ust be that of
Harry Whitcomb. The face was neither especially fine nor strong, but the
winsome smile lurking about the curves of the sensitive mouth and in the
depths of the frank blue eyes rendered it attractive, and it was with a
sigh for the young life so suddenly blotted out that Darrell turned to
enter the second room.

He paused at the doorway, feeling decidedly out of place, and glanced
about him with a serio-comic smile. The furnishings were as unique as
possible, no one piece in the room bearing any relation or similarity to
any other piece. There were chairs and tables of wicker-work, twisted
into the most ornate designs, interspersed among heavy, antique pieces
of carving and slender specimens of colonial simplicity; divans covered
with pillows of every delicate shade imaginable; exquisite etchings and
dainty bric-a-brac. In an alcove formed by a large bay-window stood a
writing-desk of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and on an easel in a
secluded corner, partially concealed by silken draperies, was the
portrait of Kate Underwood,--a childish, rather immature face, but with
a mouth indicating both sweetness and strength of character, and with
dark, strangely appealing eyes.

The walls of both rooms were lined with bookcases, but their contents
were widely diverse, and, to Darrell's surprise, he found the young
girl's library contained far the better class of books. But even in
their selection he observed the same peculiarity that he had noted in
the furnishing of the room; there were few complete sets of books;
instead, there were one, two, or three volumes of each author, as the
case might be, evidently her especial favorites.

But Darrell returned to the other room, which interested him far more,
each article in it bearing eloquent testimony to the happy young life
of whose tragic end he had now often heard, but of which he was unable
to recall the faintest memory. Passing slowly through the room, his
attention was caught by a violin case standing in an out-of-the-way
corner. With a cry of joy he drew it forth, his fingers trembling with
eagerness as he opened it and took therefrom a genuine Stradivarius. At
that moment his happiness knew no bounds. Seating himself and bending
his head over the instrument after the manner of a true violin lover, he
drew the bow gently across the strings, producing a chord of such
triumphant sweetness that the air seemed vibrating with the joy which at
that instant th