P.'?"

"'T. W. P.'? Why that's Tom's initials. Wait! Did you find that in one
of those old books?"

Bab nodded.

"Then it must refer to Thomas Warrington Presby. He is the gentleman who
is supposed to have been scalped by the Indians, the man who buried the
treasure that we have had all the fuss and excitement about. What is the
book?"

"It is his journal. His diary, I think we would call it. May I read it?"

"Of course. I hope you may find something interesting in it."

The reading of the diary was not easy. The ink was faded and the writing
was so peculiar that Bab deciphered it with some difficulty. Bab curled
up on a pile of old clothes under a window and buried her nose in the
old diary. She found it fascinating to read the diary of the man who
actually buried the treasure that had made the name of Treasureholme
well known in all that part of the country.

The entries in the diary dealt with the routine affairs of the life of
the owner. Then there were other and more absorbing passages. One that
made the girl's pulses quicken was the following:

"Rumors of Indian troubles are afloat. Jake was wounded by an arrow
to-day, shot from somewhere in the forest back of the house. But no
Indians were seen. We shall soon have to seek safety in the fort, I
fear. What to do with my worldly goods when we go is the question that
is troubling me now."

"Oh!" breathed Barbara.

"Does it blow hot or cold?" questioned Olive.

"It seems to be getting warm," replied Bab. "He is talking about the
treasure."

"What?" The girls were on their feet in an instant. Barbara read the
entry to them.

"Oh, fiddle!" sniffed Mollie. "That doesn't amount to anything. Don't
arouse my curiosity again unless you have something worth while."

Barbara considered that she had found something worth while, but she
made no comment on Mollie's remark. Instead, the girl returned to her
perusal of the old diary, reading each page carefully, not knowing when
a word or a sentence might give a clue to the mystery all were seeking
to solve. The girls went on with their rummaging and their lively
chatter. Tom had gone to sleep on a heap of bed spreads that were yellow
with age. The ghosts of the past did not trouble this healthy young
country boy. Mollie crouched down beside him, gently tickling his ear
with a feather that she had found in a trunk. Mollie nearly exploded
with merriment to see Tommy fight an imaginary fly in his sleep. The
other g