And then, after the years of change and readjustment, Lynda’s boy was born!  He seemed to crown everything with a sacred meaning.  Not without great fear and doubt did Lynda go down into the shadow; not without an agony of apprehension did Truedale go with her to the boundary over which she must pass alone to accept what God had in store for her.  They remembered with sudden and sharp anxiety the peril that Betty had endured, though neither spoke of it; and always they smiled courageously when most their hearts failed.

Then came the black hours of suffering and doubt.  A wild storm was beating outside and Truedale, hearing it, wondered whether all the great events of his life were to be attended by those outbursts of nature.  He walked the floor of his room or hung over Lynda’s bed, and at midnight, when she no longer knew him or could soothe him by her brave smile, he went wretchedly away and upon the dim landing of the stairs came upon Ann, crouching white and haggard.

His nerves were at the breaking point and he spoke sharply.

“Why are you not in bed?” he asked.

“While—­mommy-Lyn is—­in—­there?” gasped the girl, turning reproachful eyes up to him.  “How—­could I?”

“How long have you been here?”

“Always; always!”

“Ann, you must go to your room at once!  Come, I will go with you.”  She rose and took his hand.  There was fear in her eyes.

“Is—­is mommy-Lyn—­” she faltered, and Truedale understood.

“Good God!—­no!” he replied; “not that!”

“I was to—­to stay close to you.”  Ann was trembling as she walked beside him.  “She gave you—­to me!  She gave you to me—­to keep for her!”

Truedale stopped short and looked at Ann.  Confusedly he grasped the meaning of the tie that held this child to Lynda—­that held them all to the strong, loving woman who was making her fight with death, for a life.

“Little Ann,” was all he could say, but he bent and kissed the child solemnly.

When morning dawned, Lynda came back—­bringing her little son with her.  God had spoken!

Truedale, sitting beside her, one hand upon the downy head that had nearly cost so much, saw the mother-lips move.

“You—­want—­the baby?” he asked.

“I—­I want little Ann.”  Then the white lids fell, shutting away the weak tears.

“Lyn, the darling has been waiting outside your door all night—­I imagine she is there now.”

“Yes, I know.  I want her.”

“Are you able—­just now, dear?”

“I—­must have little Ann.”

So Ann came.  She was white—­very much awed; but she smiled.  Lynda did not open her eyes at once; she was trying to get back some of the old self-control that had been so mercilessly shattered during the hours of her struggle, but presently she looked up.

“You—­kept your word, Ann,” she said.  Then:  “You—­you made a place for my baby.  Little Ann—­kiss your—­brother.”