Iris was looking at the tapestry spread out before them—the great marsh with the sunset light upon it and the swallows circling above it.
“Oh,” she whispered, with her face alight, “how beautiful it is! See all the purple in it—why, it might be violets, from up here!”
“Yes,” answered Lynn, dreamily, “it is your name-flower, the fleur-de-lis.” Then the colour flamed in his face and he bit his lips.
Quick as a flash, Iris turned upon him. “Did you write the letters?” she demanded.
Lynn’s eyes met hers clearly. “Yes,” he said, very tenderly. “Dear Heart, didn’t you know?”
XV
Little Lady
Up in the attic, Iris sat beside the old trunk, her lap filled with papers. Never had she felt so alone, so desolate as to-day. The rain beat upon the roof and grey swirls of water dashed against the pane. The old house rocked in the rising wind, and from below, like an eerie accompaniment, came the sound of Lynn’s violin.