no mention of Lynn, but it was not because she
had forgotten him.

Margaret gave the letter to Lynn, then turned away, that she might not
see his face. "I shall write this afternoon," she said. "Shall I send
any message for you?"

"No," returned Lynn, with a short, bitter laugh, "I have no message to
send."

Her heart ached in sympathy, for by her own sorrow she measured the
depth of his. She knew that the elasticity of youth would fail
here--that Lynn was not of those who forget.

"Son," she said, gently, "I wish I might bear it for you."

"I wouldn't let you, mother, even if you could. You have had enough as
it is. Herr Kaufmann says you have always shielded me and that it was a
mistake."

Had it been a mistake? Margaret thought it over after Lynn went away.
She had shielded him--that was true. He had never learned by painful
experience anything from which she had the power to save him. If his
father had lived----

For the first time, Margaret thought of her freedom as a doubtful
blessing. Then, once more, she took the jewelled thought from its
hiding-place in her inmost heart. There was no hint of alloy there--it
was radiant with its own unspeakable beauty.

Lynn went to the post-office to mail the letter. East Lancaster
considered post-boxes modern innovations which were reckless and
unjustifiable. Suppose a stranger should be passing through East
Lancaster, break open a post-box, and feloniously extract a private
letter? What if the box should blow away? When a letter was placed in
the hands of the accredited representative of the Government, one might
be sure that it was safe, but not otherwise.

Doctor Brinkerhoff was talking with the postmaster, but he left him to
speak to Lynn. "Miss Iris," he began, eagerly, "you have perhaps heard
from her?"

"Yes," answered Lynn, dully, fingering the letter.

"Is she quite well?"

Briefly, Lynn told him what Iris had written.

"It was kind to send remembrances to all who might inquire," mused the
Doctor. "That is like my foster-daughter; she is always thinking of
others. She knew that I would be the first to ask. If you will give me
the address, it will be a pleasure to me to write to her. She must be
quite lonely where she is."

Lynn told him. Her letter was at home, but every syllable of it, even
the prosaic address, was written in letters of fire upon his brain.

"Thank you," said the Doctor, as he took it down in his memorandum book;
"I shall write