brink of the cliff always seemed a mansion to its owner. Quickly, he
read her thought.

"I know what you are thinking," he continued; "you are thinking that
mine house is small. Three rooms upstairs and three rooms downstairs.
Fredrika could sleep in mine room, and I could take the store closet
back of mine shop and keep the wood for the violins at the Herr
Doctor's. Upstairs, you could have one bedroom and one parlour. Fredrika
and I would come up only to eat."

"Herr Kaufmann," cried Iris, her heart warming to him, "it is lovely of
you, but I can't. Don't you see, if I could stay anywhere I could stay
where I am?"

It was not a clear sentence, but he grasped its meaning. "Yes, I see.
But when I say mine house is large, it is not of these six rooms that I
think. Have you not read in the good book that in mine Father's house
there are many mansions? So? Well, it is in those mansions that I live.
I have put aside mine sorrow, and I wait till the dear God is pleased to
take me home."

"To take us home," said Iris, thoughtfully. "Perhaps Aunt Peace was
tired."

"Yes," answered the Master, "she was tired. Otherwise, she would have
been allowed to stay. You have not been thinking of her, but of
yourself."

"Perhaps I have," she admitted.

"If you go away," he went on, "it is better that you should study. You
have one fine voice, and with sorrow in your heart, you can make much
from it. Those who have been made great have first suffered."

Iris turned upon him. "You mean that?" she asked, sharply.

"Of course," he returned, serenely. "Before you can help those who have
suffered, you must suffer yourself. It is so written."

Iris sighed heavily. "I must go," she said, dully.

"Not yet. Wait."

He went to his bedroom, and came back with a violin case. He opened it
carefully; unwrapped the many thicknesses of silk, and took out the
Cremona. "See," he said, with his face aglow, "is it not most beautiful?
When you are sad, you can remember that you have seen mine Cremona."

"Thank you," returned Iris, her voice strangely mingled with both
laughter and tears, "I will remember."

When she went home, the Master looked after her for a moment or two,
then turned away from the window to wipe his eyes. He was drawn by
temperament to all who sorrowed, and he had loved Iris for years.

That night, she sat alone in the library, sheltered by the darkness.
Margaret was reading in her own room, and Lynn was out. More clearly