Left to herself, Margaret mentally reviewed their conversation, passing resolutely over the hurt that Aunt Peace had unconsciously made in her heart. Never before had it occurred to her that Lynn might marry. “He can’t,” she whispered; “why, he’s nothing but a child.”

She turned her thoughts to Iris and Aunt Peace. The homeless little savage had grown into a charming woman, under the patient care of the only mother she had ever known. If Aunt Peace should die—and if Lynn should marry,—she did not phrase the thought, but she was very conscious of its existence,—she and Iris might make a little home for themselves in the old house. Two men, even the best of friends, can never make a home, but two women, on speaking terms, may do so.

“If Lynn should marry!” Insistently, the torment of it returned. If he should fall in love, who was she to put a barrier in his path? His mother, whose heart had been hungry all these years, should she keep him [Pg 118]back by so much as a word? Then, all at once, she knew that it was her own warped life which demanded it by way of compensation.

[Pg 118]

“No,” she breathed, with her lips white, “I will never stand in his way. Because I have suffered, he shall not.” Then she laughed hysterically. “How ridiculous I am!” she said to herself. “Why, he is nothing but a child!”

The mood passed, and the woman’s soul began to dwell upon its precious memories. Mnemosyne, that guardian angel, forever separates the wheat from the chaff, the joy from the pain. At the touch of her hallowed fingers, the heartache takes on a certain calmness, which is none the less beautiful because it is wholly made of tears.

Lynn’s violin was silent now, and softly, from the back of the house, the girl’s full contralto swelled into a song.

“The hours I spent with thee, Dear Heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them over, every one apart— My rosary! My rosary!”

Are as a string of pearls to me;

My rosary! My rosary!”

Iris sang because she was happy, but, none the less, the deep, vibrant voice had an undertone [Pg 119]of sadness—a world-old sorrow which, by right of inheritance, was hers.

[Pg 119]

 Prev. P 62/162 next