And so the years had drifted on.  Besides Lynda’s determination to prove herself as her mother had directed, she soon decided to set matters straight between the uncle and the nephew.  To her ardent young soul, fired with ambition and desire for justice, it was little less than criminal that William Truedale, crippled and confined to his chair—­for he had become an invalid soon after Lynda’s mother’s marriage—­should misunderstand and cruelly misjudge the nephew who, brilliantly, but under tremendous strain, was winning his way through college on a pittance that made outside labour necessary in order to get through.  She could not understand everything, but her mother’s secret, her growing fondness for the old man, her intense interest in Conning, all held her to her purpose.  She, single-handed, would right the wrong and save them all alive!

Then came Conning’s breakdown and the possibility of his death or permanent disability.  The shock to all the golden hopes was severe and it brought bitterness and resentment with it.

Something deep and passionate had entered into Lynda’s relations with Conning Truedale.  For him, though no one suspected it, she had broken her engagement to John Morrell—­an engagement into which she had drifted as so many girls do, at the age when thought has small part in primal instinct.  But Conning had not died; he was getting well, off in his hidden place, and so, standing in the dim workshop, Lynda kissed her mother’s picture and began humming a glad little tune.

“I’ll go and have dinner with Uncle William!” she said—­the words fitting into the tune—­“we’ll make it up!  It will be all right.”  And so she set forth.

William Truedale lived on a shabby-genteel side street of a neighbourhood that had started out to be fashionable but had been defeated in its ambitions.  It had never lost character, but it certainly had lost lustre.  The houses themselves were well built and sternly correct.  William Truedale’s was the best in the block and it stood with a vacant lot on either side of it.  The detachment gave it dignity and seclusion.

There had been a time when Truedale hoped that the woman he loved would choose and place furniture and hangings to her taste and his, but when that hope failed and sickness fell upon him, he ordered only such rooms put in order as were necessary for his restricted life.  The library on the first floor was a storehouse of splendid books and austere luxury; beyond it were bath and bedroom, both fitted out perfectly.  The long, wide hall leading to these apartments was as empty and bare as when carpenter and painter left it.  Two servants—­husband and wife—­served William Truedale, and rarely commented upon anything concerning him or their relations to him.  They probably had rooms for themselves comfortably furnished, but in all the years Lynda Kendall had never been anywhere in the house except in the rooms devoted to her old friend’s use.  Sometimes she had wondered how Con fared, but nothing was ever said on the subject and she and Brace had been, in their visiting, limited to the downstair rooms.