John Thomson regarded his parcel rather shame-facedly. "It's a pine-apple for your party, Mamma. I was lookin' in a fruit-shop when I was waitin' for ma car and I just took a notion to get it. Not," he added, "but what I prefer tinned ones maself." Mrs. Thomson patted her husband's arm approvingly. "Well, that was real mindful of you, Papa. It'll look well on the table. Jessie," to her daughter, who at that moment came into the lobby from the kitchen, "get down another fruit dish. Here's Papa brought home a pine-apple for your party." "Tea's in, Mamma," said Jessie; then she took the parcel from her father, and holding his arm drew him into the dining-room, talking all the time. "Come on, Papa, and see the table. It looks fine, and the pine-apple'll give it a finish. We've got a trifle from Skinner's, and we're having meringues and an apricot souffle and----" "Now, Jessie," Mrs. Thomson broke in, "don't keep Papa, or the sausages'll get cold. Where's Rubbert and Alick? We'll niver be ready at eight o'clock at this rate." As she spoke, Alick, her younger son, pranced into the room, and pretended to stand awestruck at the display. "We're not half doing it in style, eh?" he said, and made a playful dive at a silver dish of chocolates. Jessie caught him by his coat, and in the scuffle the dish was upset and the chocolates emptied on the cloth. "Oh, Mamma!" cried the outraged Jessie, "Look what he's done. He's nothing but a torment." Picking up the chocolates, she glared over her shoulder at her brother with great disapproval. "Such a sight as you are, too. If you can't get your hair to lie straight you're not coming to the party. Mind that." Alick ruffled up his mouse-coloured locks and looked in no way dejected. "It's your own fault anyway," he said; "I didn't mean to spill your old sweeties. Come on, Mamma, and give us our tea, and leave that lord alone in her splendour;" and half carrying, half dragging his mother, he left the dining-room. Jessie put the chocolates back and smoothed the shining cloth. "He's an awful boy that Alick, Papa," she said, as she pulled out the lace edge of a d'oyley. "He's always up to some mischief." "Ay, Jessie," said her father, "he's a wild laddie, but he's real well-meaning. There's your mother calling us. Come away to your tea. I can smell the sausages." In the parlour they found the rest of the family seated at table. Mrs. Thomson was pouring tea from a fat brown teapot; Alick, with four half-slices of bread piled on his plate, had already begun, while Robert sat in his place with a book before him, his elbows on the table, his fingers in his ears. Jessie slid into her place and helped herself to a piece of bread. "I wish, Mamma," she said, as she speared a ball of butter, "you hadn't had sausages for tea to-night. It's an awful smell through the house." Mrs. Thomson laid down the cup she was lifting to her mouth.