on lot, the
universal leveller, and soon or late it comes to us all. It remains to
make our spiritual adjustment accord with the inevitable fact. There is
so little that we can change, that it behooves us to confine our efforts
to ourselves."

"Life," replied Lynn "is the pitch of the orchestra, and we are the
instruments."

Doctor Brinkerhoff nodded. "Very true. The discord and the broken string
of the individual instrument do not affect the whole, except as false
notes, but I think that God, knowing all things, must discern the
symphony, glorious with meaning, through the discordant fragments that
we play."

So the talk went on, Lynn taking the burden of it and endeavouring
always to make it cheerful. Margaret understood and loved him for it,
but she, too, was sad. Iris sat like a stone, waiting, counting off the
leaden hours as something to be endured, and blindly believing that rest
would come.

"Everything," said Margaret, after a long silence, "was as beautiful as
it could be."

Doctor Brinkerhoff understood at once. "Yes," he sighed, "and I am glad.
I think it was as she would have wished it to be, and I am sure she was
pleased because I shielded her from the gaze of the curious at the end."
His face worked as he said it, but he took a pitiful pride in what he
had done. Day by day he hugged this last service closer, because it was
done through his own thought and his own understanding, and would have
pleased her if she had known.

"Yes," returned Margaret, kindly, "it was very thoughtful of you. It
would never have occurred to me, and I know she would have been
grateful."

"Miss Iris?" said the Doctor, inquiringly.

The girl turned. "Yes?"

"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 l