"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."