Presently Iris pushed aside a curtain, and found herself in an octagon
room nearly at the top of a somewhat high, but squarely built, tower.
This room, which was large and airy, was wainscoted with oak; there
was a thick Turkey carpet on the floor, and the many windows were
flung wide open, so that the summer breeze, coming in fresh and sweet
from this great height, made the whole lovely room as fresh and cheery
and full of sweet perfume as if its solitary inmate were really in the
open air.

Iris, however, had often been in the room before, and had no time or
thought now to give to its appearance. Her eyes darted to the sofa on
which her young mother lay. Mrs. Delaney was half-sitting up, and
looked almost too young to be the mother of a child as big as Iris.
She had one of the most beautiful faces God ever gave to anybody. It
was not so much that her features were perfect, but they were full of
light, full of soul, and such a very loving expression beamed in her
eyes that no man, woman, or child ever looked at her without feeling
the best in their natures coming immediately to the surface.

As to little Iris, her feelings for her mother were quite beyond any
words to express. She ran up to her now and knelt by her side.

"Kiss me, Iris," said Mrs. Delaney.

Iris put up her soft, rosebud lips; they met the equally soft lips of
the mother.

"You are much better, mummy; are you not?" said the child, in an
eager, half-passionate whisper.