“It is not merely a place in which to eat,” explained Lynda; “a dining room should be the heart of the home, as the library is the soul.”

“Think of living up to that!”—­Brace gave a laugh—­“and not having it interfere with your appetite!” They were all trying to keep cheerful until such time as they dared recall the recent past without restraint.

Such an hour came when they gathered once more in the library.  Brace seized his pipe in the anticipation of play upon his emotions.  By tacit consent the low chair was left vacant and by a touch of imagination it almost seemed as if the absent master were waiting to be justified.

“And now,” Truedale said, huskily, “tell me all, Lynda.”

“He and I were sitting here just as we all are sitting now, that last night.  He had forgiven me for—­for staying away” (Lynda’s voice shook), “and we were very happy and confidential.  I told him some things—­quite intimate things, and he, well, he came out of his reserve and gruffness, Con—­he let me see the real man he was!  I suppose while he had been alone—­for I had neglected him—­he had had time to think, to regret his mistakes; he was very just—­even with himself.  Con”—­and here Lynda had to pause and get control of herself—­“he—­he once loved my mother!  He bought this house hoping she would come and, as its mistress, make it beautiful.  When my mother married my father, nothing mattered—­nothing about the house, I mean.  Before my mother died she told me—­to be kind to Uncle William.  She, in a sacred way, left him to me; me to him.  That was one of the things I told him that last night.  I wish I had told him long ago!” The words were passionate and remorseful.  “Oh, it might have eased his pain and loneliness.  When shall we ever learn to say the right thing when it is most needed?  Well, after I had told him he—­he grew very still.  It was a long time before he spoke—­the joy was sinking in, I saw that, and it carried the bitterness away.  When he did speak he made me understand that he could not trust himself further on that subject, but he tried to—­to explain about you, Con.  Poor man!  He realized that he had made a failure as a guide; but in his own way he had endeavoured to be a guardian.  You know his disease developed just before you came into his life.  Con, he lived all through the years just for you—­just to stand by!”

From out the shadow where he sat, Brace spoke unevenly: 

“Too bad you don’t—­smoke, old man!” It was the only suggestion he had to offer in the tense silence that gripped them all.

“It’s all right!” Truedale said heavily.  “Go on when you can, Lynda.”

“Do you—­remember your father, Con?”

“Yes.”

“Well, your uncle feared that too much ease and money might—­”

“I—­I begin to understand.”

“So he went to the other extreme.  Every step of your well-fought way was joy to him—­the only joy he knew.  From his detachment and loneliness he planned—­almost plotted—­for you, but he did not tell you.  It would all have been so different—­oh! so different if we had all known.  Then he told me a little—­about his will.”