"Morrell was in the office to-day," Brace told his sister one evening, "it seemed to me a bit brash for him to lay it on so thick about his happiness and all that sort of rot." "Brace!" "Well, it might be all right to another fellow, but it sounded out of tune, somehow, to me. He says she is the kind that has flung herself body and soul into love; I wager she's a fool." Lynda looked serious at once. "I hope not," she said thoughtfully, "and she'll be happier with John, in the long run, if she has some reservations. I did not think that once; I do now." "But--you, Lyn? You had reservations to burn." "I had--too many. That was where the mistake began." "You--do not regret?" Lynda came close to him. "Brace, I regret nothing. I am learning that every step leads to the next--if you don't stumble. If you do--you have to pick yourself up and go back. If John learned from me, I, too, have learned from him. I'm going to try to--love his wife." "I bet she's a cross, somehow, between a cowboy and an idiot. John protested too much about her charms. She's got a sister--sounds a bit to me as if Morrell had married them both. She's coming to live with them after awhile. When I fall in love, it's going to be with an orphan out of an asylum." Lynda laughed and gave her brother a hug. Then she said: "Our circle is widening and, by the way Brace, I'm going to begin to entertain a little." "Good Lord, Lyn!" "Oh! modestly--until I can use my stiff little wings. A dinner now and then and a luncheon occasionally when I know enough nice women to make a decent showing. Clothes and women, when adopted late in life, are difficult. But oh! Brace, it is great--this blessed home life of mine! The coming away from my beloved work to something even better." * * * * * The pulse of a city throbs faster in the winter. All the vitality of well-nourished men and women is at its fullest, while for them who fall below the normal, the necessity of the struggle for existence keys them to a high pitch. Not so in the deep, far mountain places. There, the inhabitants hide from the elements and withdraw into themselves. For weeks at a time no human being ventures forth from the shelter and comparative comfort of the dull cabins. Families, pressed thus close and debarred from the freedom of the open, suffer mentally and spiritually as one from the wider haunts of men can hardly conceive.