"I would not weep over poor Iris, Mrs. Bordine."
"Iris?"
"Yes. I feel, and so does August, that the girl is better off--"
"What are you talking about? Who is Iris?"
It was Rose Alstine's turn to stare.
"I am aware that you have tried faithfully to keep the secret, Mrs.
Bordine, but August told me all about it last night. He thought it was
better that I should know."
The widow rubbed her eyes and still stared at the girl in complete
bewilderment.
"I'm sure I never heard of Iris, and I don't know what you mean."
"I speak of your poor daughter--"
"Daughter! My daughter?"
"Yes."
"Goodness alive! child, I never had but one daughter, and she died in
infancy. That was nigh about thirty years ago. Her name was Mary."
Rose regarded the mother with a puzzled expression.
"Then you have no crazed daughter--"
"Never. What put such an idea into your head, child?"
It was August, but Rose had no time to explain, for at that moment a
shadow fell athwart the grass, and both looked up to see a man standing
before them with a hat down low over his eyes.
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