when we started."

At first, Lynn walked by her side, warning her to go slowly, then he
took her hand to help her. When they reached the summit, he had his arm
around her, and it was some minutes before it occurred to him to take it
away.

Iris was looking at the tapestry spread out before them--the great marsh
with the sunset light upon it and the swallows circling above it.

"Oh," she whispered, with her face alight, "how beautiful it is! See all
the purple in it--why, it might be violets, from up here!"

"Yes," answered Lynn, dreamily, "it is your name-flower, the
fleur-de-lis." Then the colour flamed in his face and he bit his lips.

Quick as a flash, Iris turned upon him. "Did you write the letters?" she
demanded.

Lynn's eyes met hers clearly. "Yes," he said, very tenderly. "Dear
Heart, didn't you know?"

XV

Little Lady

Up in the attic, Iris sat beside the old trunk, her lap filled with
papers. Never had she felt so alone, so desolate as to-day. The rain
beat upon the roof and grey swirls of water dashed against the pane. The
old house rocked in the rising wind, and from below, like an eerie
accompaniment, came the sound of Lynn's violin.

He was practising, and Iris heard him walking back and forth, playing
with mechanical precision. She shuddered at the sound of it, for,
strangely enough, she was conscious of bitter resentment against Lynn.
His hand had destroyed her dream and levelled it to the dust. In the
darkness, she had leaned, insensibly, upon the writer of the letters,
and now she knew that it was only Lynn--Lynn, who had no heart.

There comes a time to most of us, when the single prop gives way and,
absolutely alone, we either stand or fall. In the hard school of life,
sooner or later, one learns self-reliance. Iris began to perceive that,
in the end, she could depend upon no one but herself.

With a sigh, she turned to the papers once more. There was the report of
the detective whom Aunt Peace had engaged at the beginning, voluminous,
and obscured by legal phrases. Two or three letters, bearing upon the
subject, were attached to it. In the bottom of the box were a wide,
showy band of gold which, presumably, had been her mother's wedding
ring, and two photographs.

One was of a man whose weakness was indelibly stamped upon every
feature--the low, narrow forehead, the eyes slanting inward, the full
lips, and receding chin. On the back of it, Aunt Peace had written:
"Supposed t