The maidenly heart within her rioted madly in her breast, but she was used to self-repression. "I thank you," she said, with gentle dignity; "it is one compliment which is very high, but I cannot leave mine Franz. All the way from mine Germany I have come to mend, to cook, to wash, to sew, to scrub, to sweep, to take after him the many things which he forgets and leaves behind, even the most essential. What should he think of me if I should say: 'Franz, I will do this for you no more, but for someone else?' You will understand," she concluded, in a pathetic little voice which stirred him strangely, "because you are mine brudder's friend." "Yes," replied the Doctor, "I am his friend, and so, do you think I would come without his permission? Dear Fraeulein, Franz knows and is glad. That is why I left him. Almost the last words he said to me were these: 'If you make mine sister happy, it is all I ask.'" "Franz!" she cried. "Mine dear, unselfish Franz! Always so good, so gentle! Did he say that!" "Yes, he said that. Will you come, Fredrika? Shall we try to make each other happy?" She was standing by the window now, with her hand upon her heart, and her face alight with more than earthly joy. "Dear Fraeulein," said the Doctor, rejoicing because it was in his power to give any human creature so much happiness, "will you come?" Without waiting for an answer, he put his hand upon her shoulder and drew her toward him. Then the heavens opened for Fraeulein Fredrika, and star-fire rained down upon her unbelieving soul. XXI The Cremona Speaks The grey autumnal rain beat heavily upon her window, and Iris stood watching it, with a heavy weight upon her heart. The prospect was inexpressibly dreary. As far as she could see, there was nothing but a desert of roofs. "Roofs," thought Iris, "always roofs! Who would think there were so many in the world!" Six months ago she had been a happy child, but now all was changed. Grown to womanhood through sorrow, she could never be the same again, even though Aunt Peace, by some miracle of resurrection, should be given back to her. In those long weeks of loneliness, Iris had learned a different point of view. She had not written to Mrs. Irving but once, though the motherly letter that came in reply to her note had seemed like a brief glimpse of East Lancaster. Doctor Brinkerhoff's letter also remained unanswered, chiefly because she could not trust herself to write. Her grief for Aunt Peace was insensibly changed. The poignant sense of loss which belonged to the first few weeks had become something quite different. Gradually, she had learned acceptance, though not yet resignation. With a wisdom far beyond her years, she had plunged into her work. The hours not devoted to lessons or practice were spent at her books. She had even planned out her days by a schedule in which every minute was accounted for--so much for study, so much for practise, so much for the daily walk.