Then she went on into the bright room with its long, vacant chair, singing “To-morrow’s Song” in that sweet contralto of hers that deserved better training.

There were three letters—­one from a man whose son Truedale had tutored before he went away, one from the architect of the new hospital, and a bulky one from Dr. McPherson.  Truedale carried them all into the library where Brace sat comfortably puffing away before the fire; and Lynda, some designs for interior decoration spread out before her on a low table, still humming, rocked gently to and fro in a very feminine rocker.  Conning drew up a chair opposite Kendall and tore open the envelope from his late patron.

“I tell you, Brace,” he said, “if any one had told me six weeks ago that I should ever be indifferent to a possible offer to tutor, I would have laughed at him.  But so it is.  I must turn down the sure-paying Mr. Smith for lack of time.”

Lynda laughed merrily.  “And six weeks ago if any one had come to me in my Top Shelf where I carried on my profession, and outlined this for me”—­she waved her hand around the room—­“I’d have called the janitor to put out an unsafe person.  Hey-ho!” And then the brown head was bent over the problem of an order which had come in that day.

“Oh!  I say, Lyn!” Truedale turned from his second letter.  “Morgan suggests that you attend to the decorating and furnishing of the hospital.  I told him to choose his man and he prefers you if I have no objection.  Objection?  Good Lord, I never thought of you.  I somehow considered such work out of your line, but I’m delighted.”

“Splendid!” Lynda looked up, radiant.  “How I shall revel in those broad, clean spaces!  How I shall see Uncle William in every room!  Thank him, Con, and tell him I accept—­on his terms!”

Then Truedale opened the third envelope and an enclosed letter fell out, bearing the postmark of the Junction near Pine Cone!

There was a small electric reading lamp on the arm of Truedale’s chair; he turned the light on and, while his face was in shadow, the words before him stood out illumined.

“Sir—­Mister Truedale.”  The sheriff had evidently been sorely perplexed as to the proper beginning of the task he had undertaken.

“I send this by old Doc McPherson, not knowing any better way.”

(Jim’s epistle was nearly innocent of punctuation, his words ran on almost unbroken and gave the reader some trouble in following.)

Your letter to a certain young person has come and been destroyed owing to my thinking under the present circumstances, some folks what don’t know about you, better not hear now.  I took the letter to Lone Dome as you set down for me to do meaning to give it to Nella-Rose like what you said, but she wasn’t there.  Pete was there and Marg—­she’s Nella-Rose’s sister, and getting ready to marry that torn-down scamp Jed Martin which to my way of thinking is about the best punishment what