surround him with new household gods,
give him an occupation, and he will rather enjoy the change. Never
for an instant will he grieve. With assured comfort and congenial
employment, he will be equally happy in New York or on the coast of
South Africa. But the woman, ah, the daily tragedy of the woman in the
strange place, and the long months before she becomes even reconciled to
her new surroundings! After all, it is the home instinct and the mother
instinct which make the foundations of civilisation.

So it was that Iris hungered for East Lancaster, quite apart from its
people. Every rod of the ground was familiar to her, from the woods, far
to the east, to the Master's house on the summit of the hill, at the
very edge of West Lancaster, overlooking the valley, and toward the blue
hills beyond.

The rain dripped drearily, and Iris sighed. She felt herself absolutely
alone in the world, with neither friend nor kindred. There was only one
belonging to her who was not dead--her father. No trace of him had been
found, and his death had been taken for granted, but none the less Iris
wondered if he might not still live, heart-broken and remorseful; if,
perhaps, her skirts had not brushed against him in some crowded
thoroughfare of the city. She hoped not, for even that seemed
contamination.

It did not much matter that in her haste she had left the box containing
the photographs and the papers in the attic. Aunt Peace's emerald, the
fan, and the lace, which she had also forgotten, were rightfully hers,
and yet they seemed to belong to the house--to Mrs. Irving and Lynn.

Swiftly upon her thought came a rap at her door. "A letter for you, Miss
Temple."

Iris took it eagerly and closed the door again, consciously disappointed
when she saw that it was from Mrs. Irving. Doctor Brinkerhoff's careless
remark, to the effect that Lynn would write soon, had fallen upon
fertile soil. First, Iris decided not to read the letter when it
came--to return it unopened. Then, that it was not necessary to be rude,
but she need not answer it. Next, a healthy human curiosity as to what
Lynn might have to say to her, after all that had passed between them.
Then she wondered whether Lynn's next letter would be anything like the
three that she had put away in her trunk. Now, her hands were trembling,
and her cheeks were very pale.

"My Dear Child," the letter began. "Not having heard from you
for so long, I fear that you are ill,