Conning came close to Lynda and drew her head back against his breast.
“You are—crying, darling!” he said.
“It’s—it’s Betty. Con, what is it about her that sort of brightens the way for us all, yet dims our eyes?”
“She’s very illuminating. It’s a big thing—this of adopting a child. What does Brace think of it?”
“He adores everything Betty does. He says”—Lynda smiled up into the face above her—“he says he wishes Betty had chosen one with hair a little less crimson, but that doubtless he’ll grow to like that tint better than any other.”
“Lyn, have you ever thought of adopting a child?”
“Oh!—sometimes. Yes, Con.”
“Well, if you ever feel that you ought—that you want to—I will be glad to—to help you. I see the risk—the chance, and I think I would like a handsome one. But it is Christmas time, and a man and woman, if they have their hearts in the right places, do think of children and trees and all the rest at this season. Still”—and with that Truedale pressed his lips to Lynda’s hair—“I’m selfish, you seem already to fill every chink of my life.”
“Con, that’s a blessed thing to say to a woman—even though the woman knows you ought not to say it. And now, I’m going to tell you something else, Con. It’s foolish and trifling, perhaps, but I’ve set my heart upon it ever since the Saxe Home got me to thinking.”
“Anything in the world, Lyn! Can I help?”