"I am Miss Lucille Darrel."

People are usually cognizant of their own names, but few could throw more convincing certainty into the announcement than the speaker. One felt sure at once that her name was as she stated and had been so for a long time. The first adjective one would think of applying to Miss Darrel would be "positive." She was that by every implication of her being. Her hair was positively white, her eyes positively black. Her manner and expression were positive, and her very walk, as she stepped into the Pellbrook living room, was positive and unhesitating.

Iris chanced to be there alone, for the moment; alone, that is, save for the casket containing the body of Ursula Pell. The great room, set in order for the funeral, was filled with rows of folding chairs, and the oppressive odor of massed flowers permeated the place.

The girl stood beside the casket, tears rolling down her cheeks and her whole body shaking with suppressed sobs.

"Why, you poor child," said the newcomer, in most heartfelt sympathy; "Are you Iris?"

The acquiescent reply was lost, as Miss Darrel gathered the slim young figure into her embrace. "There, there," she soothed, "cry all you want to. Poor little girl." She gently smoothed Iris' hair, and together they stood, looking down at the quiet, white face.

"You loved her so," and Miss Darrel's tone was soft and kind.

"I did," Iris said, feeling at once that she had found a friend. "Oh, Miss Darrel, how kind you are! People think I didn't love Aunt Ursula, because—because we were both high-tempered, and we did quarrel. But, underneath, we were truly fond of each other, and if I seem cold and uncaring, it isn't the truth; it's because—because——"

"Never mind, dear, you may have many reasons to conceal your feelings. I know you loved her, I know you revere her memory, for I saw you as I entered, when you thought you were all alone——"

"I am alone, Miss Darrel—I am very lonely. I'm glad you have come, I've been wanting to see you. It's all so terrible—so mysterious; and—and they suspect me!"

Iris' dark eyes stared with fear into the kind ones that met hers, and again she began to tremble.

"Now, now, my child, don't talk like that. I'm here, and I'll look after you. Suspect you, indeed! What nonsense. But it's most inexplicable, isn't it? I know so little, only what I've read in the papers. I came from Albany last night; I started as soon as I possibly could, and traveled as fast as I could. I want to hear all about it, but not from you. You're worn out, you poor dear. You ought to be in bed this minute."

"Oh, no, Miss Darrel, I'm all right. Only—I've a lot on my mind, you see, and—and——" again Iris, with a glance of distress at the cold, dead face, burst into tumultuous weeping.

"Come out of this room," said Miss Darrel, positively. "It only shakes your nerves to stay here. Come, show me to my room. Where shall I lodge? This house is mine, now, or soon will be. You knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes," said Iris, listlessly. "I knew Aunt Ursula meant to leave it to you, but I don't know whether she did or not. And I don't care. I only care for one thing——"

But Miss Darrel was not listening. She was observing and admiring the house itself—the colonial staircase, the well-proportioned rooms and halls, and the attractive furnishings.

"I'll give you the rose guest room," Iris said, leading her toward it, as they reached the upper hall. "Winston Bannard is here, but no other visitors. If there are other heirs, I suppose Mr. Chapin has notified them."

"I suppose so," returned Miss Darrel, preoccupiedly. "When will the services be held?"

"This afternoon at two. It will be a large funeral. Everybody in Berrien knew Aunt Ursula, and people will come up from New York. Now, have you everything you want to make you comfortable in here?"

"Yes, thank you," replied Miss Darrel, after a quick, comprehensive glance round the room, "and, wait a moment, Iris—mayn't I call you Iris?"

"Yes, indeed, I'm glad to have you."

"I only want to say that I want to be your friend. Please let me and come to me freely for comfort or advice or anything I can do to help you."

"Thank you, Miss Darrel, I am indeed glad to have a friend, for I am lonely and frightened. But I can't say more now, someone is calling me."

Iris ran downstairs and found Winston Bannard eagerly asking for her.

