Doctor Brinkerhoff came in the morning, but afterward, when Margaret questioned him, he shook his head sadly. “I will do the best I can,” he said, “and none of us can do more.” He went down the path, bent and old. He seemed to have aged since the previous night.

On Friday, Lynn went to Herr Kaufmann’s as usual, but he played carelessly. “Young man,” said the Master, “why is it that you study the violin?”

“Why?” repeated Lynn. “Well, why not?”

“It is all the same,” returned the Master, frankly. “I can teach you nothing. You have the technique and the good wrist, you read quickly, but you play like one parrot. When I say ‘fortissimo,’ you play fortissimo; when I say ‘allegro,’ you play allegro. You are one obedient pupil,” he continued, making no effort to conceal his scorn.

“What else should I be?” asked Lynn.

“Do not misunderstand,” said the Master, more kindly. “You can play the music as it is written. If that satisfies you, well and good, but the great ones have something more. They make the music to talk from one to another, but you express nothing. It is a possibility that you have nothing to express.”

Lynn walked back and forth with his hands behind his back, vaguely troubled.

“One moment,” the Master went on, “have you ever felt sorry?”

“Sorry for what?”

“Anything.”

“Of course—I am often sorry.”

“Well,” sighed the Master, instantly comprehending, “you are young, and it may yet come, but the sorrows of youth are more sharp than those of age, and there is not much chance. The violin is the most noble of instruments. It is for those who have been sorry to play to those who are. You have nothing to give, but it is one pity to lose your fine technique. Since you wish to amuse, change your instrument, and study the banjo, or perhaps the concertina.”

Lynn understood no more than if Herr Kaufmann had spoken in a foreign tongue. “I may have to stop for a little while,” he said, “for my aunt is ill, and I can’t practise.”

“Practise here,” returned the Master, indifferently. “Fredrika will not care. Or go to the office of mine friend, the Herr Doctor. He will not mind. A fine gentleman, but he has no ear, no taste. Until you acquire the concertina, you may keep on with the violin.”

“My mother,” began Lynn. “She wants me to be an artist.”

“An artist!” repeated the Master, with a bitter laugh. “Your mother—” here he paused and looked keenly into Lynn’s eyes. Something was stirred; some far-off memory. “She believes in you, is it not so?”

“Yes, she does—she has always believed in me.”

“Well,” said the Master, with an indefinable shrug, “we must not disappoint her. You work on like one faithful parrot, and I continue with your instruction. It is good that mothers are so easy to please.”

“Herr Kaufmann,” pleaded the boy, “tell me. Shall I ever be an artist?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“When?”

“When the river flows up hill and the sun rises in the west.”

Suddenly, Lynn’s face turned white. “I will!” he cried, passionately; “I will! I will be an artist! I tell you, I will!”

“Perhaps,” returned the Master. He was apparently unmoved, but afterward, when Lynn had gone, he regretted his harshness. “I may be mistaken,” he admitted to himself, grudgingly. “There may be something in the boy, after all. He is young yet, and his mother, she believes in him. Well, we shall see!”

Lynn went home by a long, circuitous route. Far beyond East Lancaster was a stretch of woodland which he had not as yet explored. Herr Kaufmann’s words still rang in his ears, and for the first time he doubted himself. He sat down on a rock to think it over. “He said I had the technique,” mused Lynn, “but why should I feel sorry?”

After long study, he concluded that the Master was eccentric, as genius is popularly supposed to be, and determined to think no more of it. Still, it was not so easily put wholly aside. “You play like one parrot,”—that single sentence, like a barbed shaft, had pierced the armour of his self-esteem.

He went on through the woods, and stopped at a pile of rocks near a spring. It might have been an altar erected to the deity of the wood, but for one symbol. On the topmost stone was chiselled a cross.

“Wonder who did it,” said Lynn, to himself, “and what for.” He found some wild berries, made a cup of leaves, and filled it with the fragrant fruit, planning to take it to Aunt Peace.

But when he reached home Aunt Peace was far beyond the thought of berries. She was delirious, and her ravings were pitiful. Iris was as white as a ghost, and Margaret was sorely troubled.

“Lynn,” she said, “don’t go away. I need you. Where have you been?”

“To my lesson, and then for a walk. Herr Kaufmann says I may practise there sometimes. He also suggested Doctor Brinkerhoff’s.”

“That was kind, and I am sure the Doctor will be willing. How does he think you are getting along?”

