Doctor Brinkerhoff was talking with the postmaster, but he left him to speak to Lynn. “Miss Iris,” he began, eagerly, “you have perhaps heard from her?”
“Yes,” answered Lynn, dully, fingering the letter.
“Is she quite well?”
Briefly, Lynn told him what Iris had written.
“It was kind to send remembrances to all who might inquire,” mused the Doctor. “That is like my foster-daughter; she is always thinking of others. She knew that I would be the first to ask. If you will give me the address, it will be a pleasure to me to write to her. She must be quite lonely where she is.”
Lynn told him. Her letter was at home, but every syllable of it, even the prosaic address, was written in letters of fire upon his brain.
“Thank you,” said the Doctor, as he took it down in his memorandum book; “I shall write to-night. Shall I give her any word from you?”
“No!” cried Lynn.
“Ah,” laughed the Doctor, “I understand. You write yourself. Well, I will tell her a letter is coming. Good afternoon!”
He moved away, leaving Lynn cold from head to foot. He was tempted to call the Doctor back, to ask him not to mention his name to Iris, then he reflected that an explanation would be necessary. In any event, Iris would understand. She would know that he did not intend to write—that he had sent no message.