XIV
Her Name-Flower
Somehow, the days passed. Iris ate mechanically, and went about her household duties with her former precision. On Wednesday evening, Doctor Brinkerhoff came, as usual, and Margaret’s eyes filled at the sight of him.
Bent, old, and haggard, he came up the path, longing for his accustomed place in the house, and yet dreading to take it. Iris met him with a pitiful little smile, and he bowed over her hand for a moment, his shoulders shaking. Then he straightened himself, like a soldier under fire.
“Miss Iris,” he said, “we are bound together by a common grief. More than that, I have a trust to fulfil. She”—here he hesitated and then went on—“she asked me if I would not try to take the place of a father to you, and I promised that I would.”
“I have always felt so toward you,” answered Iris, in a low tone.
Lynn was quite himself again, and his cheerful talk enlivened the others, almost against their will. There was laughter and to spare, yet beneath it was an undercurrent of sorrow, for the wound was healed only upon the surface.