“She—she gave me a paper for you. Will you have it, or shall I read it to you?”
“Read it,” answered Iris, dully.
“It is in the form of a letter. She wrote it one day, near the end of her illness, and gave it to me, to be opened after her death.”
In the midst of a profound silence, he took an envelope from his pocket and broke the seal.
“‘My Dear Doctor Brinkerhoff,’” he began, clearing his throat, “‘I feel that I am not going to get well, and so I have been thinking, as I lie here, and setting my house in order. I have told Iris, but for fear she may forget, I tell you. All the papers which concern her are in a tin box in a trunk in the attic. She will know where to find it.
“‘To her, as to an only daughter, go my little keepsakes—the emerald pin, my few pieces of real lace, my fan, and the silver buckles. She will understand the spirit of this bequest and will feel free to take what she likes.
“‘The house is for Margaret, and, after her, for Lynn, but it is to be a home for Iris, just as it has been, while she lives. Her income is to be paid regularly on the first of every month, during her lifetime, as is written in my will, which the lawyer has and which he will read at the proper time.
“‘Tell my little girl that, though I am dead, I love her still; that she has given me more than I could ever have given her, and that she must be my brave girl and not grieve. Tell her I want her to be happy.
“‘To you, I send my parting salutations. I have appreciated your friendship and your professional skill.
“‘With assurances of my deep personal esteem,