“Nothing, dearie. I could get well, I think, were it not for my terrible dreams.”
Iris shuddered, and yet was thankful because Aunt Peace could call her delirium “dreams.”
“Lately,” continued Aunt Peace, “I have been afraid that I am not going to get well.”
“Don’t!” cried Iris, sharply, turning her face away.
“Dearie, dearie,” said the other, caressingly, “be my brave girl, and let me talk to you. When the dreams come back, I shall not know you, but now I do. I am stronger to-day, and we are alone, are we not? Where are the others?”
“The Doctor has gone to see someone who is very ill. Lynn has taken Mrs. Irving out for a walk.”
“I am glad,” said Aunt Peace, tenderly. “Margaret has been very good to me. You have all been good to me.”
Iris stroked the flushed face softly with her cool hand. In her eyes were love and longing, and a foreshadowed loneliness.
“Dearie,” Aunt Peace continued, “listen while I have the strength to speak. All the papers are in a tin box, in the trunk in the attic. There you will find everything that is known of your father and mother. I do not anticipate any need of the information, but it is well that you should know where to find it.
“I have left the house to Margaret,” she went on, with difficulty, “for it was rightfully hers, and after her it goes to Lynn, but there is a distinct understanding that it shall be your home while you live, if you choose to claim it. Margaret has promised me to keep you with her. When Lynn marries, as some day he will, you will be left alone. You and Margaret can make a home together.”