“Because I must, Lynda.  Because I must.  You know I told you I had a story?  You must bear with me and listen.  Sit down again and try to remember—­I am doing this for your mother!  I repeat—­there was Con.  At first you took up arms for him as Brace did; your sex instincts were not awakened.  You were all good fellows together until you drifted, blindfolded, into the trap poor Morrell set for you.  You thought I was ill-treating Con—­disregarding his best interests—­starving his soul!  Oh! you poor little ignoramus; the boy never had a soul worth mentioning until it got awakened, in self-defense, and grew its own limit.  What did you and Brace know of the past—­the past that went into Con’s making?  You were free enough with your young condemnation and misplaced loyalty—­but how about justice?”

Lynda’s eyes were fixed upon Truedale’s face.  She had never seen him in this mood and, while he fascinated, he overawed her.

“Why, girl, Con’s father, my younger brother, was as talented as Con, but he was a scamp.  He had money enough to pave the way to his own destruction.  Until it was gone he spurned me—­spurned even his own genius.  He married a woman as mad as himself and then—­without a qualm—­tossed her aside to die.  He had no sense of responsibility—­no shame.  He had temperament—­a damnable one—­and he drifted on it to the end.  When it was all over, I brought Conning here.  Just at that time—­well, it was soon after your mother married your father—­this creeping disease fell upon me.  If it hadn’t been for the boy I’d have ended the whole thing then and there, but with the burden laid upon me I couldn’t slip out.  It has been a kind of race ever since—­this menace mounting higher and higher and the making of Con keeping pace.  I swore that if he had talent it must prove itself against hardship, not in luxury.  I made life difficult in order to toughen and inspire.  I never meant to kill—­you must do me that justice.  Only you see, chained here, I couldn’t follow close enough, and Con had pride, thank God! and he thought he had hate—­but he hasn’t or he’d have starved rather than accept what I offered.  In his heart he—­well, let us say—­respects me to a certain extent.  I saw him widening the space between himself and his inheritance—­and it has helped me live; you saw him making a man of himself and it became more absorbing than the opportunity of annexing yourself to a man already made.  Oh, I have seen it all and it has helped me in my plan.”

“Your—­plan?” The question was a feeble attempt to grapple with a situation growing too big and strong.  “Your plan—­what is your plan?”

“Lynda, I have made my will!  Sitting apart and looking on, the doing of this has been the one great excitement of my life.  Through the years I have believed I was doing it alone; now I see your mother’s guiding hand has led me on; I want you to believe this as—­I do!”

“I—­I will try, Uncle William.”  Lynda no longer struggled against that which she could not understand.  She felt it must have its way with her.