"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.