"I've unearthed Aunt Ursula's diary!" he exclaimed.

"Was it hidden?"

"Not exactly, but old Hughes wouldn't let me rummage around in the desk much, so I took a chance when he was out of the way, and it was in an upper drawer. Come on, let's go and read it."

"Why? Now?"

"Yes. Look here, Iris, you want to trust me in this thing. You want to let me take care of you."

"Thank you, Win—I'm glad to have you——" but Iris spoke constrainedly, "By the way, Miss Darrel is here."

"Who's she? Oh, that cousin of Aunt Ursula's?"

"Not really her cousin, but a relative of Mr. Pell's. I never knew her, did you?"

"No; what's she like?"

"Oh, she's lovely. Kind and capable, but rather dictatorial, or, at least, decided."

"Does she get the house?"

"She says so. And I know Auntie spoke of leaving it to her, because, I believe, Mr. Pell had wished it."

"What about the jewels, Iris?"

"Oh, Win, I wish you wouldn't talk or think about those things, till after——"

"After the funeral? I know it seems strange—I know I seem mercenary, and all that, but it isn't so, Iris. There's something wrong going on, and unless we are careful and alert, we'll lose our inheritance yet."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. But come with me and let's take a glimpse into the diary. I tell you we ought to do it. It may mean everything."

Iris followed him to a small enclosed porch off the dining room and they put their heads together over the book.

It was funny, for Ursula Pell couldn't help being funny.

One entry read:

"Felt like the old scratch to-day, so took it out on Iris. Poor girl, I am ashamed of myself to tease her so, but she's such a good-natured little ninny, she stands it as few girls would. I must make it up to her in some way."

And another read at random:

"Up a stump to-day for some mischief to get into. Satan doesn't look out properly for my idle hands. I manicured them carefully, and sat waiting for some real nice mischief to come along, but none did, so I hunted up some for myself. It's Agnes' night out, and I stuffed the kitchen door keyhole with putty. Won't she be mad! She'll have to ring Polly up, and she'll be mad, too. I'll give Agnes my black lace parasol, to make up. What a scamp I am! I feel like little Toddie, in 'Helen's Babies,' who used to pray, 'Dee Lord, not make me sho bad!' Well, I s'pose 'tis my nature to."

"These are late dates," said Bannard, running over the leaves, "let's look further back."

It was not a yearly diary, but a goodsized blank book, in which the writer had jotted down her notes as she felt inclined; something was written every day, but it might be a short paragraph or several pages in length.

"Here's something about us," and Bannard pointed to a page:

The entry ran:

"To-day I gave the box for Iris into Mr. Chapin's keeping. I shall never see it again. After I am gone, he will give it to I. and she can have it for what it is worth. I'll leave the F. pocket-book to Winston. The house must go to Lucille, but the young people won't mind that, as they will have enough."

"That's all right, isn't it, Iris. Looks as if we were the principal heirs."

"You can't tell, Win. She may have changed her mind a dozen times."

"That's so. Let's see if there's anything about Mr. Bowen and his chalice."

"Oh, she only thought of that last Sunday."

"Don't be too sure. I shouldn't be surprised if the old chap got round her long ago, and had the matter all fixed up, and she pretended it was a new idea."

"I can't think that."

"You can't, eh? Well, listen here:

"'Sometimes I think it would be a good deed to use half of the jewels for a gift to the church. If I should take the whole Anderson lot, there would be plenty left for W. and I.'"

"What is the Anderson lot?" Iris asked.

"A certain purchase that the old man got through a dealer or an agent, named Anderson. Aunt Ursula used to talk over these things with me and, all of a sudden she shut up on the subject and never mentioned jewels to me again."

"She talked of them to me, sometimes, but never anything of definite importance. She spoke of the Baltimore emeralds, but I know nothing of them."

"They're mentioned here; see:

"'The Balto. emeralds will make a wonderful necklace for I. when she gets older. I hope I may live long enough to see the child decked out in them. I believe I'll tell her the jewels are all in the crypt.'"

