"Yes," answered the Master, "she was tired. Otherwise, she would have been allowed to stay. You have not been thinking of her, but of yourself." "Perhaps I have," she admitted. "If you go away," he went on, "it is better that you should study. You have one fine voice, and with sorrow in your heart, you can make much from it. Those who have been made great have first suffered." Iris turned upon him. "You mean that?" she asked, sharply. "Of course," he returned, serenely. "Before you can help those who have suffered, you must suffer yourself. It is so written." Iris sighed heavily. "I must go," she said, dully. "Not yet. Wait." He went to his bedroom, and came back with a violin case. He opened it carefully; unwrapped the many thicknesses of silk, and took out the Cremona. "See," he said, with his face aglow, "is it not most beautiful? When you are sad, you can remember that you have seen mine Cremona." "Thank you," returned Iris, her voice strangely mingled with both laughter and tears, "I will remember." When she went home, the Master looked after her for a moment or two, then turned away from the window to wipe his eyes. He was drawn by temperament to all who sorrowed, and he had loved Iris for years. That night, she sat alone in the library, sheltered by the darkness. Margaret was reading in her own room, and Lynn was out. More clearly than ever, Iris saw that she must go away. She had no definite plan, but Herr Kaufmann's suggestion seemed a good one. When Lynn came in, he lit the candles in the parlour. Iris hoped he would go upstairs without coming into the library, but he did not. She shrank back into her chair, trusting that he would not see her, but with unerring instinct he went straight to her. "Sweetheart," he whispered, "are you here?" "I'm here," said Iris, frostily, "but that isn't my name." The timid little voice thrilled him with a great tenderness, and he quickly possessed himself of her hand. "Iris, darling," he went on, "why do you avoid me? I have been miserable ever since I told you I wrote the letters." "It was wrong to write them," she said. "Why, dear?" "Because." "Didn't you like them?" "No." "I didn't think you were displeased." He was too chivalrous to remind her of that moonlight night. "It was very wrong," she repeated, stubbornly. "Then forgive me." "It's nothing to me," she returned, unmoved. "I hoped it would be," said Lynn, gently. "Every time, I walked over to the next town to mail them. I knew you hadn't seen any of my writing, and I was sure you wouldn't suspect me." "Nice advantage to take of a girl, wasn't it?" demanded Iris, her temper rising.