"Yes. I feel, and so does August, that the girl is better off—"
"What are you talking about? Who is Iris?"
It was Rose Alstine's turn to stare.
"I am aware that you have tried faithfully to keep the secret, Mrs. Bordine, but August told me all about it last night. He thought it was better that I should know."
The widow rubbed her eyes and still stared at the girl in complete bewilderment.
"I'm sure I never heard of Iris, and I don't know what you mean."
"I speak of your poor daughter—"
"Daughter! My daughter?"
"Yes."
"Goodness alive! child, I never had but one daughter, and she died in infancy. That was nigh about thirty years ago. Her name was Mary."