The very first minute I thought there was anything of a loving nature connected with Miss Wilburn I got out my diary to write it down, as you see. She had told mother anyhow to let me keep it as it would "stimulate my mental faculties" and they would never be able to make a chicken-picking person out of me. I'm going to keep it right here in the drawer and jot down everything I see, although I am _convinced_ that the lover is dead. Julius and Marcella are down here now for the first time since they were married. We see them a great deal, for they love to go walking through the woods with Miss Wilburn and me; but I can't waste my diary writing about them _now_. I just happened to think what a pity it was that I didn't try to find out the mystery about Miss Wilburn from Rufe and Cousin Eunice when we was up there last summer, for they knew her real well before we got her. In fact, for the first few days she and I didn't have any congenial things to talk about except them and tiny Waterloo. Waterloo's little name by rights is Rufus Clayborne, Junior, and he occurred at a time when I wasn't keeping my diary; but my grandchildren would have known about him anyhow, he being their little fifth cousin. He is very different from Bertha's baby, for he is a boy. I thought when I first saw him that if there was anything sweeter in this world than a girl baby it is a boy one! Rufe and Cousin Eunice have lately been kinder New Thought persons, which think if you have "poise" enough there can't anything on earth conquer you. Rufe bragged particularly about nothing being able to conquer _him_ or get him in a bad temper, he had so much poise. But when little Rufus was just three nights old and he had walked him the other _two_ and he was still squalling he threw up his job. "Poise be hanged!" Cousin Eunice told us he said, "I've met _my_ Waterloo!" And they've called him that ever since. When we were up there in the summer Waterloo was giving his father considerable trouble about the editorials. An editorial is a smart remark opposite the society column; and Rufe couldn't think up smart things while he was squalling. "Oh, for a desert island!" he said one night when he was awful busy and couldn't get anything done. "Oh, for a mammoth haystack where I might thrust my head to drown the noise--I've read that Jean Jacques Rousseau used to do so! Listen, I've made a rhyme!" "'Tis not rhymes but dimes we need most just now; so go on with your work," Cousin Eunice said, gathering Waterloo together to take him up-stairs. "Merely removing the location of the noise will lessen it but slightly," Rufe called to her as she got to the door. "Seriously, do you know of a hayloft in the neighborhood where I might go?" "You might go next door to the Williams' garage and thrust your head into their can of gasolene--_that's_ the latter-day equivalent for hay!" Cousin Eunice answered kinder-mad, for _she_ admires Waterloo, no matter how he acts.