"Why, you poor child," said the newcomer, in most heartfelt sympathy; "Are you Iris?"
The acquiescent reply was lost, as Miss Darrel gathered the slim young figure into her embrace. "There, there," she soothed, "cry all you want to. Poor little girl." She gently smoothed Iris' hair, and together they stood, looking down at the quiet, white face.
"You loved her so," and Miss Darrel's tone was soft and kind.
"I did," Iris said, feeling at once that she had found a friend. "Oh, Miss Darrel, how kind you are! People think I didn't love Aunt Ursula, because—because we were both high-tempered, and we did quarrel. But, underneath, we were truly fond of each other, and if I seem cold and uncaring, it isn't the truth; it's because—because——"
"Never mind, dear, you may have many reasons to conceal your feelings. I know you loved her, I know you revere her memory, for I saw you as I entered, when you thought you were all alone——"
"I am alone, Miss Darrel—I am very lonely. I'm glad you have come, I've been wanting to see you. It's all so terrible—so mysterious; and—and they suspect me!"
Iris' dark eyes stared with fear into the kind ones that met hers, and again she began to tremble.
"Now, now, my child, don't talk like that. I'm here, and I'll look after you. Suspect you, indeed! What nonsense. But it's most inexplicable, isn't it? I know so little, only what I've read in the papers. I came from Albany last night; I started as soon as I possibly could, and traveled as fast as I could. I want to hear all about it, but not from you. You're worn out, you poor dear. You ought to be in bed this minute."
"Oh, no, Miss Darrel, I'm all right. Only—I've a lot on my mind, you see, and—and——" again Iris, with a glance of distress at the cold, dead face, burst into tumultuous weeping.
"Come out of this room," said Miss Darrel, positively. "It only shakes your nerves to stay here. Come, show me to my room. Where shall I lodge? This house is mine, now, or soon will be. You knew that, didn't you?"