The excitement and
feverish banter of Truedale affected her painfully. She reproached
herself bitterly for having left him to the mercy of his loneliness and
imagination. Her interest in, her resentment for, Conning faded before
the pitiful display of feeling expressed in every tone and word of
Truedale.
The touch of the warm cheek against his hand stirred the man. His eyes
softened, his face twitched and, because the young eyes were hidden, he
permitted his gaze to rest reverently upon the bowed head. She was the
only thing on earth he loved--the only thing that cut through his crust
of hardness and despair and made him human. Then, from out the
unexpected, he asked:
"Lynda, when did you break your engagement to John Morrell?"
The girl started, but she did not change her position. She never lied or
prevaricated to Truedale--she might keep her own counsel, but when she
spoke it was simple truth.
"About six months ago."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"There was nothing to tell, Uncle William."
"There was the fact, wasn't there?"
"Oh! yes, the fact."
"Why did you do it?"
"That--is--a long story." Lynda looked up, now, and smiled the rare
smile that only the stricken man understood. Appeal, confusion, and
detachment marked it. She longed, helplessly, for sympathy and
understanding.
"Well, long stories are welcome enough here, child; especially after the
dearth of them.
Pages:
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53