"It was very nice," said Jessie, "and as you say, Mamma, we'll not need to have another for a long time. Mr. Taylor's the limit," she added. "He enjoyed himself," said her father. "He's an awful man to eat," said Mrs. Thomson. "It's not the thing to make remarks about guests' appetites, I know, but he fair surpassed himself to-night. However, Mrs. Taylor, poor body, 's quite delighted with him." "He sang well," said Mr. Thomson. "I never heard 'Miss Hooligan' better. Quite a lot of talent we had to-night, and Miss Seton's a treat. Nobody can sing like her, to my mind." "That's true," said his wife. "Mr. Stevenson seems a nice young man, Jessie. What does he do?" "He's an artist," said Jessie. "I met him at the Shakespeare Readings. Muriel Simpson thinks he's awfully good-looking." "Muriel Simpson's not, anyway," said Alick. "She's a face like a scone, and it's all floury too, like a scone." "Alick," said his father, "it's high time you were in bed, my boy. We'll be hearing about this in the morning. What about your lessons?" "Lessons!" cried Alick shrilly. "How could I learn lessons and a party goin' on?" "Quite true," said Mr. Thomson. "Well, it's only once in a while. Rubbert"--to his son who was standing up yawning--"you're no great society man." Robert shook his head. "I haven't much use for people at any time," he said, "but I fair hate them at a party." And Mr. Thomson laughed in an understanding way as he went to lift in the mat and lock the front door, and make Jeanieville safe for the night. _CHAPTER III_ "When that I was and a little tiny boy, With a hey ho hey, the wind and the rain." _Twelfth Night._ The Reverend James Seton sat placidly eating his breakfast while his daughter Elizabeth wrestled in spirit with her young brother. "No, Buff, you are _not_ to tell yourself a story. You must sup your porridge." Buff slapped his porridge vindictively with his spoon and said, "I wish all the millers were dead." "Foolish fellow," said his father, as he took a bit of toast. "Come away," said Elizabeth persuasively, scooping a hole in the despised porridge, "we'll make a quarry in the middle." She filled it up with milk. "There! We've made a great deep hole, big enough to drown an army. Now--one sup for the King, and one for the boys in India, and one for--for the partridge in the pear-tree, and one for the poor little starved pussy downstairs." Buff twisted himself round to look at his sister's face. "Yes, there is. Ellen found it last night at the kitchen door. If you finish your breakfast quickly, you may run down and see it before prayers." "What's it like?" gurgled Buff, as the porridge slid in swift spoonfuls down his throat. "Grey, with a black smudge on its nose and such a _little_ tail." "Set me down," said Buff, with the air of one who would behold a cherished vision. Elizabeth untied his napkin, and in a moment they heard him clatter down the kitchen stairs.