They named the baby for William Truedale and they called him Billy, in deference to his pretty baby ways.

“He must be Uncle William’s representative,” said Lynda, “as Bobbie is the representative of Betty’s little dead boy.”

“I often think of—­the money, Lyn.”  Truedale spoke slowly and seriously.  “How I hated it; how I tried to get rid of it!  But when it is used rightly it seems to secure dignity for itself.  I’ve learned to respect it, and I want our boy to respect it also.  I want to put it on a firm foundation and make it part of Billy’s equipment—­a big trust for which he must be trained.”

“I think I would like his training to precede his knowledge of the money as far as possible,” Lynda replied.  “I’d like him to put up a bit of a fight—­as his father did before him.”

“As his father did not!” Truedale’s eyes grew gloomy.  “I’m afraid, Lyn, I’m constructed on the modelling plan—­added to, built up.  Some fellows are chiselled out.  I wonder—­about little Billy.”

“Somehow”—­Lynda gave a little contented smile—­“I am not afraid for Billy.  But I would not take the glory of conflict from him—­no! not for all Uncle William’s money!  He must do his part in the world and find his place—­not the place others may choose for him.”

“You’re going to be sterner with him than you are with Ann, aren’t you, Lyn?” Truedale meant this lightly, but Lynda looked serious.

“I shall be able to, Con, for Billy brought something with him that Ann had to find.”

“I see—­I see!  That’s where a mother comes in strong, my dear.”

“Oh!  Con, it’s where she comes in with fear and trembling—­but with an awful comprehension.”

This “comprehension” of the responsibilities of maternity worked forward and backward with Lynda much to Truedale’s secret amusement.  Confident of her duty to her son, she interpreted her duty to Ann.  While Billy, red-faced and roving-eyed, gurgled or howled in his extreme youth, Lynda retraced her steps and commandingly repaired some damages in her treatment of Ann.

“Ann,” she said one day, “you must go to school.”

“Why?” Ann naturally asked.  She was a conscientious little student and extremely happy with the governess who came daily to instruct her.

“You study and learn splendidly, Ann, but you must have—­have children in your life.  You’ll be queer.”

“I’ve got Bobbie, and now Billy.”

“Ann, do not argue.  When Billy is old enough to go to school he is going, without a word!  I’ve been too weak with you, Ann—­you’ll understand by and by.”

The new tone quelled any desire on Ann’s part to insist further; she was rather awed by this attitude.  So, with a lofty, detached air Miss Ann went to school.  At first she imbibed knowledge under protest, much as she might have eaten food she disliked but which she believed was good for her.  Then certain aspects of the new experience attracted and awakened her.  From the mass of things she ought to know, she clutched at things she wanted to know.  From the girls who shared her school hours, she selected congenial spirits and worshipped them, while the others, for her, did not exist.