"In the crypt! Oh, Win, you know Mr. Browne said he thought they were buried! Isn't a crypt a burial place in a church?"

"Yes; but a crypt may be anywhere. Any vault is a crypt, really."

"But a bank vault wouldn't be called a crypt, would it?"

"Not generally speaking, no. But, she probably changed the hiding place a dozen times since this was written."

"Well, we'll know all when we hear the will. Isn't it a queer thing to put all of one's fortune in jewels?"

"She didn't do it, her husband did. And everybody says he was a shrewd old chap. And, you know he made wonderful collections of coins and curios, and all sorts of things."

"Yes, up in the attic is a big portfolio of steel engravings. I can't admire them much, but they're valuable, Auntie said once. It seems Uncle Pell was a perfect crank on engravings of all sorts."

"I know. She gave me an intaglio topaz for a watch-fob. I didn't care much about it."

"I'm crazy to see my diamond pin. I've heard about that for years. No matter how often she changed her will, she told me, that diamond pin was always bequeathed to me. Perhaps it's her choicest gem."

"Perhaps. Listen to this, Iris:

"'I am going to New York next Tues. I shall give Winston a cheap-looking pair of gloves, but I shall first put a hundred-dollar bill in each finger.'

"She did that, you know, and I was so mad when she gave them to me I was within an ace of throwing them away. But I caught sight of a bulge in the thumb, and I just thought, in time, there might be some joke on. Didn't she beat the dickens?"

"She did. Oh, Win, you don't know how she humiliated and hurt me! But I'm sorry, now, that I wasn't more patient."

"You were, Iris! Here's proof!

"'I put a wee little toad in Iris' handbag to-day. We were going to the village, and when she opened the bag, Mr. Toad jumped out! Iris loathes toads, but I must say she took it beautifully. I bought her a muff and stole of Hud. seal to make up.'"

"Poor auntie," said Iris, as the tears came, "she always wanted to 'make up!' I believe she couldn't help those silly tricks, Win. It was a sort of mania with her."

"Pshaw! She could have helped it if she'd wanted to. Somebody's coming, put the book away now."

The somebody proved to be Miss Darrel, who, when Bannard was presented, gave him a cordial smile, and proceeded to make friendly advances at once.

"We three are the only relatives present," she said, "and we must sympathize with and help one another."

"You can help me," said Iris, who was irresistibly drawn to the strong, efficient personality, "but I fear I can't help you. Though I am more than willing."

"It is a pleasure just to look at you, my dear, you are so sweet and unspoiled."

Bannard gave Miss Darrel a quick glance. Her speech, to him, savored of sycophancy.

But not to Iris. She slipped her hand into that of her new friend, and gave her a smile of glad affection.

Luncheon was announced and after that came the solemn observances of the funeral.

As Miss Darrel had said, the three were the only relatives present. Ursula Pell had other kin, but none were nearby enough to attend the funeral. Of casual friends there were plenty, and of neighbors and villagers enough to fill the house, and more too.

Iris heard nothing of the services. Entirely unnerved, she lay on the bed in her own room, and sobbed, almost hysterically.

Agnes brought sal volatile and aromatic ammonia, but the sight of the maid roused Iris' excitement to a higher pitch, and finally Miss Darrel took complete charge of the nervous girl.

"I'm ashamed of myself," Iris said, when at last she grew calmer, "but I can't help it. There's a curse on the house—on the place—on the family! Miss Darrel, save me—save me from what is about to befall!"

"Yes, dear, yes; rest quietly, no harm shall come to you. The shock has completely upset you. You've borne up so bravely, and now the reaction has come and you're feverish and ill. Take this, my child, and try to rest quietly."

Iris took the soothing draught, and fell, for a few moments, into a troubled slumber. But almost immediately she roused herself and sat bolt upright.

