But for Lynda and Truedale the steady gleam was necessary. They never questioned--never doubted--after the night when they came home from the little house in the woods. To them both happiness was no new thing; it was a precious old thing given back after a dark period of testing. The days were all too short, and when night brought Conning running and whistling to the door, Lynda smiled and realized that at last the fire was burning briskly on her nice, clean hearth. They had so much in common--so much that demanded them both in the doing of it. "No bridges for us, here and there, over which to reach each other," thought Lynda; "it's the one path for us both." Then her eyes grew tenderly brooding as she remembered how 'twas a little child that had led them--not theirs, but another's. The business involved in setting old William Truedale's money in circulation was absorbing Conning at this time. Once he set his feet upon the way, he did not intend to turn back; but he sometimes wondered if the day would ever come when he could, with a clear conscience, feel poor enough to enjoy himself, selfishly, once more. From McPherson he heard constantly of the work in the southern hills. Truedale was, indeed, a strong if silent and unsuspected force there. As once he had been an unknown quantity, so he remained; but the work went on, supervised by Jim White, who used with sagacity and cleverness the power placed in his hands. Truedale's own particular interests were nearly all educational. Even here, he held himself in reserve--placed in more competent hands the power they could wield better than he. Still, he was personally known and gratefully regarded by many young men and women who were struggling--as he once had struggled--for what to them was dearer than all else. He always contrived to leave them their independence and self-respect. Naturally all this was gratifying and vital to Lynda. Achievement was dear to her temperament, and the successes of others, especially those nearest to her, were more precious to her than her own. She saw Truedale drop his old hesitating, bewildered manner like a discarded mantle. She grew to rely upon his calm strength that developed with the demands made upon it. She approved of him so! And that realization brought out the best in her. One November evening she and Con were sitting in the library, Truedale at his desk, Lynda idly and luxuriously rocking to and fro, her hands clasped over her head. She had learned, at last, the joy of absolute relaxation. "There's a big snow-storm setting in," she said, smiling softly. Then, apropos of nothing: "Con, we've been married four years and over!" "Only that, Lyn? It seems to me like my whole life." "Oh, Con--so long as that?" "Blessedly long." After another pause Lynda spoke merrily: "Con, I want some of Uncle William's money. A lot of it."