Alice's letters, and one or two from yourself. If Iris should
unhappily die before her twenty-first birthday, open these papers,
find out from them the owner's name and address, seek her out, and
tell her that she will never now be disturbed by any claimants to the
estate."

The letter ended here abruptly, as if the writer had designed to add
more, but was prevented by death.

For there was a postscript, in another hand, which stated: "Mr. Aglen
died November 25th, 1866, and is buried in the cemetery of Johnson
City, Ill."

The old man folded the letter carefully, and laid it on the table.
Then he rose and walked across the room to the safe, which stood with
open door in the corner furthest from the fireplace. Among its
contents was a packet sealed and tied up in red tape, endorsed: "For
Iris. To be given to her on her twenty-first birthday. From her
father."

"It will be her twenty-first birthday," he said, "in three weeks. Then
I must give her the packet. So--so--with the portrait of her father,
and his marriage-certificate." He fell into a fit of musing, with the
papers in his hand. "She will be safe, whatever happens to me; and as
for me, if I lose her--of course I shall lose her. Why, what will it
matter? Have I not lost all, except Iris? One must not be selfish. Oh,
Iris, what a surprise--what a surprise I have in store for you!"

He placed the letter he had been reading within the tape which
fastened the bundle, so that it should form a part of the