"Iris," she said, in a tone that startled the girl, "when the right man comes, and you know absolutely in your own heart that he is the right man, go with him, whether he be prince or beggar. If unhappiness comes to you, take it bravely, as a gentlewoman should, but never, for your own sake, allow yourself to regret your faith in him. If you love him and he loves you, there are no barriers between you--they are nothing but cobwebs. Sweep them aside with a single stroke of magnificent daring, and go. Social position counts for nothing, other people's opinions count for nothing; it is between your heart and his, and in that sanctuary no one else has a right to intrude. If he has only a crust to give you, share it with him, but do not let anyone persuade you into a lifetime of heart-hunger--it is too hard to bear!" The girl's deep eyes were fixed upon her, childish, appealing, and yet with evident understanding. Margaret's face was full of tender pity--was this butterfly, too, destined to be broken on the wheel? Iris felt the sudden passion of the other, saw traces of suffering in the dark eyes, the set lips, and even in the slender hands that hovered whitely over the black gown. "Thank you, Mrs. Irving," she said, quietly, "I understand." The minutes ticked by, and no other word was spoken. At half-past three, precisely, Aunt Peace came back. She had on her best gown--a soft, heavy black silk, simply made. At the neck and wrists were bits of rare old lace, and her one jewel, an emerald of great beauty and value, gleamed at her throat. She wore no rings except the worn band of gold that had been her mother's wedding ring. "What did you dream?" asked Iris. "Nothing, dearie," she laughed. "I have never slept so soundly before. Our guests have put a charm upon the house." From the embroidered work-bag that dangled at her side, she took out the thread lace she was making, and began to count her stitches. "I think I'll get my sewing, too," said Margaret. "I feel like a drone in this hive of industry." "One, two, three, chain," said Aunt Peace. "Iris, do you think the cakes are as good as they were last time?" "I think they're even better." "Did you take out the oldest port?" "Yes, the very oldest." "I trust he was not hurt," Aunt Peace went on, "because last week I asked him not to come. The common people sometimes feel those things more keenly than aristocrats, who are accustomed to the disturbance of guests." "Of course, he would be disappointed," said Iris, with a little smile, "but he would understand--I'm sure he would." When Margaret came back she had a white, fluffy garment over her arm. "Who would have thought," she cried, gaily, "that I should ever have the time to make myself a petticoat by hand! The atmosphere of East Lancaster has wrought a wondrous change in me." "Iris," said Miss Field, "let me see your stitches."