itself,
because it is of a different specific gravity. When the cup is stirred,
the lees taint the whole, and it takes time for the readjustment. Were
it not for the merciful readjustment, this grey old world of ours would
be too dark to live in.

At length she turned and looked at the little seamstress, who sat bolt
upright, as she had been taught, in the carved mahogany chair. She
noted the long lashes that swept the tinted cheek, the masses of
blue-black hair over the low, white brow, the tender wistfulness in the
lines of the mouth, the dimpled hands, and the rounded arm--so evidently
made for all the sweet uses of love that Margaret's heart contracted in
sudden pain.

"Iris," she said, in a tone that startled the girl, "when the right man
comes, and you know absolutely in your own heart that he is the right
man, go with him, whether he be prince or beggar. If unhappiness comes
to you, take it bravely, as a gentlewoman should, but never, for your
own sake, allow yourself to regret your faith in him. If you love him
and he loves you, there are no barriers between you--they are nothing
but cobwebs. Sweep them aside with a single stroke of magnificent
daring, and go. Social position counts for nothing, other people's
opinions count for nothing; it is between your heart and his, and in
that sanctuary no one else has a right to intrude. If he has only a
crust to give you, share it with him, but do not let anyone persuade you
into a lifetime of heart-hunger--it is too hard to bear!"

The girl's deep eyes were fixed upon her, childish, appealing, and yet
with evident understanding. Margaret's face was full of tender pity--was
this butterfly, too, destined to be broken on the wheel?

Iris felt the sudden passion of the other, saw traces of suffering in
the dark eyes, the set lips, and even in the slender hands that hovered
whitely over the black gown. "Thank you, Mrs. Irving," she said,
quietly, "I understand."

The minutes ticked by, and no other word was spoken. At half-past three,
precisely, Aunt Peace came back. She had on her best gown--a soft, heavy
black silk, simply made. At the neck and wrists were bits of rare old
lace, and her one jewel, an emerald of great beauty and value, gleamed
at her throat. She wore no rings except the worn band of gold that had
been her mother's wedding ring.

"What did you dream?" asked Iris.

"Nothing, dearie," she laughed. "I have never slept so soundly before.
Our guests hav