"Felt like the old scratch to-day, so took it out on Iris. Poor girl, I am ashamed of myself to tease her so, but she's such a good-natured little ninny, she stands it as few girls would. I must make it up to her in some way."
And another read at random:
"Up a stump to-day for some mischief to get into. Satan doesn't look out properly for my idle hands. I manicured them carefully, and sat waiting for some real nice mischief to come along, but none did, so I hunted up some for myself. It's Agnes' night out, and I stuffed the kitchen door keyhole with putty. Won't she be mad! She'll have to ring Polly up, and she'll be mad, too. I'll give Agnes my black lace parasol, to make up. What a scamp I am! I feel like little Toddie, in 'Helen's Babies,' who used to pray, 'Dee Lord, not make me sho bad!' Well, I s'pose 'tis my nature to."
"These are late dates," said Bannard, running over the leaves, "let's look further back."
It was not a yearly diary, but a goodsized blank book, in which the writer had jotted down her notes as she felt inclined; something was written every day, but it might be a short paragraph or several pages in length.
"Here's something about us," and Bannard pointed to a page:
The entry ran:
"To-day I gave the box for Iris into Mr. Chapin's keeping. I shall never see it again. After I am gone, he will give it to I. and she can have it for what it is worth. I'll leave the F. pocket-book to Winston. The house must go to Lucille, but the young people won't mind that, as they will have enough."
"That's all right, isn't it, Iris. Looks as if we were the principal heirs."
"You can't tell, Win. She may have changed her mind a dozen times."