mother and some by her father, as Viola knew from seeing them. She
ecalled some very well - especially one taken on the back of a little
Shetland pony. On the reverse of this picture Mr. Carwell had written:
"My dear little girl!"

Viola burst into tears, and her aunt, seeing the cause, felt the strings
of her heart being tugged.

"Well, one thing seems to be proved," said the older woman, when they
were again going over the papers, sorting out some to be shown to the
lawyer who was advising them on the conduct of the estate, "and that is
that your father didn't think very much of Harry Bartlett."

"That was his fault - I mean father's," retorted Viola. "He had no
reason for it, even with what this paper says. I don't believe Harry
would do such a thing."

"Do you suppose the quarrel could have been about this?" and Miss
Carwell held out the journal.

"I don't know what to think," said Viola. "But here is another
memorandum. We must see what this is."

Together they bent over the remaining documents the safe had given
up - secrets of the dead.

As they read a strange look came over Viola's face.

Miss Carwell, perusing a document, recited: