ver by any chance happening upon
the right note. As Dorothy said, when there are only eight tones in the
octave, it would seem that sometime, somewhere, a warbler must coincide
for a brief interval with the tune, but as Dick further commented,
industry and patience can do wonders when rightly exercised.

Uncle Israel's midnight excursion to the orchard had given him a fresh
attack of a familiar and distressing ailment to which he always alluded as
"the brown kittys." Fortunately, however, the cure for asthma and
bronchitis was contained in the same quart bottle, and needed only to be
heated in order to work upon both diseases simultaneously.

Elaine rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt-waist, and turned in her
collar, thereby producing an effect which Dick privately considered
distractingly pretty. Dorothy was enveloped from head to foot in a
voluminous blue gingham apron, and a dust cap, airily poised upon her
smooth brown hair, completed a most becoming costume. Dick, having duly
obtained permission, took off his coat and put on his hat, after which the
library force was ready for action.

"First," said Dorothy, "we'll take down all the books." It sounded simple,
but it took a good share of the day to do it, and the clouds of dust
disturbed by the process produced sneezes which put Uncle Israel's feeble
efforts to shame. When dusting the shelves, after they were empty, Elaine
came upon a panel in the wall which slid back.

"Here's a secret drawer!" she cried, in wild delight. "How perfectly
lovely! Do you suppose there's anything in it?"

Dorothy instantly thought of money and diamonds, but the concealed
treasure proved to be merely a book. It was a respectable volume, however,
at least as far as size was concerned, for Elaine and Dorothy together
could scarcely lift it.

It was a leather-bound ledger, of the most ponderous kind, and was
fastened with a lock and key. The key, of course, was missing, but Dick
soon pried open the fastening.

All but the last few pages in the book were covered with fine writing, in
ink which was brown and faded, but still legible. It was Uncle Ebeneezer's
penmanship throughout, except for a few entries at the beginning, in a
fine, flowing feminine hand, which Dorothy instantly knew was Aunt
Rebecca's.

"On the night of our wedding," the book began, "we begin this record of
our lives, for until to-day we have not truly lived." This was signed by
both. Then, in the woman's han