That day was like the others. Weeks went by, and still Aunt Peace fought gallantly with her enemy. Doctor Brinkerhoff took up his abode in the great spare chamber and was absent from the house only when there was urgent need of his services elsewhere. He even gave up his Sunday afternoons at Herr Kaufmann’s, and Fräulein Fredrika was secretly distressed.
“Fredrika,” said the Master, gently, “the suffering ones have need of our friend. We must not be selfish.”
“Our friend possesses great skill,” replied the Fräulein, with quiet dignity. “Do you think he will forget us, Franz?”
“Forget us? No! Fear not, Fredrika; it is only little loves and little friendships that forget. One does not need those ties which can be broken. The Herr Doctor himself has said that, and of a surety, he knows. Let us be patient and wait.”
“To wait,” repeated Fredrika; “one finds it difficult, is it not so?”
“Yes,” smiled the Master, “but when one has learned to wait patiently, one has learned to live.”
Meanwhile, Aunt Peace grew steadily weaker, and the strain was beginning to tell upon all. Doctor Brinkerhoff had lost his youth—he was an old man. Margaret, painfully anxious, found relief from heartache only in unremitting toil. Iris ate very little, slept scarcely at all, and crept about the house like the ghost of her former self. Lynn alone maintained his cheerfulness.
“Iris,” said Aunt Peace, one day, “come here.”
“I’m here,” said the girl, kneeling beside the bed, and putting her cold hand upon the other’s burning cheek, “what can I do?”