s that
caused their utterance, all the swift interplay of opposing thought,
and, for the time being, forgets. Hours afterward, in solitude, it is
recalled; studied from every point of view, searched, analysed,
questioned, until it is made to yield up its hidden meaning. It was thus
that Margaret put away those four words: "He loves her still."

They are pathetic, these tiny treasure-houses of Memory, where
oftentimes the jewel, so jealously guarded, by the clear light of
introspection is seen to be only paste. One seizes hungrily at the
impulse that caused the hiding, thinking that there must be some certain
worth behind the deception. But afterward, painfully sure, one locks
the door of the treasure-chamber in self-pity, and steals away, as from
a casket that enshrines the dead.

They talked of other things, and at half-past ten the Doctor went home,
leaving a farewell message for Lynn, and begging that his kind
remembrances be sent to Iris, when she should write.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Irving. "I shall surely tell her, and she will be
glad."

The door closed, and almost immediately Lynn came in from the library,
rubbing his eyes. "I think I've been asleep," he said.

"It was rude, dear," returned Margaret, in gentle rebuke. "It is
ill-bred to leave a guest."

"I suppose it is, but I did not intend to be gone so long."

The house seemed singularly desolate, filled, as it was, with ghostly
shadows. Through the rooms moved the memory of Iris, and of that gentle
mistress who slept in the churchyard, who had permeated every nook and
corner of it with the sweetness of her personality. There was something
in the air, as though music had just ceased--the wraith of long-gone
laughter, the fall of long-shed tears.

"I miss Iris," said Margaret, dreamily. "She was like a daughter to me."

Taken off his guard, Lynn's conscious face instantly betrayed him.

"Lynn," said Margaret, suddenly, "did you have anything to do with her
going away?"

The answer was scarcely audible. "Yes."

Margaret never forced a confidence, but after a pause she said very
gently: "Dear, is there anything you want to tell me?"

"It's nothing," said Lynn, roughly. He rose and walked around the room
nervously. "It's nothing," he repeated, with assumed carelessness. "I--I
asked her to marry me, and she wouldn't. That's all. It's nothing."

Margaret's first impulse was to smile. This child, to be talking of
marriage--then her heart leaped, fo