Fred thought that if anything could have added to the absurdity of his own position it was this. Mr. Ogilvie was on ordinary occasions very undemonstrative, a grave leathern-jawed senior, who spoke little and looked somewhat frowningly upon the levities of existence. He got off his horse, so to speak, with much confusion as the stranger came in. “You see,” he said, apologetically--but for the moment said no more. “Oh yes, we see. Rory, ye’ll tumble off that high seat; how have ye got so high a seat? Bless me, ye’ll have a fall if ye don’t take care.” “You see,” continued Mr. Ogilvie, “the weather has been wet and the little fellow has not got his usual exercise. At that age they must have exercise. You’ll think it’s not very becoming for a man of my age----” “Hoots,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “what does it matter about your age? You are just a father whatever age you are, and Mr. Dirom will think no worse of you for playing with your own little child. Come, Rory, come, my wee man, and leave papa to his business.” “No, I’ll no go,” shouted the child. “We’re thust coming in to the inn, and all the passengers will get out o’ the coach. Pappa, pappa, the off leader, she’s runned away. Get hold o’ her, get hold o’ her; she’ll upset the coach.” Fred looked on with unsympathetic eyes while the elderly pseudo-postilion, very shamefaced, made pretence of arresting the runaway steed, which bore the sedate form of a mahogany arm-chair. “You will just excuse me,” he said, “till the play’s played out. There, now, Rory, fling your reins to the hostler, and go in and get your dram--which means a chocolate sweetie,” he added, to forestall any reproof. If Rory’s father had been a great personage, or even if being only Mr. Ogilvie of Gilston he had been Rory’s grandfather, the situation would have been charming; but as he was neither, and very commonplace and elderly, the tableau was spoiled. (“Old idiot,” the Miss Dempsters would have said, “making a fool of a bairn that should have been his son’s bairn, and neglecting his own lawful children, at his age!” The sentiment was absurd, but Fred shared it.) Perhaps it was the unrelaxing countenance of the young man, as Mrs. Ogilvie seized and carried off the charioteer which made the poor papa so ill at ease. He pulled the chairs apart with an uneasy smile and gave one to his visitor. “No, I am not ashamed of it,” he said, “but I daresay I would look ridiculous enough to a stranger:” and with this he sat down before his table, on which, amid the writing things, were a child’s trumpet and other articles belonging to a person of very tender years. “And in what can I be of use to you?” he asked. It was Fred’s turn to grow red. He had been led into this snare against his will. He felt rather disgusted, rather angry. “I don’t know,” he said, “that it was anything calling for your attention to-day. It was a matter--still undecided. I should not have disturbed you--at a moment of relaxation.”