“Too bad; for it really is dreadfully unlucky to have such a thing happen!” sighed Rosemary, with less tact.

“I know it,” murmured May.

“Yes, indeed,” added Anna.

Miss Graham drew back astonished.  “Young ladies, I am ashamed of you!” she said, reproachfully, and went out of the room.

There were a few moments of discomfiture, and presently the girls concluded, one after another, that it was time to be going home.

Left alone, Emily approached the secretary and examined the ruined mirror.  It was cracked like an egg-shell,—­“smashed to smithereens,” Tom said in telling the story later; but only one or two bits had fallen out.  Idly attempting to fit these into place again, Emily caught sight of what she supposed was a sheet of note-paper, that had apparently made its way in between the back of the mirror and the frame.

“An old letter of grandpa’s, probably,” she said aloud, taking hold of the corner to draw it out.  It stuck fast; but a second effort released it, amid a shower of splintered glass; and to her amazement she found in her possession a time-stained document that had a mysteriously legal air.  Trembling with excitement she unfolded it, and, without stopping to think that it might not be for her eyes, began to read the queer writing, which was somewhat difficult to decipher: 

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.  Amen.  I, Bernard Mahon, being of sound and disposing mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.”

“Uncle Bernard’s will!” gasped Emily.  “It must be the one father always said uncle told him about, but which never could be found.  Perhaps he slipped it in here for safe-keeping.”  Eagerly she scanned it, crying at last, “Yes, yes!  Hurrah!  O Cousin Irene!” she called out, hearing the latter’s step in the hall.

When Miss Graham entered Emily was waltzing around the room, waving the document ecstatically.  “See what I’ve found!” she cried, darting toward her with an impulsive caress.

Cousin Irene took the paper, and, as she perused it, became, though in a less demonstrative fashion, as agitated as Emily.  “Your father!” she stammered.

Mr. Mahon had come into the house and was now in the little study, which he called his den.  Cousin Irene and Emily almost flew thither, and a few minutes later his voice, with a glad ring in it, was heard calling first his wife and then the children to tell them the joyful news.

The will so long sought, so strangely brought to light, made a great change in the family fortunes.  By it Bryan, the old man’s son, who was unmarried and dissipated, was entitled to merely a certain income and life-interest in the estate, which upon his demise was to go to the testator’s nephew William (Mr. Mahon) and Cousin Irene.  In fact, however, at his father’s death, Bryan, as no will was discovered, had entered into full possession of the property; and when within a year his own career was suddenly cut short, it was learned that he had bequeathed nothing to his relatives but a few family heirlooms.