My trunk had contained nearly everything, for while a campaigner I had learned to reduce packing to an exact science. Now, had there been an atom of pride in my composition I might have glorified myself, for it certainly seemed as if the heap upon the floor could never have come out of a single trunk. Clearly, Toddie was more of a general connoisseur than an amateur in packing. The method of his work I quickly discerned, and the discovery threw some light upon the size of the heap in front of my trunk. A dress hat and its case, when their natural relationship is dissolved, occupy nearly twice as much space as before, even if the former contains a blacking-box not usually kept in it, and the latter a few cigars soaking in bay rum. The same might be said of a portable dressing-case and its contents, bought for me in Vienna by a brother ex-soldier, and designed by an old Continental campaigner to be perfection itself. The straps which prevented the cover from falling entirely back had been cut, broken or parted in some way, and in its hollow lay my dress-coat, tightly rolled up. Snatching it up with a violent exclamation, and unrolling it, there dropped from it—one of those infernal dolls. At the same time a howl was sounded from the doorway. “You tookted my dolly out of her cradle—I want to wock[4] my dolly—oo—oo—oo—ee—ee—ee—!” [4] Rock. “You young scoundrel!” I screamed—yes, howled, I was so enraged—“I’ve a great mind to cut your throat this minute. What do you mean by meddling with my trunk?” “I—doe—know.” Outward turned Toddie’s lower lip; I believe the sight of it would move a Bengal tiger to pity, but no such thought occurred to me just then. “What made you do it?” “_Be_—cause.” “Because what?” “I—doe—know.” Just then a terrific roar arose from the garden. Looking out, I saw Budge with a bleeding finger upon one hand, and my razor in the other; he afterward explained he had been making a boat, and that the knife was bad to him. To apply adhesive plaster to the cut was the work of but a minute, and I had barely completed this surgical operation when Tom’s gardener-coachman appeared, and handed me a letter. It was addressed in Helen’s well-known hand, and read as follows (the passages in brackets were my own comments):— “BLOOMDALE, JUNE 21, 1875. “DEAR HARRY:—I’m very happy in the thought that you are with my darling children, and, although I’m having a lovely time here, I often wish I was with you. [Ump—so do I.] I want you to know the little treasures real well. [Thank you, but I don’t think I care to extend the acquaintanceship farther than is absolutely necessary.] It seems to me so unnatural that relatives know so little of those of their own blood, and especially of the innocent little spirits whose existence is almost unheeded. [Not when there’s unlocked trunks standing about, sis.]