Iris had no definite errand except to the post-office, where, as usual, there was nothing, but it rested her to be outdoors. It is Nature’s unfailing charm that she responds readily to every mood, and ultimately brings extremes to a common level of quiet cheerfulness.
She leaned over the bridge and looked into the stream, where her own face was mirrored. She saw herself sad and old, a woman of mature years, still further aged by trouble. What had become of the happy girl of a few months ago?
The thought of Lynn recurred persistently, and always with repulsion. What should she do? She could not wholly ignore him, year in and year out, and live in the same house. It must be nearly time for him to go away and leave her in peace.
Then Iris gasped, for it was Lynn’s house,—his and his mother’s. She was there upon sufferance only—a guest? No, not a guest—an intruder, an interloper.
In her new trouble, she thought of Herr Kaufmann, always gentle, always wise. With Iris, action followed swiftly upon impulse, and she went rapidly up the hill. Fräulein Fredrika was out, but the Master was in the shop, so she went in at the lower door.
“So,” he said, kindly, “one little lady comes to see the old man. It is long since you have come.”
“I have been in trouble,” faltered Iris.
“Yes,” returned the Master, “I have heard. Mine heart has been very sorry for you.”
“It was lovely of you,” she went on, choking back a sob, “to come and play for us. We appreciated it—Mrs. Irving and I—Doctor Brinkerhoff—and—Lynn,” she added, grudgingly.