fixed upon Lynda, but he did not stir or announce the intrusion. A cat
and two kittens, also white, were rolled like snowballs on a crimson
cushion near the hearth; Lynda wondered whether they ever played. Alone,
like a dead thing amid the still life, William Truedale, helpless--death
ever creeping nearer and nearer to his bitter heart--passed his weary
days.

As she stood, watching and waiting, Lynda Kendall's eyes filled with
quick tears. The weeks of her absence had emphasized every tragic
detail of the room and the man. He had probably missed her terribly from
his bare life, but he had made no sign, given no call.

"Uncle William!"

Truedale turned his head and fixed his deep-sunk, brilliant eyes upon
her.

"Oh! So you've thought better of it?" was all that he said.

"Yes, I've thought better of it. Will you let me stay to dinner?"

"Take off your wraps. There now! draw up the ottoman; so long as you
have a spine, rely upon it. Never lounge if you can help it."

Lynda drew the low, velvet-covered stool near the couch-chair; the hound
raised his sharp, beautiful head and nestled against her knee. Truedale
watched it--animals never came to him unless commanded--why did they go
to Lynda? Probably for the same reason that he clung to her, watched for
her and feared, with sickening fear, that she might never come again!