"But suppose I were to write a simple narrative of the principal events
in the histories of the three families, which no one is more able to do
than myself, seeing that nothing important has ever happened without my
hearing of it,--how, I say, would you like that?"

"If it amused you to write it, I am sure it would amuse us to read it,"
said the major.

"But you are rather old to turn author," said Captain Brentwood;
"you'll make a failure of it; in fact, you'll never get through with
it."

I replied not, but went into my bedroom, and returning with a thick
roll of papers threw it on the floor--as on the stage the honest
notary throws down the long-lost will,--and there I stood for a
moment with my arms folded, eyeing Brentwood triumphantly.

"It is already done, captain," I said. "There it lies."

The captain lit a cigar, and said nothing; but the major said, "Good
gracious me! and when was this done?"

"Partly here, and partly in England. I propose to read it aloud to you,
if it will not bore you."

"A really excellent idea," said the major. "My dear!"--this last was
addressed to a figure which was now seen approaching us up a long vista
of trellised vines. A tall figure dressed in grey. The figure, one
could see as she came nearer, of a most beautiful old woman.