She asked the question idly, and scarcely expected an answer, but Lynn turned his face away and refused to meet her eyes. “Not very well,” he said, in a low tone.

“Why not, dear? You practise enough, don’t you?”

“Yes, I think so. He says I have the technique and the good wrist, but I play like a parrot, and can only amuse. He told me to take up the concertina.”

Margaret smiled. “That is his way. Just go on, dear, and do the very best you can.”

“But I don’t want to disappoint you, mother—I want to be an artist.”

“Lynn, dear, you will never disappoint me. You have been a comfort to me since the day you were born. What should I have done without you in all these years that I have been alone!”

She drew his tall head down and kissed him, but Lynn, boy-like, evaded the sentiment and turned it into a joke. “That’s very Irish, mother—‘what would you have done without me in all the time you’ve been alone?’ How is the invalid?”

“The fever is high,” sighed Margaret, “and Doctor Brinkerhoff looks very grave.”

“I hope she isn’t going to die,” said Lynn, conventionally. “Can I do anything?”

“No, nothing but wait. Sometimes I think that waiting is the very hardest thing in the world.”

That day was like the others. Weeks went by, and still Aunt Peace fought gallantly with her enemy. Doctor Brinkerhoff took up his abode in the great spare chamber and was absent from the house only when there was urgent need of his services elsewhere. He even gave up his Sunday afternoons at Herr Kaufmann’s, and FrÄulein Fredrika was secretly distressed.

“Fredrika,” said the Master, gently, “the suffering ones have need of our friend. We must not be selfish.”

“Our friend possesses great skill,” replied the FrÄulein, with quiet dignity. “Do you think he will forget us, Franz?”

“Forget us? No! Fear not, Fredrika; it is only little loves and little friendships that forget. One does not need those ties which can be broken. The Herr Doctor himself has said that, and of a surety, he knows. Let us be patient and wait.”

“To wait,” repeated Fredrika; “one finds it difficult, is it not so?”

“Yes,” smiled the Master, “but when one has learned to wait patiently, one has learned to live.”

Meanwhile, Aunt Peace grew steadily weaker, and the strain was beginning to tell upon all. Doctor Brinkerhoff had lost his youth—he was an old man. Margaret, painfully anxious, found relief from heartache only in unremitting toil. Iris ate very little, slept scarcely at all, and crept about the house like the ghost of her former self. Lynn alone maintained his cheerfulness.

“Iris,” said Aunt Peace, one day, “come here.”

“I’m here,” said the girl, kneeling beside the bed, and putting her cold hand upon the other’s burning cheek, “what can I do?”

“Nothing, dearie. I could get well, I think, were it not for my terrible dreams.”

Iris shuddered, and yet was thankful because Aunt Peace could call her delirium “dreams.”

“Lately,” continued Aunt Peace, “I have been afraid that I am not going to get well.”

“Don’t!” cried Iris, sharply, turning her face away.

“Dearie, dearie,” said the other, caressingly, “be my brave girl, and let me talk to you. When the dreams come back, I shall not know you, but now I do. I am stronger to-day, and we are alone, are we not? Where are the others?”

“The Doctor has gone to see someone who is very ill. Lynn has taken Mrs. Irving out for a walk.”

“I am glad,” said Aunt Peace, tenderly. “Margaret has been very good to me. You have all been good to me.”

Iris stroked the flushed face softly with her cool hand. In her eyes were love and longing, and a foreshadowed loneliness.

“Dearie,” Aunt Peace continued, “listen while I have the strength to speak. All the papers are in a tin box, in the trunk in the attic. There you will find everything that is known of your father and mother. I do not anticipate any need of the information, but it is well that you should know where to find it.

“I have left the house to Margaret,” she went on, with difficulty, “for it was rightfully hers, and after her it goes to Lynn, but there is a distinct understanding that it shall be your home while you live, if you choose to claim it. Margaret has promised me to keep you with her. When Lynn marries, as some day he will, you will be left alone. You and Margaret can make a home together.”

The girl’s face was hidden in her hands, and her shoulders shook with sobs.

“Don’t, dearie,” pleaded Aunt Peace, gently; “be my brave girl. Look up at me and smile. Don’t, dearie—please don’t!

“I have left you enough to make you comfortable,” she went on, after a little, “but not enough to be a care to you, nor to make you the prey of fortune hunters. It is, I think, securely invested, and you will have the income while you live. Some few keepsakes are yours, also—they are written down in”—here she hesitated—“in a paper Doctor Brinkerhoff has. He has been very good to us, dearie. He is almost your foster-father, for he was with me when I found you. He is a gentleman,” she said, with something of her old spirit, “though he has no social position.”

