ther children, for, despite Whinnie's autobiographical
interjections, the yarn is an old and venerable one, a primitive
Russian folk-tale which even Browning worked over in his _Ivan
Ivanovitch_.

Dinky-Dunk, wandering in on the tail end of it, remarked: "That's a
fine story, that is, with all those coyotes singing out there!"

"The chief objection to it," I added, "is that the lady didn't drop
her husband over first."

Dinky-Dunk looked down at me as he filled his pipe.

"But the husband, as I remember the story, had been left behind to do
what a mere husband could to save their home," my spouse quietly
reminded me.

_Monday the Tenth_

There was a heavy frost last night. It makes me feel that summer is
over. Dinky-Dunk asked me yesterday why I disliked Casa Grande and
never ventured over into that neighborhood. I evaded any answer by
announcing that there were very few things I liked nowadays....

Only once, lately, have we spoken of Lady Allie. It was Dinky-Dunk, in
fact, who first brought up her name in speaking of the signing of the
transfer-papers.

"Is it true," I found the courage to ask, "that you knew your cousin
quite intimately as a girl?"

Dinky-Dunk laughed as he tamped down his pipe.

"Yes, it _must_ have been quite intimately," he acknowledged. "For
when she was seven and I was nine we went all the way down Teignmouth
Hill together in an empty apple-barrel--than which nothing that I know
of could possibly be more intimate!"

I couldn't join him in his mirth over that incident, for I happened to
remember the look on Lady Alicia's face when she once watched
Dinky-Dunk mount his mustang and ride away. "Aren't men lawds of
creation?" she had dreamily inquired. "Not after you've lived with
them for a couple of years," I had been heartless enough to retort,
just to let her know that I didn't happen to have a skin like a
Douglas pine.

_Sunday the Sixteenth_

I've just had a letter from Uncle Carlton. It's a very long and
businesslike letter, in which he goes into details as to how our
company has been incorporated in _La Association de Productores de
Salitre de Chile_, with headquarters at Valparaiso. It's a new and
rather unexpected arrangement, but he prophesies that with nitrate at
ten shillings per Spanish quintal the returns on the investment, under
the newer conditions, should be quite satisfactory. He goes on to
explain