ng, sir," replied Iris, with a quaint courtesy. "I trust you
are well?"

"My health is uniformly good," he returned, primly. "You must remember
that I have my own drugs and potions always at hand." He made careful
inquiries as to the physical and mental well-being of each member of the
family, sent kindly salutations to all, made a low bow to Iris, and went
on.

"A very pleasant gentleman," she said to herself. "What a pity that he
has no social position!"

She loitered at the bridge, hanging over the railing, and looked down
into the sunny depths of the little stream. All through the sweet
Summer, the brook sang cheerily, by night and by day. It began in a
cool, crystal pool, far up among the hills, and wandered over mossy
reaches and pebbly ways, singing meanwhile of all the fragrant woodland
through which it came. Hidden springs in subterranean caverns, caught by
the laughing melody, went out to meet it and then followed, as the
children followed the Pied Piper of old. Great with its gathered waters,
it still sang as it rippled onward to its destiny, dreaming, perchance,
of the time when its liquid music, lost at last, should be merged into
the vast symphony of the sea.

Lynn came down the hill, swinging his violin case, and Iris, a little
consciously, went on to the post-office.

Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the letter box, and then her heart
gave a little leap, for there were two, yes three letters there.

"Wait a moment," called the grizzled veteran who served as postmaster.
"I've finally got something fer ye! Here! Miss Peace Field, Mrs.
Margaret Irving, and Miss Iris Temple."

"Oh-h!" whispered Iris, in awe, "a letter for me?"

"'Tain't fer nobody else, I reckon," laughed the old man. "Anyhow, it's
got your name on it."

She went out, half dazed. In all her life she had had but three letters;
two from her mother, which she still kept, and one from Santa Claus. The
good saint had left his communication in the little maid's stocking one
Christmas eve, and it was more than a year before Iris observed that
Aunt Peace and Santa Claus wrote precisely the same hand.

"For me," she said to herself, "all for me!"

It never entered her pretty head to open it. The handwriting was
unfamiliar and the post-mark was blurred, but it seemed to have come
from the next town. The whole thing was very disturbing, but Aunt Peace
would know.

Then Iris stopped suddenly in the path. It might be wicked, but, after