Mr. Murray watched the tiny tongues of flame which were darting up round the tea-kettle, where Maggie sat supplying small sticks and resinous pine cones to feed the fire. The scene was as pretty as possible; Meredith roaming hither and thither collecting more fuel, and the shawls and even the worsted lying about, with the gay, young figures, touching up the gipsy view with bits of colour. He watched in silence. "Mosswood is the most delicious place we have ever seen," Flora went on. "Almost any place is good in October. How pleasant this veiled light is! What are you about, Maggie?" "This is the pot of pigeons, Uncle Eden; we are going to get them hot. The kettle boils; now would you like some coffee, Uncle Eden?" But Mr. Murray declared himself satisfied with tea. And in a little while the scene became more gipsy than ever; except that gipsys are not supposed to indulge in much refinement of china cups and silver spoons. Everybody was picking pigeon bones, however; and bread and butter, and cups of tea, and baked potatoes (which came out hot from the house, brought in a basket by Fairbairn), and peaches and pears to conclude with, were discussed with great enjoyment and amidst a great deal of talk. Fenton arrived from the fishing to take his share; but I do not think he was as glad to see his uncle as the others had been; and as soon as lunch was over he took himself away again. Then cups and plates and _débris_ were packed away into the cart; the little fire had burned itself out; fingers were washed in Eastern fashion, somebody pouring water over the others' hands; and at last worsted needles and knitting needles came into play again, and the circle was made up around Mr. Murray, who declared himself to be quite refreshed and rested. "Ready for questions, Uncle Eden?" "Are the questions very deep?" "Oh, yes, Uncle Eden; none of us can answer them." "They had need be profound! How did they come up?" "From Meredith's book. Ditto was reading to us some delicious stories about the old Saxons, and their ways and their gods; and we have ever so many questions to ask you, Uncle Eden." "Have you any more of those Saxon stories on hand, Meredith?" "Plenty, sir." "Then I wish you would go on and read another; and so I should perhaps get into the atmosphere of your questions. Besides, I feel like being luxurious and lazy in this warm, spicy air. Suppose we have a story now, and the questions by and by?" They were all agreed to that. Maggie settled herself to listen comfortably, and Mr. Murray lay on his elbow and looked thoughtfully into the reader's face, or into the blue-green pine wilderness around, or above to the quiet, clear blue which stretched over all; but if Mr. Murray's body was resting, I am inclined to think his mind was busy enough. CHAPTER X.