but the true thing can. And he loves _me!_ I know it through and through. The other love of his wasn't--what this is. But he must find this out for himself. I've always been close when he needed me; he must come to me now--for his sake even more than for mine. I am deserving of that, am I not, Uncle William?" The understanding friendship did not fail the girl kneeling by the empty bed. It seemed to come through the rays of moonlight and rest like a helpful touch upon her. "Little mother!"--and in her soul Lynda believed William Truedale and her mother had come together--"little mother, you did your best without love; I will do mine--with it! And now I am going to bed and I am going to sleep." The next morning Truedale and Lynda were both so precipitate about attacking the situation that they nearly ran into each other at the dining-room door. They both had the grace to laugh. Then they talked of the work at hand for the morning. "I have a studio to evolve," Lynda said, passing a slice of toast to Truedale from the electric contrivance before her, "a woman wants a studio, she feels it will be an inspiration. She's a nice little society woman who is bored to death. She's written an article or two for a fashion paper and she believes she has discovered herself. I wish I knew what to put in the place. She'd scorn the real thing and I hate to compromise when it comes to such things. And you, Con, what have you that must be done?" Truedale looked at her earnestly. "I must meet the lawyer and McPherson," he said, "but may I come--for a talk, Lyn, afterward?" "I shall be in my workshop all day, Con, until dinner time to-night." The day was a hard one for them both, but womanlike Lynda accepted it and came to its close with less show of wear and tear than did Truedale. She was restless and nervous. She worked conscientiously until three and accomplished something in the difficult task the society woman had entrusted her with; then she went to her bedroom and, removing every sign of her craft, donned a pretty house dress and went back to her shop. She meant to give Truedale every legitimate assistance, but she was never prouder or firmer in her life. She called the dogs and the cats in; she set the small tea table by the hearth and lighted just fire enough to take the chill from the room and yet leave it sweet and fresh. At five there was a tap on the door. "Just in time, Con, for the tea," she called and welcomed him in.