riend?"

* * * * *

Twilight came, and Margaret found them there when she went in with a
lighted candle. The Doctor sat at the side of the bed, very stiff and
straight, with the tears streaming over his wrinkled face. On his
shoulder, like a tired child, lay Aunt Peace, who had put on, at last,
her Necklace of Perfect Joy.

XII

The False Line

Up in the darkened chamber where Aunt Peace lay, Iris stood face to face
with the greatest sorrow of her life. Was this, then, the end? Was there
nothing more? Cold as snow, unpitying as marble, Death mocked Iris as
she stood there, mutely questioning. Timidly she touched the waxen
cheek. The crimson fires burned there no more--the fever was gone.

Through the house resounded the steady tread of muffled feet. Of all the
horrors of Death, the worst is that seemingly endless procession who
come to offer "sympathy," to ask if there is anything they can do. Mere
acquaintances, privileged only by a casual nod, break down all barriers
when the Conqueror comes. Is it that idle curiosity which occasionally
dominates the best of us, or is it Life, triumphant for the moment,
looking forward fearfully to its inevitable end?

Some "friend of the family," high in its confidence, assumes the
responsibility at such times. Chance callers are rewarded with grisly
details and grewsome descriptions of the soul struggling to free itself
from its bonds. We are told how the others "took it," when at last the
sail was spread for the voyage over the uncharted sea.

In the hall, straight as a soldier under orders, stood Doctor
Brinkerhoff. "No, madam," he would say, "there is nothing you can do.
The arrangements are made. I will tell Mrs. Irving and Miss Temple that
you called. Yes, we were expecting it. She died peacefully; there was no
pain. To-morrow at four."

And then again: "Thank you, there is nothing you can do, but it is kind
of you to offer. The ladies will be grateful for your sympathy. Who
shall I say called?"

"Iris," pleaded Margaret, "come away."

The girl started. "I can't," she answered, dully.

"You must come, dear--come into my room."

Unwillingly, Iris suffered herself to be led away. It is only the
surface emotion which is relieved by tears. Within the prison-house of
the soul, when Grief, clad in grey garments, enters silently and
prepares to remain, there is no weeping. One hides it, as the Spartan
covered the bleeding wound i