ircle widens outward, and presently the water is still
again. If one could go back, gather from the pool those same shining
drops, made into jewels by the light, which, at the moment, is also
changing, one might go back to the Hour.

Steadfastly, Iris had hardened her heart against Lynn. He had dared to
love her! Her cheeks crimsoned with shame at the thought, but still,
when the days were dark, it had more than once been a certain comfort to
know that someone cared, aside from Aunt Peace, asleep in the
churchyard.

Lynn and Aunt Peace--they were the only ones who cared. Mrs. Irving had
been friendly; Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master had been kind; Fraeulein
Fredrika had always been glad when she went to see her: but these were
like bits of Summer blown for an instant against the Winter of the
world.

Iris saw clearly, from her new standpoint, that she had learned to love
the writer of the letters. It was he upon whom her soul leaned. Then, in
the midst of her grief, to find that her unknown lover was merely
Lynn--a boy who chased her around the garden with grasshoppers and
worms--it was too much.

Meditatively, Iris brushed the surface of her cheek, where Lynn had
kissed her. She could feel it now--an awkward, boyish kiss. It was much
the same as if Aunt Peace or Mrs. Irving had done it, and it was not at
all what one read about in the books.

If it were not for Lynn, she could go back to East Lancaster. She might
go, anyway, if she were sure she would not meet him, but where could she
stay? Not with Mrs. Irving--that was certain, unless Lynn went away. But
even then, sometimes he would come back--she could not always avoid him.

Her eyes filled when she thought of the Master, generously offering her
two of his six tiny rooms. The parlour, with its hideous ornaments,
seemed far preferable to the dingy room in the boarding-house, where the
old square piano stood, thick with dust, and where Iris did her daily
practising. But no, even there, she would meet Lynn. East Lancaster was
forbidden to her--she could never go there again.

Women have a strange attachment for places, especially for those which,
even for a little time, have been "home." To a man, home means merely a
house, more or less comfortable according to circumstances, where he
eats and sleeps--an easy-chair and a fire which await him at the close
of the day. The location of it matters not to him. Uproot him suddenly,
transport him to a strange land,