The girl’s face was hidden in her hands, and her shoulders shook with sobs.
“Don’t, dearie,” pleaded Aunt Peace, gently; “be my brave girl. Look up at me and smile. Don’t, dearie—please don’t!
“I have left you enough to make you comfortable,” she went on, after a little, “but not enough to be a care to you, nor to make you the prey of fortune hunters. It is, I think, securely invested, and you will have the income while you live. Some few keepsakes are yours, also—they are written down in”—here she hesitated—“in a paper Doctor Brinkerhoff has. He has been very good to us, dearie. He is almost your foster-father, for he was with me when I found you. He is a gentleman,” she said, with something of her old spirit, “though he has no social position.”
“Social position is not much, Aunt Peace, beside the things that really count, do you think it is?”
“I hardly know, dearie, but I have changed my mind about a great many things since I have lain here. I was never ill before—in all my seventy-five years, I have never been ill more than a day at a time, and it seems very hard.”
“It is hard, Aunt Peace, but we hope you will soon be well.”
“No, dearie,” she answered, “I’m afraid not. But do not let us borrow trouble, and let me tell you something to remember. When you have the heartache, dearie,”—here the old eyes looked trustfully into the younger ones,—“don’t forget that you made me happy. You have filled my days with sunshine, and, more than anything else, you have kept me young. I know you thought me harsh at first, but now, I am sure you understand. You have been my own dear daughter, Iris. If you had been my own flesh and blood, you could not have been more to me than you have.”
Margaret came in, and Iris went away, sobbing bitterly. Aunt Peace sighed heavily. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes burned like stars.
“I’m afraid you’ve tired yourself,” said Margaret, softly. “Was I gone too long?”
“No, indeed! Iris has been with me, and I am better to-day.”