“And now you have your chance!” he pleaded.  “I cannot live in your hills, dear, though often you and I will return to them and be happy in the little log house.  But you must come with me—­your husband.  Come down the Big Road, letting me lead you, and you must trust me and oh! my doney-gal, by your blessed sweetness and power you must win for me—­for us both—­what I, alone, can never win.”

There was more, much more, of love and longing, of tender loyalty and passionate reassurance, and having concluded his letter he sealed it, addressed it, and putting it in an envelope with a short note of explanation to Jim White as to its delivery, etc., he mailed it with such a sense of relief as he had not known in many a weary day.

He prepared himself for a period of patient waiting.  He knew with what carelessness mail matter was regarded in the hills, and winter had already laid its hold upon Pine Cone, he felt sure.  So while he waited he plunged eagerly into each day’s work and with delight saw how everything seemed to go through without a hitch.  It began to look as if, when Nella-Rose’s reply came, there would be no reason for delay in bringing her to the North.

But this hope and vision did not banish entirely Truedale’s growing sorrow for the part he must inevitably take when the truth was known to Lynda and Brace.  Harder and harder the telling of it appeared as the time drew near.  Never had they seemed dearer or more sacred to him than now when he realized the hurt he must cause them.  There were moments when he felt that he could not bear the eyes of Lynda—­those friendly, trusting eyes.  Would she ever be able, in the years to come, to forgive and forget?  And Brace—­how could that frank, direct nature comprehend the fever of madness that had, in the name of love, betrayed the confidence and faith of a lifetime?  Well, much lay in the keeping of the little mountain girl whose fascination and loveliness would plead mightily.  Of Nella-Rose’s power Truedale held no doubt.

Then came White’s devastating letter at the close of an exhausting day when Conning was to dine with the Kendalls.

That afternoon he had concluded the immediate claims of business, had arranged with McPherson for a week’s absence, and meant in the evening to explain to Brace and Lynda the reason for his journey.  He was going to start South on the morrow, whether a letter came or not.  He had steeled himself for the crucial hour with his friends; had already, in his imagination, bidden farewell to the relations that had held them close through the past years.  He believed, because he was capable of paying this heavy price for his love, that no further proof would be necessary to convince even Lynda of its intensity.

They dined cheerfully and alone and, as they crossed the hall afterward, to the library, Lynda asked casually: 

“Did you get the letters for you, Con?  The maid laid them on the stand by the door.”