was nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered papers and notebooks bearing upon my uncle’s life in America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpetbag politicians who had been sent down from the North.
“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of ’85 .
On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon himself.
“ ‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered.
“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K.K.K. ,’ said I.
“He looked inside the envelope.
‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the very letters. But what is this written above them?’
“ ‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder.
“ ‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.
“ ‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the papers must be those that are destroyed.’
“ ‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We