The clock on the mantelpiece went ticking on, and struck half-past six. Dinner. The Squire led off the van with Mrs. Coney. Tod laid hold of Jane. "I'll take Robert's place whilst I can, Jenny." The oak-room was a surprise. It looked beautiful. The dark walls were quite covered with holly and ivy, mixed with the blossoms of laurustinus and some bright flowers. Old Thomas (borrowed from us) and the maids stood by the sideboard, which glittered with silver. The Coneys had their stores as well as other people, and did things well when they did them at all. On the table was a large codfish, garnished with horse-radish and lemon. Our names were before our places, and we took them without bustle, Robert Ashton's, next to Jane, being left vacant. "For what----" A faint shriek interrupted the Reverend Mr. Ashton, and the grace was interrupted. Lifting his head towards the quarter whence the shriek came, he saw his sister-in-law with a scared face. "We are thirteen!" exclaimed Mrs. James Ashton. "I beg your pardon, Charles--I beg everybody's pardon; but indeed we must not sit down thirteen to dinner on New Year's Day. I would not for any money." "What nonsense, my dear!" cried her husband, rather crossly. "Robert will be here directly." It was of no use. The ladies took her part, saying they ought not to sit down. And there we all stood, uncertain what to do, the dinner hovering in mid-air like Mahomet's coffin, and not to be eaten. "There are two days in the year when it is not well to sit down thirteen: New Year's Day and Christmas Day," said Mrs. Todhetley, and the rest held with her. "Are we all to go back to the drawing-room, and leave our dinner?" demanded old Coney, in wrath. "Where the plague _is_ Robert? Look here: those that won't sit down thirteen can go, and those that don't mind it can stop." "Hear, hear!" cried the Squire. But Jane Coney went gliding to her mother's side. "I will wait for Robert in the drawing-room, mamma, and you can sit down twelve. Yes, please; it is best so. Indeed I could not eat anything if I stayed." "Shall we send you some dinner in, child?" asked Mr. Coney. "No, thank you, papa. I should like best to take it with Robert when he comes." "All right," said old Coney. "Johnny, you go over to that side, to make the table even. We'll have the grace now, parson." And the parson said it. It was a dinner that pleased the Squire's heart. He had a mortal objection to what he called kickshaws, meaning the superfluous dishes you find at a modern entertainment. The Coneys never had kickshaws, only a plain, substantial dinner, the best of its kind. "Coney, I never taste such oyster-sauce as yours, go where I will," cried the Squire. "It can't be matched." Old Coney winked, as much as to say he knew it. "The missis gives an eye to that, you see, Squire," he answered, in a side whisper. "She had been in the kitchen till you came."