Just then the advance messenger of the coming change of weather entered by way of a lowered window. It was a smart little breeze and it flippantly sent the ashes flying on the hearth and several sheets of paper broadcast in the room. Truedale sprang to recover his treasures; he caught four or five, but one escaped his notice and floated toward the door, which was ajar.
“Whew!” he ejaculated, “that was a narrow escape,” and he began to sort and arrange the sheets on the table.
“Sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two. Now where in thunder is that sixty-three?”
A light touch on his arm made him spring to his feet, every nerve a-tingle.
“Here it is! It seemed like it came to meet me.”
“Nella-Rose!”
The girl nodded, holding out the paper.
“So you have come? Why—did you?”
The dimples came into play and Truedale stood watching them while many emotions flayed him; but gradually his weakness passed and he was able to assume an extremely stern though kindly manner. He meant to set the child right; he meant to see only the child in her until White returned; he would ignore the perilously sweet woman-appeal to his senses until such time as he could, with safety, let them once more hold part in their relations with each other.
But even as he arrived at this wise conclusion, he was noting, as often before he had noted, the fascinating colour and quality of Nella-Rose’s hair. It was both dark and light. If smoke were filled with sunlight it would be something like the mass of more or less loosened tendrils that crowned the girl’s pretty head. Stern resolve began to melt before the girlish sweetness and audacity, but Truedale made one last struggle; he thought of staunch and true Brace Kendall! And, be it to Brace Kendall’s credit, the course Conning endeavoured to take was a wise one.