“Margaret,” asked Miss Field, suddenly, “what are you going to make of that boy?”
“A good man first,” she answered. “After that, what God pleases.”
By a swift change, the conversation had become serious, and, always quick at perceiving hidden currents, Iris felt herself in the way. Making an excuse, she left them.
For some time each was occupied with her own thoughts. “Margaret,” said Miss Field, again, then hesitated.
“Yes, Aunt Peace—what is it?”
“My little girl. I have been thinking—after I am gone, you know.”
“Don’t talk so, dear Aunt Peace. We shall have you with us for a long time yet.”
“I hope so,” returned the old lady, brightly, “but I am not endowed with immortality—at least not here,—and I have already lived more than my allotted threescore and ten. My problem is not a new one—I have had it on my mind for years,—and when you came I thought that perhaps you had come to help me solve it.”
“And so I have, if I can.”