"I've been in Father's study," he said in answer to his sister's question, and handed Arthur Townshend the paper he carried. "It's for you," he said, "a sea-fight. It's the best I can do. I've used up nearly all the paints in my box." He had certainly been lavish with his colours, and the result was amazing in the extreme. Mr. Townshend expressed himself delighted, and discussed the points of the picture with much insight. "We shall miss you," Mr. Seton said, looking very kindly at him. "It has been almost like having one of our own boys back. You must come again, and to Etterick next time." "Aw yes," cried Buff, "come to Etterick and see my jackdaw with the wooden leg." He had drawn his chair so close to Arthur's that to both of them the business of eating was gravely impeded. "Come for the shooting," said Mr. Seton. "Yes," said Elizabeth, as she filled out a third cup of tea for her father, "and the fourth footman will bring out your lunch while the fifth footman is putting on his livery. Don't be so buck-ish, Mr. Father. Our shooting, Arthur, consists of a heathery hillside inhabited by many rabbits, a few grouse--very wild, and an ancient blackcock called Algernon. No one can shoot Algernon; indeed, he is such an old family friend that it would be very ill manners to try. When he dies a natural death we mean to stuff him." "But may I really come? Is this a _pukka_ invitation?" "It is," Elizabeth assured him. "As the Glasgow girl said to the Edinburgh girl, 'What's a slice of ham and egg in a house like ours?' We shall all be frightfully glad to see you, except perhaps old Watty Laidlaw--I told you about him? He is very anxious when we have guests, he is so afraid we are living beyond our means. One day last summer I had some children from the village to tea, and he stood on the hillside and watched them cross the moor, then went in to Marget and said in despairing accents, 'Pit oot eighty mair cups. They're comin' ower the muir like a locust drift.' The description of the half-dozen poor little stragglers as a 'locust drift' was almost what Robert Browning calls 'too wildly dear.'" "This egg's bad," Buff suddenly announced. "Is it, Arthur?" Elizabeth asked. Mr. Townshend regarded the egg through his monocle. "It looks all right," he said; "but Buff evidently requires his eggs to be like Cæsar's wife." "Don't waste good food, boy," his father told him. "There is nothing wrong with the egg." "It's been a nest-egg," said Buff in a final manner, and began to write in a small book. Elizabeth remarked that Buff was a tiresome little boy about his food, and that there might come a time when he would think regretfully of the good food he had wasted. "And what are you writing?" she finished. "It's my diary," said Buff, putting it behind his back. "Father gave it me. No, you can't read it, but Arthur can if he likes, 'cos he's going away"; and he poked the little book into his friend's hand.