ay, and above all, what an
"Oh, you dear, dear, dear Uncle George!" from Dorry, as she and Donald,
standing by Mr. Reed's side, heard the last sleigh jingle-jingle from
the door.

* * * * *

And then the twins went straight to bed, slept sweetly, and dreamed
till morning of the house-picnic? Not so. Do you think the D's could
settle down so quietly as that? True, Uncle George soon went to his
room. Liddy and Jack hied their respective ways, after "ridding up," as
she expressed it, and fastening the windows. Norah and Kassy trudged
sleepily to bed; the musicians and colored waiters were comfortably put
away for the night. But Donald and Dorothy, wide awake as two robins,
were holding a whispered but animated conversation in Dorry's room.

"Wasn't it a wonderful success, Don?"

"Never saw anything like it," said Donald. "Every one was delighted;
Uncle's a perfect prince. He was the life of everything too. But what is
it? What did you want to show me?"

"I don't know, myself, yet," she answered. "It fell out of an old trunk
that we've never looked into or even seen before; at least, I haven't.
Some of the boys dragged the trunk out from away back under the farthest
roof-end of the garret. It upset and opened. Robby Cutler picked up the
things and tumbled them in again in a hurry; but I saw the end of a
parcel and pulled it out, and ran down here to see what it was. But my
room was full of girls (it was when nearly all of you boys were out in
the barn, you know), and so I just threw it into that drawer. Somehow, I
felt nervous about looking at it alone."

"Fetch it out," said Donald.

She did so. They opened the parcel together. It contained only two or
three old copy-books.

"They're Uncle George's when he was a little boy," exclaimed Dorry, in a
tone of interest, as she leaned over Donald, but with a shade of
disappointment in her tone; for what is an old copy-book?

"It's not copy-writing at all," said Don, peering into the first one,
"why, it's a diary!" and turning to look at the cover again, he read,
"'Kate Reed.' Why, it's Aunt Kate's!"

"Aunt Kate's diary? Oh, Don, it can't be!" cried Dorry, as, pale with
excitement, she attempted to take it from her brother's hands.

"No, Dorry," he said, firmly; "we must tie it up again. Diaries are
private; we must speak to Uncle about it before we read a word."

"So we must, I suppose," assented Dorry, reluctantly. "But I can't sleep