Truedale almost sprang to his feet, then, hands plunged in pockets, he said: 

“There does not seem to be anything for me to do; at least not until the will is read.  I think I shall go back—­I left things at loose ends; there will be time to consider—­later.”

“But, Con, there is something for you to do.  You will understand after you see the lawyers in the morning.  There is a great deal of business:  many interests of your uncle’s that he expected you to represent in his name—­to see that they were made secure.  Dr. McPherson has told me something about the will—­enough to help me to begin.”

Truedale looked blankly at Lynda.  “Very well, after that—­I will go back,” he spoke almost harshly.  “I will arrange affairs somehow.  I’m no business man, but I daresay Uncle William chose wise assistants.”

“What’s the matter with you, Con?” Brace eyed his friend critically; “you look fit as a fellow can.  This has demanded a good deal of self-denial and faith from us all, but somehow this duty was the biggest thing in sight; we rather owe him that, I fancy.  You know you cannot run to cover just now, old man.  This has been a jog, but by morning you’ll reconsider and play your part.”  There was a new note in Kendall’s voice.  It was a call to something he hoped was in his friend, but which he had never tested.  There was a sudden fear, too, of the change that had come to Truedale.  It was not all physical.  There was a baffling suggestion of unreality about him that made him almost a stranger.

“I dare say you are right, Ken.”  Truedale walked the length of the room and back.  “I own to being cut up over this.  I never did my part—­I see that now—­and of course I’ll endeavour to do what I should.  My body’s all right but my nerves still jangle at a shock.  To-morrow the whole thing will settle into shape.  You and Lynda have been—­well—­I cannot express what I feel.”  He paused.  The hour was late, and for the first time he seemed to realize that the old home was not his in the sense it once had been.  Lynda understood the moment’s hesitation and smiled slightly.

“Con, there’s one other thing in the house that remains as it was.  Under the eaves the small room that was yours is yours still.  I saw to it myself that not a book or picture was displaced.  There are other rooms at your disposal—­to share with us—­but that room is yours, always.”

Truedale stood before Lynda and put out his hands in quite the old way.  His eyes were dim and he said hoarsely:  “That’s about the greatest thing you’ve done yet, Lyn.  Thank you.  Good-night.”

At the door he hesitated—­he felt he must speak, but to bring his own affairs into the tense and new conditions surrounding him seemed impossible.  To-morrow he would explain everything.  It was this slowness in reaching a decision that most defeated Truedale’s best interest.  While he deplored it—­he seemed incapable of overcoming it.