"They were in the north room," she said slowly. "In the big escritoire—that big, clumsy one—I've looked there before, but I never found them. I've been trying all day to make them out."
"What are they?" demanded the old woman.
"Papers, grandmamma," returned the girl absently; "letters and a sort of journal." Her eyes were on the closely written page.
"Read it," said the old woman sharply.
"I can't read it, grandmamma." She shook back the soft curls with a little sigh. "It's queer and old, and funny—some of the words. And the writing is blurred and yellow. Look." She held up the open sheet.
The keen old eyes darted at it. "Work on it," she said brusquely.
"I have, grandmamma."
"Well—what did ye find?"
"It's a man—Will—Willi"—she turned to the bottom of the last page—"Willibald! That's it." She laughed softly. "Willibald Pirkheimer. Who was he?" she asked.
"One of your ancestors." The old mouth waited grimly.