"Why, Con, how unimaginative you are! For you, for me, for Uncle William, for any one--any really right person, young or old--who needs a Christmas tree. Somehow, I have a rigid belief that some one will always be waiting. It may not be an empty-handed baby. Perhaps you and I may have to care for some dear _old_ soul that others have forgotten. We could do this for Uncle William, couldn't we, Con?"

"Yes, my darling."

"The children cannot always know what they are missing, but the old can, and my heart aches for them often--aches until it really hurts."

"My dear girl!"

"They are so alike, Con, the babies and the very aged. They need the same things--the coddling, the play, the pretty toys to amuse them--until they fall asleep."

"Lynda, you are all nerves and fancies. Pretty ones--but dangerous.

We'll have our tree--we'll call it Uncle William's. We'll take any one--every one who is sent to us--and be grateful. And that makes me think, we must have a particularly giddy celebration up at the Sanatorium. McPherson and I were speaking of it to-day."

"Con, I wonder how many secret interests you have of which I do not know?"

"Not many."

"I wonder!"

Truedale laughed, a bit embarra.s.sed. "Well," he said, suddenly changing the subject, "talking about nerves reminds me that when the holidays are over you and I are going away on a honeymoon. After this we are to have one a year. We'll drop everything and indulge in the heaven-given luxury of loafing. You need it. Your eyes are too big and your face too pale. I don't see what has ailed me not to notice before. But right after Christmas, dear, I'm going to run away with you.... What are you thinking about, Lyn?"

"Oh, only the blessedness of being taken care of! It's strange, but I know now that all my life--before this--I was gazing at things through closed windows. Alone in my cell I looked out--sometimes through beautiful stained gla.s.s, to be sure--at trees waving and people pa.s.sing.

Now and then some one paused and spoke to me, but always with the barrier between. Now--I touch people--there is nothing to keep us apart.

I'm just like everybody else; and your love and care, Con, have set the windows wide!"

"This will never do, Lyn. Such fancies! I may have to take you away _before_ Christmas." Truedale spoke lightly but his look was anxious.

"In the meantime, let us go out for a walk in the snow. There's enough wind to make it a tussle. Come, dear!"

CHAPTER XX

Two days later Lynda came down from her workshop by the back stairs, and pa.s.sed through William Truedale's bedchamber on the way to the library.

It was only ten o'clock in the morning but Truedale had a habit, if he happened to be in the neighbourhood, of dropping in for a moment at this hour. If he should to-day Lynda wanted to confer with him about some details concerning the disrobing of the Saxe infants. She was particularly light hearted and merry. A telephone call from Betty had put her in the sunniest humour.

To her surprise, as she entered the library, she saw a small, most peculiar-looking woman sitting quite straight on the edge of a chair in the middle of the room.

It was a cast-iron rule that Lynda must not be disturbed at her morning work. Thomas generally disposed of visitors without mercy.

"Good morning!" Lynda said kindly. "Can I do anything for you? I am sorry you had to wait."

She concluded it was some one connected with the Saxe Home. That was largely in her mind at the moment.

"I want to see"--and here the strange little figure came to Lynda and held out a very dirty, crumpled piece of paper on which was written Truedale's name and address.

"Mr. Truedale may not be home until evening," Lynda said. And now she thought that this must be one of the private and pet dependents of Con's with whom she would deal very gently and tactfully. "I wonder if you won't tell me all about it and I will either tell Mr. Truedale or set a time for you to see him."

Glad of any help in this hour of extremity, the stranger said:

"I'm--I'm Nella-Rose. Do you know about me?"

Know about her? Why, after the first stunning shock, she seemed to be the _only_ thing Lynda did know about--ever had known! She stared at the little figure before her for what seemed an hour. She noted the worried, pitiful child face that, screened behind the worn and care-lined features, looked forth like a pretty flower. Then Lynda said, weakly:

"Yes, I know about you--all about you, Nella-Rose."

The pitiful eyes brightened. What Nella-Rose had been through since leaving her hills only G.o.d understood.

"I'm right glad! And you--you are--"

"I'm Conning Truedale's--wife."

Somehow Lynda expected this to be a devastating shock, but it was not.

Nella-Rose was past reservations or new impressions.

"I--I reckoned so," was all she said.

"You must sit down. You look very tired." Lynda had forgotten Truedale's possible appearance.

"I _am_ right tired. It's a mighty long way from Pine Cone. And I was so--so frightened, but folks was certainly good and just helped me--to here! One old lady came to the door with me."

"Why--have you come, Nella-Rose?" Lynda drew her own chair close to the stranger's and as she did so, she could but wonder, now that she was herself again, how exactly Nella-Rose seemed to fit into the scene. She was like a recurrence--like some one who had played her part before--or were the scene and Nella-Rose but the materialization of something Lynda had always expected, always dreaded, but which she had always known must come some day? She was prepared now--terribly prepared! Everything depended upon her management of the crucial moments. Her kindness did not desert her, nor her merciful justice, but she meant to shield Truedale with her life--hers and Nella-Rose's, if necessary. "Why--have you--come?" she asked again, and Nella-Rose, taking for granted that this pale, strange woman did know all about her--knew everything and every one pertaining to her--fixed her sweet eyes, tear-filled but not overflowing, upon her face.

"I want--to tell him that I'm right sorry I hated him. I--I didn't know until Bill Trim died. I want to ask him to--to forgive me, and--then I can go back."

"What--did--Bill Trim tell you?" Lynda tried with all her strength to keep her mind cool, her thoughts steady. She wanted to lead Nella-Rose on and on, without losing the way herself.

"That he burned--he didn't mean to--he burned the letter I sent--asking--"

"I see! You wrote--a letter, then?"

"Yes. He told me, if I wanted him--and I did--G.o.dda'mighty! how I wanted him then!" Nella-Rose clasped her poor little work-hardened hands close, and her small white teeth showed through the parted lips while she struggled to regain her calm.

"You see--when I gave the letter to Bill Trim, I--I told him--I had to--that it was Miss Lois Ann's, so he didn't think it mattered to me; but when he was dying--he was hurt on the big road they are making in the hills--he was brought to us-all, and Miss Lois Ann and I took care of him, and he grew right sorry for hating her and not telling about the letter--and then--he spoke it out!"

"I see. I see. And that was--how long ago--that you wrote the letter?"

Nella-Rose looked back over the weary way she had travelled, to this moment in the warm, sun-filled room.

"It was befo' lil' Ann came that I sent the letter," she faltered.

"Little Ann?" Lynda repeated the name and something terrible rose within her--something that would kill her unless she conquered it. So she asked quickly, desperately:

"Your--your child? I see. Go on--Nella-Rose."

"I wrote the letter and--sent it. I was hid in Miss Lois Ann's cabin--it was winter--and no one found out! Miss Lois Ann wouldn't believe what I told; she said when him and me was married under the trees and G.o.d understood, it didn't make me--right! She--helped me, but she hated--him! And then when he--didn't come, she taught me to--to hate, and it was right _black_ hate until lil' Ann came. When G.o.d let her down to me--He took the hate away."