“How romantic! Why, it seems impossible!” “Do you remember the head-dress in my mother’s miniature?” “Yes.” “Well, I find that sort of thing is only worn by royalty.” There was a pause, during which the old chair rocked gently to and fro, but noisily, as if in protest against its double burden, while the voices from the neighboring field came drifting in the window and with them the occasional tinkling of a cow-bell. “And to think of your being here in Connecticut, a farmer!” “Thank heaven I am!” and there followed one of those foolish but apparently enjoyable scenes which no dignified historian is expected to describe. Stepping away from the rocking-chair Molly turned with a frown upon its remaining occupant as she pressed an escaping lock into position. Through the open window the setting sun sent a bar of light across the attic that illumined her hair with a golden touch. “We must find that book,” she exclaimed, with an impatient gesture. “It will tell us the very things we wish to know. Come, get up, and hunt!” Slowly rocking, with his head resting against the chair, he regarded her with admiring eyes, but showed no signs of haste. “There is but one book I care to study, and that is a poem in pink, about five feet six in length, with gilt edges at the top.” She smiled sadly. “No, not a poem, but very ordinary prose, and you will get precious little wisdom from studying it.” “On the contrary, every page is a revelation. Why, the binding alone is a poem! Merely to hold it in one’s lap and look at the cover is a gentle intoxication.” Wavering between a smile and a frown, she answered: “I wonder if all rajahs are such transparent flatterers. But come! Find the book! It must be downstairs in the library.” “No, it is not down there. I know every book among them.” “Where can it be, then? tucked away in some trunk or drawer?” “Probably.” “Could it be in that?” and she pointed to an old cherry-wood desk just behind him. He turned and regarded it. “As likely there as anywhere. It is the desk he used until he died.” Molly opened the slanting top and found an array of pigeonholes filled with old papers. There were some very small drawers, all of which she opened, but they contained no book, so she closed the top and opened the long upper drawer. It was almost empty, the only contents being a few envelopes of seeds, some tools, scattered cards, and a couple of marbles that ran about as the drawer was opened. “I rather think you know this place,” and she lifted up a bladeless jackknife. “Only a boy could treat a knife in such a way.” “Yes, I remember all those things. That wooden pistol has killed lots of Indians.”