to-night. Shall I give her any word from you?"

"No!" cried Lynn.

"Ah," laughed the Doctor, "I understand. You write yourself. Well, I
will tell her a letter is coming. Good afternoon!"

He moved away, leaving Lynn cold from head to foot. He was tempted to
call the Doctor back, to ask him not to mention his name to Iris, then
he reflected that an explanation would be necessary. In any event, Iris
would understand. She would know that he did not intend to write--that
he had sent no message.

But, three days later, it was fated that Iris should tremble at the
sight of Lynn's name in a letter from East Lancaster. "I think he will
write soon," Doctor Brinkerhoff had said. "Mr. Irving is a very fine
gentleman and I have deep respect for him."

"Write to me!" repeated Iris. "He would not dare! Why should he write to
me?" She put the letter aside and read over those three anonymous
communications of Lynn's, making a vain effort to associate them with
his personality.

Meanwhile, Lynn was learning endurance. He slept but fitfully, awaking
always with the sense of choking and of a hand pulling at his heart. He
saw Iris everywhere. There was no room in the house, except his own,
that was not full of her and of the faint, elusive perfume which seemed
a part of her. Sometimes those ghostly images haunted him until he
could bear no more. Margaret often saw him throw down the book he was
reading and dash outdoors. For an hour, perhaps, he had not turned a
page, and the book was a flimsy pretence at best.

He had not touched his violin since Iris went away. More than anything
else, it spoke to him of her. "Trickster with the violin" seemed written
upon it for all the world to read. Dimly, he knew that work was the only
panacea for heartache, but he could not bring himself to go on with his
mechanical practising.

Summer was drawing to its close. Already there was a single scarlet
bough in the maple at the gate, where the frost had set its signal and
its promise of return. Many of the birds had gone, and fairy craft of
winged seeds, the sport of every wind, drifted aimlessly about in search
of some final harbour.

Strangely, Lynn rather avoided his mother. He felt her sympathy, her
comprehension, and yet he shrank from her. She was gentle and patient,
responded readily to his every mood, and rarely offered a caress, yet he
continually shrank back within himself.

He had made no friends in East Lancaster, though he knew one