its subjection.

Her life had been a simple one on the whole, but one requiring from
early girlhood the constant use of her faculties. Whatever help she had
had was gained from the dependence of others upon her, not hers upon
them. She was so strong and sweet-souled that to give was a joy, it was
a joy too, for them that received. That she was ever tired and longed
for strong arms to uphold her rarely occurred to any one except,
perhaps, William Truedale, the invalid uncle of Conning.

At this juncture of Lynda's career, she shrank from William Truedale as
she never had before. Had Conning died, she knew she would never have
seen the old man again. She believed that his incapacity for
understanding Conning--his rigid, unfeeling dealing with him--had been
the prime factor in the physical breakdown of the younger man. All
along she had hoped and believed that her hold upon old William Truedale
would, in the final reckoning, bring good results; for that reason, and
a secret one that no one suspected, she kept to her course. She paid
regular visits to the old man--made him dependent upon her, though he
never permitted her to suspect this. Always her purpose had centred upon
Con, who had, at first, appealed to her loyalty and justice, but of late
to something much more personal and tender.

The day's work was done and the workshop, in which the girl sat, was
beginning to look shadowy in the far corners where evidences of her
profession cluttered the dim spaces. She was an interior decorator, but
of such an original and unique kind that her brother explained her as a
"Spiritual and Physical Interpreter." She had learned her trade, but she
had embellished it and permitted it to develop as she herself had grown
and expanded.