And who could say that there was not some little truth in this?
The two girls whose paths were to cross so bitterly slept peacefully side by side that night; but long after Iris' eyes had closed in slumber, Dorothy lay awake with oh! such a heavy load on her heart.
She wished she was gay and bright, like Iris, and oh! what would she not have given only to see—only to see once again! And she turned her face to where she knew the moonlight lay in great yellow bars on the floor, and sobbed as she had never sobbed since she had become blind, and fell asleep with the tear-drops staining her pale face, a long, deep sigh trembling over her lips.
Both girls awoke early the next morning.
"When do you have breakfast?" asked Iris, with a yawn.
"At eight o'clock," said Dorothy; "so we need not be in a hurry about getting up. It can not be more than six now."
"Oh, dear! then I shall have to get up at once," cried Iris; "for it takes me fully that long to dress."
"Two hours!" cried Dorothy, amazed, adding: "Why, just put on a wrapper. Nobody here ever thinks of making a toilet to appear at the breakfast-table. There is no one but Mrs. Kemp, Harry, you and I."
She could not catch Iris' unintelligible reply, but she noticed that the girl was not to be persuaded.
She commenced dressing at once.