could never be the same again,
even though Aunt Peace, by some miracle of resurrection, should be given
back to her.

In those long weeks of loneliness, Iris had learned a different point of
view. She had not written to Mrs. Irving but once, though the motherly
letter that came in reply to her note had seemed like a brief glimpse of
East Lancaster. Doctor Brinkerhoff's letter also remained unanswered,
chiefly because she could not trust herself to write.

Her grief for Aunt Peace was insensibly changed. The poignant sense of
loss which belonged to the first few weeks had become something quite
different. Gradually, she had learned acceptance, though not yet
resignation.

With a wisdom far beyond her years, she had plunged into her work. The
hours not devoted to lessons or practice were spent at her books. She
had even planned out her days by a schedule in which every minute was
accounted for--so much for study, so much for practise, so much for the
daily walk.

She had no friends. Aside from the hard-faced proprietor of the
boarding-house, she was upon speaking terms with no one except her
teacher and one of the attendants at the library. It has been written
that there is no loneliness like that of a great city, and in the
experience of nearly every one it is at some time proved true.

She missed East Lancaster, with all its dear, familiar ways. The
elm-bordered path, the maple at the gate, and every nook and corner of
the garden constantly flitted before her like a mocking dream. She could
not avoid contrasting the tiny chamber, which was now her only home,
with the great rooms of the old house, where everything was always
exquisitely clean. She even longed for the kitchen, with its shining
saucepans and its tiled hearth.

To go back, if only for one night, to her own room--to make the little
cakes for Doctor Brinkerhoff, and play her part in the pretty Wednesday
evening comedy, while Aunt Peace sat by, graciously hospitable, and Lynn
kept them all laughing--oh, if she only could!

But it is the sadness of life that there is never any going back. The
Hour, with its opportunity, its own individual beauty, comes but once.
The hand takes out of the crystal pool as much water as the tiny, curved
cup of the palm will hold. The shining drops, each one perfect in itself
and changing colour with the shifting of the light, fall through the
fingers back into the pool, with a faint suggestion of music in the
sound. The c