Lynda looked now at her wrist-watch; it was four-thirty. The last mail
delivery had brought a short but inspiring note from Con--per Dr.
McPherson.

"I've got my grip again, Lynda! The day brings appetite and strength;
the night, sleep! I wonder whether you know what that means? I begin to
believe I am reverting to type, as McPherson would say, and I'm
intensely interested in finding out--what type? Whenever I think of
study, I have an attack of mental indigestion. There is only one fellow
creature to share my desolation but I am never lonely--never lacking
employment. I'm busy to the verge of exhaustion in doing nothing and
getting well!"

Lynda smiled. "So he's not going to die!" she murmured; "there's no use
in punishing Uncle William any longer. I'll go up and have dinner with
him!"

The decision made, and Conning for the moment relegated to second place,
Lynda rose and smiled relievedly. Then her eyes fell upon her mother's
photograph which stood upon her desk.

"I'm going, dear," she confided--they were very close, that dead mother
and the live, vital daughter--"I haven't forgotten."

The past, like the atmosphere of the room, closed in about the girl. She
was strangely cheerful and uplifted; a consciousness of approval soothed
and comforted her and she recalled, as she had not for many a day, the
night of her mother's death--the night when she, a girl of seventeen,
had had the burden of a mother's confession laid upon her young