They are pathetic, these tiny treasure-houses of Memory, where oftentimes the jewel, so jealously guarded, by the clear light of introspection is seen to be only paste. One seizes hungrily at the impulse that caused the hiding, thinking that there must be some certain worth behind the deception. But afterward, painfully sure, one locks the door of the treasure-chamber in self-pity, and steals away, as from a casket that enshrines the dead. They talked of other things, and at half-past ten the Doctor went home, leaving a farewell message for Lynn, and begging that his kind remembrances be sent to Iris, when she should write. "Thank you," said Mrs. Irving. "I shall surely tell her, and she will be glad." The door closed, and almost immediately Lynn came in from the library, rubbing his eyes. "I think I've been asleep," he said. "It was rude, dear," returned Margaret, in gentle rebuke. "It is ill-bred to leave a guest." "I suppose it is, but I did not intend to be gone so long." The house seemed singularly desolate, filled, as it was, with ghostly shadows. Through the rooms moved the memory of Iris, and of that gentle mistress who slept in the churchyard, who had permeated every nook and corner of it with the sweetness of her personality. There was something in the air, as though music had just ceased--the wraith of long-gone laughter, the fall of long-shed tears. "I miss Iris," said Margaret, dreamily. "She was like a daughter to me." Taken off his guard, Lynn's conscious face instantly betrayed him. "Lynn," said Margaret, suddenly, "did you have anything to do with her going away?" The answer was scarcely audible. "Yes." Margaret never forced a confidence, but after a pause she said very gently: "Dear, is there anything you want to tell me?" "It's nothing," said Lynn, roughly. He rose and walked around the room nervously. "It's nothing," he repeated, with assumed carelessness. "I--I asked her to marry me, and she wouldn't. That's all. It's nothing." Margaret's first impulse was to smile. This child, to be talking of marriage--then her heart leaped, for Lynn was twenty-three; older than she had been when the star rose upon her horizon and then set forever. Then came a momentary awkwardness. Childish though the trouble was, she pitied Lynn, and regretted that she could not shield him from it as she had shielded him from all else in his life. Then resentment against Iris. What was she, a nameless outcast, to scorn the offered distinction? Any woman in the world might be proud to become Lynn's wife. Then, smiling at her own folly, Margaret went to him, dominated solely by gratitude. Not knowing what else to do, she drew his tall head down to kiss him, but Lynn swerved aside, and with his face against the softness of his mother's hair, wiped away a boyish tear. "Lynn," she said, tenderly, "you are very young." "How old were you when you married, mother?" "Twenty-one." "How old was father?" "Twenty-three."