ittle keepsakes--the
emerald pin, my few pieces of real lace, my fan, and the silver
buckles. She will understand the spirit of this bequest and
will feel free to take what she likes.

"'The house is for Margaret, and, after her, for Lynn, but it
is to be a home for Iris, just as it has been, while she lives.
Her income is to be paid regularly on the first of every month,
during her lifetime, as is written in my will, which the
lawyer has and which he will read at the proper time.

"'Tell my little girl that, though I am dead, I love her still;
that she has given me more than I could ever have given her,
and that she must be my brave girl and not grieve. Tell her I
want her to be happy.

"'To you, I send my parting salutations. I have appreciated
your friendship and your professional skill.

"'With assurances of my deep personal esteem,

"'Your Friend,
"'PEACE FIELD.'"

Iris broke down and left the room, weeping bitterly. Margaret followed
her, but the girl pushed her aside. "No," she whispered, "go back. It is
better for me to be alone."

"I am sorry," said the Doctor, breaking the painful hush; "perhaps I
should have waited. I very much regret having given Miss Iris
unnecessary pain."

"It is as well now as at any other time," Margaret assured him, "but my
heart bleeds for her."

The clock on the landing struck ten, and Margaret excused herself for a
moment. She returned with the Royal Worcester plate, piled with cakes,
and a decanter of the port.

"I made them," she said, in a low tone; "she asked me to give you the
recipe."

"She was always thoughtful of others," returned the Doctor, choking.

He filled his glass, and from force of habit, offered it to an invisible
friend. "To your--" then he stopped.

"To her memory," sobbed Margaret, touching his glass with hers.

They drank the toast in silence, then the Doctor staggered to his feet.

"I can bear no more," he said, unsteadily; "it is a communion service
with the dead."

"Lynn," said Margaret, after the guest had gone, "I am troubled about
Iris. She is grieving herself to death, and it is not natural for the
young to suffer acutely for so long. Can you suggest anything?"

"No," answered Lynn, anxious in his turn, "except to get outdoors. I
don't believe she's been out since Aunt Peace was buried."

"You must take her, then