Some "friend of the family," high in its confidence, assumes the responsibility at such times. Chance callers are rewarded with grisly details and grewsome descriptions of the soul struggling to free itself from its bonds. We are told how the others "took it," when at last the sail was spread for the voyage over the uncharted sea. In the hall, straight as a soldier under orders, stood Doctor Brinkerhoff. "No, madam," he would say, "there is nothing you can do. The arrangements are made. I will tell Mrs. Irving and Miss Temple that you called. Yes, we were expecting it. She died peacefully; there was no pain. To-morrow at four." And then again: "Thank you, there is nothing you can do, but it is kind of you to offer. The ladies will be grateful for your sympathy. Who shall I say called?" "Iris," pleaded Margaret, "come away." The girl started. "I can't," she answered, dully. "You must come, dear--come into my room." Unwillingly, Iris suffered herself to be led away. It is only the surface emotion which is relieved by tears. Within the prison-house of the soul, when Grief, clad in grey garments, enters silently and prepares to remain, there is no weeping. One hides it, as the Spartan covered the bleeding wound in his breast. "Dear," said Margaret, "my heart aches for you." "She was all I had," whispered Iris. "But not all you have. Lynn and I, and Doctor Brinkerhoff--surely we are something." "Did you ever care?" asked Iris, her despairing eyes fixed upon Margaret. The older woman shrank from the question. She was tempted to dissemble, but one tells the truth in the presence of Death. "Not as you care," she answered. "My mother broke my heart. She took me away from the man I loved, and forced me to marry another, whom I only respected. When my husband died, I had my freedom, but it came too late. When my mother died--she died unforgiven." "Then you don't understand." "Yes, dear, I understand. You must remember that I loved her too." "Suppose it had been Lynn?" "Lynn!" cried Margaret, with her lips white. "Lynn! Dear God, no!" Iris laughed hysterically. "You do not understand," she said, with forced calmness, "but you would if it were Lynn. You would not let me keep you away if it were Lynn instead of Aunt Peace, so please do not disturb me again." Back she went, into the darkened chamber, and closed the door. Lynn walked back and forth through the halls aimlessly. All along, he had felt the repulsion of the healthy young animal for the aged and ill. Now he was unmoved, save by the dank, sweet smell of the house of death. It grated on his sensibilities and made him shudder. He wished that it was over. From his mother, he felt a curious alienation. Her eyes were red, and, man-like, Lynn hated tears. From Doctor Brinkerhoff, too, a gulf divided him.