"I suppose, since Con's death isn't on my head, you felt that you could
forgive me, eh?"

"Well, something like that, Uncle William."

"What business is it of yours what I do with my money--or my nephew?"

These two never approached each other by conventional lines. Their
absences were periods in which to store vital topics and
questions--their meetings were a series of explosive outbursts.

"None of my business, Uncle William, but if I could not approve, why--"

"Approve! Huh! Who are you that you should judge, approve, or disapprove
your elders?"

There was no answer to this. Lynda wanted to laugh, but feared she might
cry. The hard, indignant words belied the quivering gladness of the
voice that greeted her in every tone with its relief and surrender.

"I've got a good deal to say to you, girl. It is well you came
to-day--you might otherwise have been too late. I'm planning a long
journey."

Lynda started.

"A--long journey?" she said. Through the past years, since the dread
disease had attacked Truedale, his travelling had been confined to
passing to and from bedchamber and library in the wheelchair.