boxes upon the garret floor, first dragging the receptacles up where
the light from one or another of the windows would shine down on their
work.

CHAPTER XII

A CURIOUS OLD JOURNAL

"OH, here's a bundle of letters, ever and ever so old!" called Grace.
Hers was the first find of interest, "Wouldn't it be splendid if I had
unearthed an old romance?"

"Give them to Olive," suggested Bab. "We have no right to read them."

Grace promptly handed the packet to Olive, who turned them over
reflectively.

"The writers of these have been dead for many, many years. There can be
no harm in our reading the letters. However, let's defer that pleasure
until another time. Here, Tom, you might carry out those old clothes.
They are so moth-eaten that they are likely to fall apart before you can
get them outside." Tom reluctantly gathered up an armful and went
stamping down the garret stairs.

Old clothes, trinkets, some of them of value, recipes for cooking,
written on the fly leaves of books and on scraps of paper, a varied
assortment of everything, including early photographs of forgotten
persons, were discovered. Everything was assorted and placed in piles
for future disposal. The girls' faces and hands were covered with dust
long before they had gone through the contents of the first few trunks.

Nothing of unusual interest had been discovered after something more
than an hour's rummaging. Tom had made so many trips to the back yard
with rubbish that he was tired. Finally he rebelled, declaring that he
wouldn't tramp up and down those stairs again for the whole of
Treasureholme.

Ruth found a chest of books in very old bindings. She called Bab over.

"Here, dear. You are simply crazy over old books. Here are some that
will keep you busy for the rest of the morning."

Bab ran over, and with a little chuckle of delight dropped down on her
knees in front of the open chest. She lifted out the ancient bindings
almost reverently, ran the pages through her fingers, pausing here and
there to read a line or a page, or a faded notation in pencil, then
carefully piled the books by the side of the chest. She was so wholly
absorbed in the contents of the chest that she failed to hear the lively
chatter going on about her.

About half way down in the chest she found a thin, leather-covered
volume, showing indications of long usage and much thumbing. On the
front page she read, "Journal of T. W. P."

"Olive, who was 'T. W.