"You're to come to your uncle's house, Con. It's rather a shock, but we
got you as soon as we could. In the meantime, we've followed directions.
The will has not been read, of course, but there was a letter found in
your uncle's desk that commanded--that's the only word to express it,
really--Lynda and you and me to come to the old house right after the
funeral. We waited to hear from you, Con, but since you could not get
here we had to do the best we could. Dr. McPherson took charge."
"I was buried pretty deep in the woods, Ken, and there was a bad hitch
in the delivery of the telegram. Such things do not count down where I
was. But I'm glad about the old house--glad you and Lynda are there."
"Con!"--and at this Brace became serious--"I think we rather overdid our
estimate of your uncle. Since his--his going, we've seen him, Lyn and I,
in a new light. He was quite--well, quite a sentimentalist! But
see--here we are!"
"The house looks different already!" Conning said, leaning from the cab
window.
"Yes, Lyn's had a lot to do, but she's managed to make a home of the
place in the short time."
Lynda Kendall had heard the sound of wheels in the quiet street--had set
the door of welcome open herself, and now stood in the panel of light
with outstretched hands. Like a revelation Truedale seemed to take in
the whole picture at once.
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