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to turn mule-stubborn in defense of her way of doing things, and then—watch out. Barbara guessed that Josephine was pleased enough by the rediscovery of Zebulon’s effects that she had decided to overlook the offense of burglary.
    Aunt Josephine went on with her work, setting down the rolling pin, cutting the biscuits out of the dough with the biscuit cutter. “After you were so careful to put everything back the way you found it, I looked through that trunk myself, you know,” she said mischievously. “There are some real heirlooms there. His glasses, the books he read. Some splendid things.”
    Barbara swallowed hard and set down her rolling pin. “There are more than just books he read , Aunt Jo.” She wiped the flour off her hands, took the journal down off the sideboard, and solemnly offered it to her great-aunt.
    The older woman cleaned her hands on her apron and took the leather volume. She opened it and gave a little gasp as she read the title page. She stood there, not reading further, but simply staring at the words on the page for a long time. Finally, she put the book back down, took off her apron, looked at her niece with shining eyes, and spoke with a strange little catch in her voice. “Barbara, you’re going to have to tend to the rest of getting breakfast for everyone. Mind the bacon doesn’t overcook. I’m going to sit and read this book for a bit.”
    Josephine picked up the book again and smiled to herself, at nothing at all.
    Barbara offered up a silent cheer. If Aunt Josephine stopped their conversation to read the book, that might cost Barbara some digging daylight, but the lost time would be more than made up if it got the family matriarch on her side when it came to the question of turning spade to earth.
    Josephine poured herself a good strong cup of coffee and headed out to the front porch with the journal, a very thoughtful expression on her face. Barbara busied herself in the huge kitchen, and got the last of the biscuits into the oven in time to tend to the bacon and keep it from vaporizing. About fifteen minutes later, just as she had finished putting the rolling pins and mixing bowls away, four of her cousins, each with a baby or toddler in tow, appeared through the back door. By getting cousin Shirley to agree to watch the biscuits, Barbara managed to hand off kitchen-management duty, and went outside looking for Aunt Jo.
    The solid old woman sat in her rocker on the south side of the porch, the splendid morning sky framing her in pale blue. She sat reading the journal, rocking slowly, her face a study in solemn concentration, her eyes hidden behind the light reflected off the well-polished lenses of her wire-rimmed glasses.
    Barbara went to her and leaned against the railing, watching her, waiting.
    Finally, she closed the book and looked up with a smile, her face happy, her eyes gleaming. “He was quite a man. A very good man. Thank you for finding this.”
    “Aunt Jo.” Barbara knelt in front of her aunt and took the journal. “I found something in here, late last night. I need to show it to you.” Barbara turned to the pages that dealt with the creatures Colonel Gowrie had brought to the plantation. “Read this part, starting here.”
    Aunt Jo adjusted her glasses and studied the writing on the pages carefully, almost reverently, as if she was considering the full worth of each word before moving on to the next. Barbara sat back against the railing and hugged her knees up to her chest, watching her aunt’s face for some sign of surprise, or bafflement, or shock, but her expression remained fixed and solemn, with only an eyebrow twitching now and again as a sign of her emotions. It was as if she were reading the holiest of holy tracts and was determined to maintain her dignity while doing so.
    Finally she closed the book and looked to Barbara. “That’s a very strange story, child. What on earth does it mean?”
    Barbara stared off across the field, and felt a cold