"I didn't kill her!" she said, her large dark eyes burning into Miss Darrel's own.

"No, no, dear, you didn't kill her. Never mind that now. We'll find it all out in good time."

"I don't want it found out! It must not be found out! Won't you take away that detective man? He knows too much—oh, yes, he knows too much!"

"Hush, dear, please don't make any disturbance now. They're taking your aunt away."

"Are they?" and suddenly Iris calmed herself, and stood up, quite still and composed. "Let me see," she said; "no, I don't want to go down. I want to look out of the windows."

Kneeling at the front window of Miss Darrel's room, in utter silence, Iris watched the bearers take the casket out of the door.

"Poor Aunt Ursula," she whispered softly, "I did love you. I'm sorry I didn't show it more. I wish I had been less impatient. But I will avenge your death. I didn't think I could, but I must—I know I must, and I will do it. I promise you, Aunt Ursula—I vow it!"

"Who killed her?" Miss Darrel spoke softly, and in an awed tone.

"I can't tell you. But I—I am the avenger!"

It was an hour or more later when the group gathered in the living room, listened to the reading of Ursula Pell's last will and testament.

Mr. Bowen's round face was solemn and sad. Mrs. Bowen was pale with weeping.

Miss Darrel kept a watchful eye on Iris, but the girl was quite her normal self. Winston Bannard was composed and somewhat stern looking, and the servants huddled in the doorway waiting their word.

As might have been expected from the eccentric old lady, the will was long and couched in a mass of unnecessary verbiage. But it was duly drawn and witnessed and its decrees were altogether valid.

As was anticipated, the house and estate of Pellbrook were bequeathed to Miss Lucille Darrel.

The positive nod of that lady's head expressed her satisfaction, and Mr. Chapin proceeded.

Followed a few legacies of money or valuables to several more distant relatives and friends, and then came the list of servants.

A beautiful set of cameos was given to Agnes; a collection of rare coins to the Purdys; and a wonderful gold watch with a jeweled fob to Campbell.

A clause of the will directed that, "if any of the legatees prefer cash to sentiment, they are entirely at liberty to sell their gifts, and it is recommended that Mr. Browne will make for them the most desirable agent.

"The greater part of my earthly possessions," the will continued, "is in the form of precious stones. These gems are safely put away, and their whereabouts will doubtless be disclosed in due time. The entire collection is together, in one place, and it is to be shared alike by my two nearest and dearest of kin, Iris Clyde and Winston Bannard. And I trust that, in the possession and enjoyment of this wealth, they will forgive and forget any silly tricks their foolish old aunt may have played upon them.

"Also, I give and bequeath to my niece, Iris Clyde, the box tied with a blue silk thread, now in the possession of Charles Chapin. This box contains the special legacy which I have frequently told her should be hers.

"Also, I give and bequeath to my husband's nephew, Winston Bannard, the Florentine pocket-book, which is in the upper right-hand compartment of the desk in my sitting room, and which contains a receipt from Craig, Marsden & Co., of Chicago. This receipt he will find of interest."

"That pocket-book!" cried Bannard. "Why, that's the one the thief emptied!"

Everyone looked up aghast. The empty pocket-book, found flung on the floor of the ransacked room, was certainly of Florentine illuminated leather. But whether it was the one meant in the will, who knew?

After concluding the reading of the will, Mr. Chapin handed to Iris the box that had been intrusted to his care. It was very carefully sealed and tied with a blue silk thread.

Slowly, almost reverently, Iris broke the seals and opened the box. From it she took the covering bit of crumpled white tissue paper, and found beneath it a silver ten-cent piece and a common pin.

"A dime and pin!" cried Bannard instantly; "one of Aunt Ursula's jokes! Well, if that isn't the limit!"

Iris was white with indignation. "I might have known," she said, "I might have known!"

With an angry gesture she threw the dime far out of the window, and cast the pin away, letting it fall where it would.