ot mind an' I writ my
thoughts down of the last page, when it was finished."

"But who shall read it?" said I.

"There spake _Nell_!" quoth _Milly_. "`Who shall read it?' Why, all
the world, for sure, from the Queen's Majesty down to Cat and Kitling."

These be our two serving-maids, _Kate_ and _Caitlin_, which _Milly_ doth
affect dearly to call Cat and Kitling. And truly the names come pat,
the rather that _Kate_ is tall and big, and fair of complexion, she
being _Westmoreland_ born; while _Caitlin_, which is _Cumberland_ born,
is little and wiry, and of dark complexion. "The Queen's Majesty shall
have other fish to fry, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "And so shall
_Kate_ and _Caitlin_,--if they could read."

"But who is to make a beginning of this mighty chronicle?" saith
_Edith_. "Some other than I, as I do trust, for I would never know what
to set down first."

"Let _Nell_ begin, then, as she is eldest of the three," quoth Aunt
_Joyce_.

So here am I, making this same beginning of the family chronicle. For
when _Father_ and _Mother_ heard thereof, both laughed at the first, and
afterward grew sad. Then saith _Mother_--

"Methinks, dear hearts, it shall be well for you,--at the least, an' ye
keep it truly. Let each set down what verily she doth think."

"And not what she reckons she ought to think," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Then, _Father_, will it please you give us some pens and paper?" said
I. "For I see not how, elsewise, we shall write a chronicle."

"That speech is right, _Nell_!" puts in _Milly_.

"Why, if we dwelt on the banks of the _Nile_, in _Egypt_," saith
_Father_, "reeds and bulrushes should serve your turn: or, were ye old
_Romans_, a waxen tablet and iron stylus. But for _English_ maidens
dwelling by Lake _Derwentwater_, I count paper and pens shall be
wanted--and ink too, belike. Thou shalt have thy need supplied,
_Nell_!"

And as this morning, when he came into the parlour where we sat
a-sewing, what should _Father_ set down afore me, in the stead of the
sheets of rough paper I looked to see, but this beautiful book, all full
of fair blank paper ready to be writ in,--and an whole bundle of pens,
with a great inkhorn. _Milly_ fell a-laughing.

"Oh dear, dear!" saith she. "Be we three to write up all those?
Verily, _Father_, under your good pleasure, but methinks you should pen
a good half of this chronicle yourself."

"Nay, not so much as one line," saith he, "saving those