"She--she gave me a paper for you. Will you have it, or shall I read it
to you?"
"Read it," answered Iris, dully.
"It is in the form of a letter. She wrote it one day, near the end of
her illness, and gave it to me, to be opened after her death."
In the midst of a profound silence, he took an envelope from his pocket
and broke the seal.
"'My Dear Doctor Brinkerhoff,'" he began, clearing his throat,
"'I feel that I am not going to get well, and so I have been
thinking, as I lie here, and setting my house in order. I have
told Iris, but for fear she may forget, I tell you. All the
papers which concern her are in a tin box in a trunk in the
attic. She will know where to find it.
"'To her, as to an only daughter, go my little keepsakes--the
emerald pin, my few pieces of real lace, my fan, and the silver
buckles. She will understand the spirit of this bequest and
will feel free to take what she likes.
"'The house is for Margaret, and, after her, for Lynn, but it
is to be a home for Iris, just as it has been, while she lives.
Her income is to be paid regularly on the first of every month,
during her lifetime, as is written in my will, which the
lawyer has and which he will read at the proper time.
"'Tell my little girl that, though I am dead, I love her still;
that she has given me more than I could ever have given her,
and that she must be my brave girl and not grieve. Tell her I
want her to be happy.
"'To you, I send my parting salutations. I have appreciated
your friendship and your professional skill.
"'With assurances of my deep personal esteem,
"'Your Friend,
"'PEACE FIELD.'"
Iris broke down and left the room, weeping bitterly. Margaret followed
her, but the girl pushed her aside. "No," she whispered, "go back. It is
better for me to be alone."
"I am sorry," said the Doctor, breaking the painful hush; "perhaps I
should have waited. I very much regret having given Miss Iris
unnecessary pain."
"It is as well now as at any other time," Margaret assured him, "but my
heart bleeds for her."
The clock on the landing struck ten, and Margaret excused herself for a
moment. She returned with the Royal Worcester plate, piled with cakes,
and a decanter of the port.
"I made them," she said, in a low tone; "she asked me to give you the
recipe."
"She was always thoughtful of others," returned the Doctor, choking.
He filled his glass, and from force of habit, offered it to an invisible
friend. "To your--" then he stopped.
"To her memory," sobbed Margaret, touching his glass with hers.
They drank the toast in silence, then the Doctor staggered to his feet.
"I can bear no more," he said, unsteadily; "it is a communion service
with the dead."
"Lynn," said Margaret, after the guest had gone, "I am troubled about
Iris. She is grieving herself to death, and it is not natural for the
young to suffer acutely for so long. Can you suggest anything?"
"No," answered Lynn, anxious in his turn, "except to get outdoors. I
don't believe she's been out since Aunt Peace was buried."
"You must take her, then."
"Do you think she would go with me?"
"I don't know, dear, but try it--try it to-morrow. Take her for a long
walk and get her so tired that she will sleep. Nothing rests the mind
like fatigue of the body."
"Mother," began Lynn, after a little, "are we always going to stay in
East Lancaster?"
"I haven't thought about it at all, Lynn. Are you becoming
discontented?"
"No--I was only looking ahead."
"This is our home--Aunt Peace has given it to us."
"It was ours anyway, wasn't it?"
"In a way, it was, but your grandfather left it to Aunt Peace. If he had
not died suddenly he would have changed his will. Mother said he
intended to, but he kept putting it off."
"Do you want me to keep on studying the violin?"
Margaret looked up in surprise, but Lynn was pacing back and forth with
his hands clasped behind him and his head down.
"Why not, dear?" she asked, very gently.
"Well," he sighed, "I don't believe I'm ever going to make anything of
it. Of course I can play--Herr Kaufmann says, if it satisfies me to
play the music as it is written, he can teach me that much, but he
hasn't a very good opinion of me. I'd rather be a first-class carpenter
than a second-rate violinist, and I'm twenty-three--it's time I was
choosing."