Until now Iris had been unable to speak, but here she interrupted:
“Listen to me, Jenny: I have come to you to-night as poor and humble as yourself. You must not ask me to tell you all my story, but this you must know. I am no longer Iris Hilton, the rich man’s daughter; I must earn my bread even as you earn yours, by the labor of my hands. You have seemed so grateful for what little help I rendered you that I came to you to-night as to a friend—there, don’t cry, Jenny—I cannot cry; I do not feel as if I could ever shed a tear again. I would have gone to my friend Mrs. Laurier, but I could not. I am no longer in her social set, not that that would make any difference to her, but I simply could not take advantage of her friendship.”
There was something so unutterably sorrowful in the tone in which these words were spoken that both Jenny and the sick mother shed tears of sympathy, and the sound of the latter’s low sobbing had the effect of rousing Iris from the bitter train of thought into which she had fallen.
“Forgive me,” she said, in her sweet, gentle voice, as she approached the bedside and clasped the hand of the invalid. “I have been selfish to intrude my sorrows on you, but you shall see how cheerful I will be after to-night, for I am going to stay with you, if you will have me, and Jenny shall show me how to sew.”
The sound of footsteps approaching the door, followed by an imperative knock, interrupted Iris at this moment, and she had just time to seat herself when Jenny opened the door, to admit a gentleman, the first sight of whose face caused Iris to start and clasp her hands together in sudden excitement.
“The face in my mother’s locket!” she said to herself, and shivered when the man’s voice fell on her ear, although he was speaking merely on some trivial business matter that did not in the least concern her.
“Mrs. Neville requested me to remind you that she expects her dress to be completed before one o’clock to-morrow,” he was saying to Jenny, and in a moment more he would have left the room without glancing toward the spot where Iris was sitting but for some slight sound that caused him to turn in the doorway. He started at the sight of Iris’ face, even as Iris had done on first encountering his own, and Iris could hear the swift-spoken words he whispered to Jenny:
“Introduce me to that young lady; she is very like a—a friend I lost years ago.”
Jenny turned toward Iris with the words of introduction trembling on her lips, but Iris checked her by a glance, as she herself stepped forward.
“My name is Maggie Gordon, sir; I am a seamstress, like my friend.”