Victoria was clutching part of a Frankfort sausage which she licked eagerly between her sobs, and, as far as we could learn from the enemy across the fence, who had contributed the dainty, Albert had snatched a piece of it, and by sucking, biting, and bolting, made way with it at the risk of strangling. Surely _he_ would be sick, and I coaxed father to go up after supper in case he was needed. On his return he reported that the boy was sleeping normally, curled up _under his bed_, Martha confessing that it was well-nigh impossible to keep either child _in_ a bed unless pinned down by blankets, which are rather unseasonable. It certainly would be interesting from a psychological standpoint to know the origin of these waifs, and how and where they have slept, that they should show preferences so decidedly. _The 22d._ It has been a very uncomfortable week at the chicken farm, I take it. The heat has been of the quality that makes breathing like inhaling the steam of a wash-boiler. The twins are presumably teething, and Timothy, I find, mostly comes to our house for a quiet supper with niece Effie and our sympathetic cook, who was overheard condoling with him upon the discomfort the twins and Martha’s whim had brought upon those who were of the age to be grandparents, with their family housework, so to speak, done. _The 24th._ Effie informs me that Aunt Martha has stopped baking bread, and takes it in from the baker. Timothy, accustomed to whittling wedges from his wife’s durable cottage loaves, supplementing the same with either butter or cheese, did not realize the flimsy quality of the substitute until his knife slipped through the compressible sponge and yesterday gashed his finger deeply. _The 26th._ Martha sent down this morning to ask father if there is any _safe_ kind of soothing syrup that she could give the twins to make them sleep at night. I went up early in the evening to see if they had fever, and take father’s answer, which was to the effect that all such drugs are pernicious, and that all teething children are fretful in the month of August. They had no fever, but were healthy and normally cross and uncomfortable. So was Martha. Finally quiet fell upon the two small beds, and Martha came out upon the porch and sank heavily into the rocker. The glow of Timothy’s pipe was missing from the corner where it had blinked and winked in pleasant weather for so many years. The hounds, having been banished from their lounging place because they might hurt the twins, foregathered with Timothy in the open doorway of the carriage house, in plain sight, through a gap in the trees. Presently Effie joined her uncle, and then the cook appeared, carrying something in a pitcher, doubtless a delectable mixture of iced lemonade and ginger-ale. A garden bench was pressed into service, and soon the cook’s concertina chirped out “Comin’ thro’ the Rye,” and Timothy’s cracked laugh could be heard above it.