"One of mamma's?"
"Your father's."
"He must have been a nice man," said the girl slowly. "But some of it is rather—queer."
The old woman leaned forward with a quick gesture. She straightened herself. "Nonsense!" she muttered. "Read it," she said aloud.
"This is written to Albrecht Dürer," said the girl, studying it, "in Italy."
The old woman reached out a knotted hand. "Give it to me," she said.
The girl came across and laid it in her hand. The knotted fingers smoothed it. The old eyes were on the picture above the mantel. "Will it tell?" she muttered.
"There are others, grandmamma." The girl held up the packet in her hand.
"What have ye made out?" The old hand closed upon them.
"He was Dürer's friend," said the girl. "There are letters to him—five or six. And he tells about a picture—in the journal—a picture Albrecht Dürer gave to him." She glanced down at the wrinkled, working face. "It was unsigned, grandmamma—and it was the head of the Saviour."