“Lyn—­I want to tell you—­all about it!  About something you must know.”

Very quietly now, Lynda rolled her work together and tossed it, needles and all, upon the glowing logs.  She was done, forever, with subterfuge and she knew it.  The wool curled, blackened, and gave forth a scorched smell before the red coals subdued it.  Then, with a straight, uplifted look: 

“I’m ready, Con.”

“Just before I broke down and went away, Brace once told me that my life had no background, no colour.  Lynda, it is of that background about which you do not know, that I want to speak.”  He waited a moment, then went on: 

“I went away—­to the loneliest, the most beautiful place I had ever seen.  For a time there seemed to be nobody in the world but the man with whom I lived and me.  He liked and trusted me—­I betrayed his trust!”

Lynda caught her breath and gave a little exclamation of dissent, wonder.

“You—­betrayed him, Con!  I cannot believe that.  Go on.”

“Yes.  I betrayed his trust.  He left me and went into the deep woods to hunt.  He put everything in my care—­everything.  He was gone nearly three weeks.  No one knew of my existence.  They are like that down there.  If you are an outsider you do not matter.  I had arrived at dark; I was sent for a certain purpose; that was all that mattered.  I began and ended with the man who was my host and who had been told to—­to keep me secret.”  Truedale was gripping the arms of his chair and his words came punctuated by sharp pauses.

“And then, into that solitude, came a young girl.  Remember, she did not know of my existence.  We—­discovered each other like creatures in a new world.  There are no words to describe her—­I cannot even attempt it, Lynda.  I ruined her life.  That’s all!”

The bald, crushing truth was out.  For a moment the man Lynda Kendall knew and loved seemed hiding behind this monster the confession had called forth.  A lesser woman would have shrunk in affright, but not Lynda.

“No.  That is not all,” she whispered hoarsely, putting her hands out as though pushing something tangible aside until she could reach Conning.  “I demand the rest.”

“What matters it?” Truedale spoke bitterly.  “If I tell how and why, can that alter the—­fact?  Oh!  I have had my hours of explaining and justifying and glossing over; but I’ve come at last to the point where I see myself as I am and I shall never argue the thing again.”

“Con, you have shown me the man as man might see him; I must—­I must have him as a woman—­as his God—­must see him!”

“And you think it possible for me to grant this?  You—­you, Lynda, would you have me put up a defense for what I did?”

“No.  But I would have you throw all the light upon it that you can.  I want to see—­for myself.  I will not accept the hideous skeleton you have hung before me.  Con, I have never really known but five men in my life; but women—­women have lain heart deep along my way ever since—­I learned to know my mother!  Not only for yourself, but for that girl who drifted into your solitude, I demand light—­all that you can give me!”