Later that same golden day, when Kendall bade his sister and Truedale good-bye at the station he had the look on his face that he used to have when, as a child, he was wont to wonder why he had to be brave because he was a boy.
It made Lynda laugh, even while a lump came in her throat. Then, as in the old days, she sought to recompense him, without relenting as to the code.
“Of course you’ll miss us, dear old fellow, but we’ll soon be back and”—she put her lips to his ear and whispered—“there’s the little sister of the Morrells; play with her until we come home.”
There are times in life that stand forth as if specially designed, and cause one to wonder, if after all, a personal God isn’t directing affairs for the individual. They surely could not have just happened, those weeks in the mountains. So warm and still and cloudless they were for early June. And then there was a moon for a little while—a calm, wonderful moon that sent its fair light through the tall trees like a benediction. After that there were stars—millions of them—each in its place surrounded by that blue-blackness that is luminous and unearthly. Securing a guide, Truedale and Lynda sought their own way and slept, at night, in wayside shelters by their own campfires. They had no definite destination; they simply wandered like pilgrims, taking the day’s dole with joyous hearts and going to their sleep at night with healthy weariness.
Only once during those weeks did they speak of that past of Truedale’s that Lynda had accepted in silence.
“My wife,” Truedale said—she was sitting beside him by the outdoor fire—“I want you always to remember that I am more grateful than words can express for your—bigness, your wonderful understanding. I did not expect that even you, Lyn, could be—so!”
She trembled a little—he remembered that afterward—he felt her against his shoulder.
“I think—I know,” she whispered, “that women consider the effect of such—things, Con. Had the experience been low, it would have left its mark; as it is I am sure—well, it has not darkened your vision.”
“No, Lyn, no!”
“And lately, I have been thinking of her, Con—that little Nella-Rose.”