Droop seated himself near the two sisters and Phoebe unfolded a large and rather rough sheet of paper, yellow with age, on which Droop perceived a bold scrawl in a faded ink. "This seems to have been from Mary Burton's father," Phoebe said. "I don't think he can have been a very nice man. This is what he says: "'Dear Poll'--horrid nickname, isn't it?" "Seems so to me," said Droop. "'Dear Poll--I'm starting behind the grays for London, on my way, as you know ere this, to be knighted by her Majesty. I send this ahead by Gregory on Bess--she being fast enow for my purpose--which is to get thee straight out of the grip of that'----" Phoebe hesitated. "He uses a bad word there," she said, in a low tone. "I'll go on and leave that out." "Yes, do," said Droop. "'That ---- aunt of thine,'" she continued, reading. "'I know her tricks and I learn how she hath suffered that'----" "There's another," said Phoebe. "Skip it," said Droop, gravely. "'That ---- milk-and-water popinjay to come courting my Poll. So see you follow Gregory, mistress, and without wait or parley come with him to the Peacock Inn, where I lie to-night. The grays are in fine fettle and thy black mare grows too fat for want of exercise. Thy mother-in-law commands thy instant return with Gregory, having much business forward with preparing gowns and fallals against our presentation to her Majesty.'" "It is signed 'Isaac Burton,'" said Phoebe, "and see, the paper was sealed with a steel gauntlet." Droop examined the seal carefully and then returned it, saying: "Looks to me like a bunch of 'sparagus tumbled over on one side." Phoebe laughed. "But what always interests me most in this letter is the postscript," she said. "It reads: 'Thy mother thinks thou wilt make better speed if I make thee to know that the players thou wottest of'----" "What's a 'wottest'?" said Droop, in puzzled tones. "Wottest means knowest--haven't you read Shakespeare?" "No," said Droop. "'The players thou wottest of are to stop at the Peacock, and will be giving some sport there.' "Now, those players always interest me," Phoebe continued. "Somehow I can't help but believe that William Shakespeare----" "Fiddle ends!" Rebecca interrupted. "I've heard that talk fifty-leven times an' I'm pinin' fer relief. Mr. Droop, would you mind tellin' us what the time o' year is now. Seems to me that sun has whirled in an' out o' that window 'nough times to bring us back to the days o' creation." Droop consulted the date indicator and announced that it was now September 5, 1897. "Not a year yet!" cried the two women together. "Why, no," said Copernicus. "Ye see, we are takin' about three hours to lose a year." "Fer the lands sakes!" cried Rebecca. "Can't we go a little faster?" "My gracious, yes!" said Droop. "But I'm 'fraid o' the side weight fer ye." "I'd rather hev side weight than wait forever," said Rebecca, with a grim smile.