They were home at last in old William Truedale’s quiet house. Conning went upstairs with Ann. Generally Lynda went with him to kiss Ann good-night before they bent over Billy’s crib beside their own bed. But now, Lynda did not join them and Ann, starry-eyed, prattled on about the play and her joy in her father’s achievement. She was very quaint and droll. She ran behind a screen and dropped her pretty dress, and issued forth, like a white-robed angel, in her long gown, her short brown curls falling like a beautiful frame around her gravely sweet face.
Truedale, sitting by the shaded lamp, looked at her as if, in her true character, she stood revealed.
“Little Ann,” he said huskily, “come, let me hold you while we wait for mommy-Lyn.”
Ann came gladly and nestled against his breast.
“To think it’s my daddy that made the splendid play!” she whispered, cuddling closer. “I can tell the girls and be so proud.” Then she yawned softly.
“Mommy-Lyn, I suppose, had to go and whisper the secret to Billy,” she went on, finding as usual an excuse instead of a rebuke. “Billy’s missed the glory of his life because he’s so young!”
Another—a longer yawn. Then the head lay very still and Truedale saw that she was asleep. Reverently he kissed her. Then he bore her to the little bed behind the white screen, with its tall angels with brooding eyes. As he laid her down she looked up dreamily:
“I’m a pretty big girl to be carried,” she whispered, “but my daddy is strong and—and great!”
Again Truedale kissed her, then went noiselessly to find Lynda.
He went to their bedchamber, but Lynda was not there. Billy, rosy and with fat arms raised above his pretty blond head, was sleeping—unconscious of what was passing near. Truedale went and looked yearningly down at him.