she could keep a record of when he had last kissed her.

Poor little Warble--she loved her Big Bill so fondly, and he only looked on
her as something fatter than his dog, a little bigger than his cat. Timidly
she proffered the trayed letter.

"Oh, my Heavens!" and Petticoat smote himself, hip and thigh. "Where
did you get this? Why was I not told sooner of its arrival? To me! And
postmarked Lake Skoodoow-abskoosis! Home of my ancestors! Woman! Why this
delay? _Why_?"

"It came this morning," said Warble, apologetically, "but you were in your
bath, and the door was locked."

"But this is a most important letter. Why didn't you slip it under the
door?"

"I couldn't," said Warble, simply, "it was on a tray."

"As I hoped--I mean, feared--" exclaimed Petticoat, tearing the envelope
from the sheet, "he is dead!"

It made Warble writhe to see the devastated envelope--she always slit them
neatly with a paper-knife--but she was thrilled by Petticoat's excitement.

"A fortune!" he exclaimed. "My revered ancestor, the oldest of the
Cotton-Petticoats, has died and left all his wealth to me! A windfall! Now
we can afford to have a baby and get over the Moorish Courtyard, too! Oh,
Warble, ain't we got fun!"