“I’ll do my best.”  Kendall passed his hand through his hair; it seemed to relieve the tension.

“Brace, can a man truly love many times?  Perhaps not many—­but twice—­truly?”

“Yes—­he can!” Brace asserted boldly.  “I’ve been in love a dozen times myself.  I always put it to the coffee-urn test—­that settles it.”

“Brace, I am in earnest.  Do not joke.”

“Joke?  Good Lord!  I tell you, Lyn, I am in deadly earnest—­deadlier than you know.  When a man puts his love three hundred and sixty-five times a year, in fancy, behind his coffee-urn, he gets his bearings.”

“You’ve never grown up, Brace, and I feel as old—­as old as both your grandmothers.  I do not mean—­puppy-love; I mean the love that cuts deep in a man’s soul.  Can it cut twice?”

“If it couldn’t, it would be good-bye to the future of the race!” And now Kendall had the world’s weary knowledge in his eyes.

“A woman—­cannot understand that, Lyn.  She must trust if she loves.”

“Yes.”  The universal language of men struck Lynda like a strange tongue.  Had she been living all her life, she wondered, like a foreigner—­understanding merely by signs?  And now that she was close—­was confronting a situation that vitally affected her future—­must she, like other women, trust, trust?

“But what has all this to do with Con?” Kendall’s voice roused Lynda sharply.

“Why—­everything,” she said in her simple, frank way, “he—­he is offering me a second love, Brace.”

For a moment Kendall thought his sister was resorting to sarcasm or frivolity.  But one look at her unsmiling face and shadow-touched eyes convinced him.

“You hardly are the woman to whom dregs should be offered,” he said slowly, and then, “But Con!  Good Lord!”

“Brace, now I am speaking the woman’s language, perhaps you may not be able to understand me, but I know Con is not offering me dregs—­I do not think he has any dregs in his nature; he is offering me the best, the truest love of his life.  I know it!  I know it!  The love that would bring my greatest joy and his best good and—­yet I am afraid!”

Kendall went over and stood close beside his sister again.

“You know that?” he asked, “and still are afraid?  Why?”

The clear eyes looked up pathetically.  “Because Con may not know, and I may not be able to make him know—­make him—­forget!”

There was a moment’s silence.  Kendall was never to forget the magnolia tree in its gorgeous, pink bloom; the droop of his strong, fine sister!  Sharply he recalled the night long ago when Truedale groaned and threw his letters on the fire.

“Lyn, I hardly dare ask this, knowing you as I do—­you are not the sort to compromise with honour selfishly or idiotically—­but, Lyn, the—­the other love, it was not—­an evil thing?”

The tears sprang to Lynda’s eyes and she flung her arms around her brother’s neck and holding him so whispered: