hat?"

Lynn was asking himself the same question. "For what?" Ambition was
strong within him, but Herr Kaufmann's words had struck deep. "I will be
an artist!" he said to himself, passionately; "I will!" He worked
feverishly at his concerto, but his mind was not upon it. He was
thinking of Iris and of the unconscious scorn in her face when she
discovered that he had written the letters.

He put down his violin and meditated, as many a man in that very room
had done before him, upon the problem of the eternal feminine. Iris was
incomprehensible. He knew that the letters had not displeased her; that,
on the contrary, she had been unusually happy when they came. He
remembered also that moonlight night, when, safely screened by the
shrubbery across the street, he had seen her put the flower upon the
gate-post and as swiftly take it away. He had loved her all the more for
that quick impulse, that shame-faced retreat, and put the memory
securely away in his heart, biding his time.

"Iris," he asked, at luncheon, "will you go for a walk with me this
afternoon?"

"No," she returned, shortly.

"Why not? It isn't too wet, is it?"

"I'm going by myself. I prefer to be alone."

Lynn coloured and said nothing more. In the afternoon, while he was at
work, he saw her trip daintily down the path, lifting her skirts to
avoid the pools of water the Summer shower had left. He watched her
until she was no longer within range of his vision, then went back to
his violin.

Iris had no definite errand except to the post-office, where, as usual,
there was nothing, but it rested her to be outdoors. It is Nature's
unfailing charm that she responds readily to every mood, and ultimately
brings extremes to a common level of quiet cheerfulness.

She leaned over the bridge and looked into the stream, where her own
face was mirrored. She saw herself sad and old, a woman of mature years,
still further aged by trouble. What had become of the happy girl of a
few months ago?

The thought of Lynn recurred persistently, and always with repulsion.
What should she do? She could not wholly ignore him, year in and year
out, and live in the same house. It must be nearly time for him to go
away and leave her in peace.

Then Iris gasped, for it was Lynn's house,--his and his mother's. She
was there upon sufferance only--a guest? No, not a guest--an intruder,
an interloper.

In her new trouble, she thought of Herr Kaufmann, always gentle, always
wis