nhabitable."

"East Lancaster," continued Lynn, irrelevantly, "is the abode of mummies
and fossils. The city seal is a broom--at least it should be. I was
never in such a clean place in my life. The exhibits themselves look as
though they'd been freshly dusted. Dirt is wholesome--didn't you ever
hear that? How the population has lived to its present advanced age, is
beyond me."

"We have never really lived," returned Iris, with a touch of sarcasm,
"until recently. Before you came, we existed. Now East Lancaster lives."

"Who's the pious party in brown silk with the irregular dome on her
roof?" asked Lynn.

"The minister's second wife," answered Aunt Peace, instantly gathering a
personality from the brief description.

"So, as Herr Kaufmann says. Might one inquire about the jewel she
wears?"

"It's just a pin," said Iris.

"It looks more like a glass case. In someway, it reminds me of a
museum."

"It has some of her first husband's hair in it," explained Iris.

"Jerusalem!" cried Lynn. "That's the limit! Fancy the feelings of the
happy bridegroom whose wife wears a jewel made out of her first
husband's fur! Not for me! When I take the fatal step, it won't be a
widow."

"That," remarked Margaret, calmly, "is as it may be. We have the
reputation of being a bad lot."

Lynn flushed, patted his mother's hand awkwardly, and hastily beat a
retreat. They heard him in the room overhead, walking back and forth,
and practising feverishly.

"Margaret," asked Miss Field, suddenly, "what are you going to make of
that boy?"

"A good man first," she answered. "After that, what God pleases."

By a swift change, the conversation had become serious, and, always
quick at perceiving hidden currents, Iris felt herself in the way.
Making an excuse, she left them.

For some time each was occupied with her own thoughts. "Margaret," said
Miss Field, again, then hesitated.

"Yes, Aunt Peace--what is it?"

"My little girl. I have been thinking--after I am gone, you know."

"Don't talk so, dear Aunt Peace. We shall have you with us for a long
time yet."

"I hope so," returned the old lady, brightly, "but I am not endowed with
immortality--at least not here,--and I have already lived more than my
allotted threescore and ten. My problem is not a new one--I have had it
on my mind for years,--and when you came I thought that perhaps you had
come to help me solve it."

"And so I have, if I can."

"My little girl," said Aunt