Nothing further that's strange seems to have happened over at the house across the Green, except for one little thing. A few days before Christmas I went over to return to Miss Yvonne a package of spice that Mother had had to borrow in a hurry, and I found the place in the greatest upset. Miss Yvonne seemed to be giving the whole establishment a thorough housecleaning, which is rather strange, for she gave it the usual autumn cleaning only this last October. I can't for the life of me see why she wanted to do it all over again so soon. I spoke to Louis about it next day, and he said she was having some papering and painting done, too. They were all upset during the Christmas season, and had to eat their Christmas dinner in the kitchen. Louis says it was a miserable holiday for him, all except our party in the evening. I can't imagine why Miss Yvonne should do such a curious thing. And Louis says she's having one big room that they've never used fixed up in great style,--fresh, handsome wall-paper and new furniture and a brass bed, and everything to match. "Do you think she expects any visitors?" I said. "Why, no!" he answered, looking awfully surprised. "She hasn't said anything about it to me." Then I asked him if he knew they had received a cablegram two weeks before, and he was astonished and said that he didn't, and asked how I knew. I told him what the Imp had said, and as soon as he heard this, he answered: "It's more of that beastly mystery, Sue, and I suppose I oughtn't to talk about it, because I've promised them I wouldn't. I hate it! _I hate it!_" I never saw Louis so worked up before. But he wouldn't go on talking about it any more,--because of his promise, I suppose,--so there matters rest for the present. New Year's Day, January 1, 1914. I just stopped a while ago to listen to the village church-bells ring twelve o'clock. I turned out the light and opened the window and leaned out. It all sounded very solemn, but it would have been much more impressive if there had been a lovely white fall of snow, with full moonlight glistening on it. Instead of that, it was raining and everything smelled damp and drippy. I like things to seem appropriate, but somehow they never seem to be,--at least, not the way you read about them in books.