“Social position is not much, Aunt Peace, beside the things that really count, do you think it is?”

“I hardly know, dearie, but I have changed my mind about a great many things since I have lain here. I was never ill before—in all my seventy-five years, I have never been ill more than a day at a time, and it seems very hard.”

“It is hard, Aunt Peace, but we hope you will soon be well.”

“No, dearie,” she answered, “I’m afraid not. But do not let us borrow trouble, and let me tell you something to remember. When you have the heartache, dearie,”—here the old eyes looked trustfully into the younger ones,—“don’t forget that you made me happy. You have filled my days with sunshine, and, more than anything else, you have kept me young. I know you thought me harsh at first, but now, I am sure you understand. You have been my own dear daughter, Iris. If you had been my own flesh and blood, you could not have been more to me than you have.”

Margaret came in, and Iris went away, sobbing bitterly. Aunt Peace sighed heavily. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes burned like stars.

“I’m afraid you’ve tired yourself,” said Margaret, softly. “Was I gone too long?”

“No, indeed! Iris has been with me, and I am better to-day.”

“Try to sleep,” said Margaret, soothingly.

Obediently, Aunt Peace closed her eyes, but presently she sat up. “I’m so warm,” she said, fretfully. “Where is Doctor Brinkerhoff?”

“He has not come yet, but I think he will be here soon.”

“Margaret?”

“Yes, Aunt Peace.”

“Will you write off the recipe for those little cakes for him? He may be able to find someone to make them for him, though of course they will not be the same.”

“Yes, I will.”

“It’s in my book. They are called ‘Doctor Brinkerhoff’s cakes.’ You will not forget?”

“No, I won’t forget. Can’t you sleep now?”

“I’ll try.”

Presently, the deep regular breathing told that she was asleep. Iris came back with her eyes swollen and Margaret took her out into the hall. They sat there for a long time, hand in hand, waiting, but no sound came from the other room.

“I cannot bear it,” moaned Iris, her mouth quivering. “I cannot bear to have Aunt Peace die.”

“Life has many meanings,” said Margaret, “but it is what we make it, after all. The pendulum swings from daylight to darkness, from sun to storm, but the balance is always true.”

Iris leaned against her, insensibly comforted.

“She would be the first to tell you not to grieve,” Margaret went on, though her voice faltered, “and still, we need sorrow as the world needs night. We cannot always live in the sun. We can take what comes to us bravely, as gentlewomen should, but we must take it, dear—there is no other way.”

Long afterward, Iris remembered the look on Margaret’s face as she said it, but the tears blinded her just then.

Doctor Brinkerhoff came back at twilight, anxious and worn, yet eager to do his share. Through the night he watched with her, alert, capable, and unselfish, putting aside his personal grief for the sake of the others.

In the last days, those two had grown very near together. When the dreams came, he held her in his arms until the tempest passed, and afterwards, soothed her to sleep.

“Doctor,” she said one day, “I have been thinking a great deal while I have lain here. I seem never to have had the time before. I think it is well, at the end, to have a little space of calm, for one sees so much more clearly.”

“You have always seen clearly, dear lady,” said the Doctor, very gently.

“Not always,” she answered, shaking her head. “I can see many a mistake now. The fogs have sometimes gathered thick about me, but now they have lifted forever. We are but ships on the sea of life,” she went on. “My course has lain through calm waters, for the most part, with the skies blue and fair above me. I have been sheltered, and I can see now that it might have made me stronger and better to face some of the storms. Still, my Captain knows, and now, when I can hear the breakers booming on the reef where I am to strike my colours, I am not afraid.”

The end came on Sunday, just at sunset, while the bells were tolling for the vesper service. The crescent moon rocked idly in the west, and a star glimmered faintly above it.

“Sunset and evening star,” she repeated, softly. “And one clear call for me. Will you say the rest of it?”

Choking, Doctor Brinkerhoff went on with the poem until he reached the last verse, when he could speak no more.

She finished it, then turned to him with her face illumined. “It is beautiful,” she said, “is it not, my friend?”

Twilight came, and Margaret found them there when she went in with a lighted candle. The Doctor sat at the side of the bed, very stiff and straight, with the tears streaming over his wrinkled face. On his shoulder, like a tired child, lay Aunt Peace, who had put on, at last, her Necklace of Perfect Joy.