“You’re not,” she said, with an air of finality. She flew into the house and took refuge beside Mrs. Irving.
“Mother,” cried Lynn, closely following, “isn’t Iris my cousin?”
“No, dear; she’s no relation at all.”
“So now!” exclaimed Iris, in triumph. “Grand-legal-cousin-once-removed, you will please make your escape immediately.”
“Little witch!” thought Lynn, as he went upstairs; “I’ll see that she doesn’t slap me next time.”
“Iris,” said Mrs. Irving, suddenly, “you are very beautiful.”
“Am I, really?” For a moment the girl’s deep eyes were filled with wonder, and then she smiled. “It is because you love me,” she said, dropping a tiny kiss upon Margaret’s white forehead; “and because I love you, I think you are beautiful, too.”
Alone in her room, Iris studied herself in her small mirror. It was just large enough to see one’s face in, for Aunt Peace did not believe in cultivating vanity—in others. In her own room was a long pier-glass, where a certain young person stole brief glimpses of herself.
“I’ll go in there,” she thought. “Aunt Peace is in the kitchen, and no one will know.”