"Even his slack-tongued and irreverent daughter," put in Mr. Seton. "Are pretty nearly perfect," finished Elizabeth. "It is one of the nicest things about Father." "There is something utterly wrong about the young people of this age," remarked Mr. Seton, as he looked at his watch; "they have no respect for their elders. Dear me! it's late. I must get to my sermon." "You must come again, Mr. Stevenson," said Elizabeth. "It has been so nice seeing you." And Mr. Stevenson had, perforce, to take his leave. "A very nice fellow," said Mr. Seton, when the visitor had departed. "A very personable young man," said Elizabeth, "but some day he'll get himself cursed, I'm afraid, for he doesn't know when to withdraw his foot from his neighbour's house. Half-past six! Nearly Buff's bed-time!" and as Mr. Seton went to his study Elizabeth flew to see what wickedness Buff had perpetrated since tea. _CHAPTER VII_ "How full of briars is this working-day world!" _As You Like It_. It was Monday morning. Buff was never quite his urbane self on Monday morning. Perhaps the lack of any other occupation on Sabbath made him overwork his imagination, for certainly in the clear cold light of Monday morning it was difficult to find the way (usually such an easy task) to his own dream-world with its cheery denizens--knights and pirates, aviators and dragons. It was desolating to have to sup porridge, that was only porridge and not some tasty stew of wild fowl fallen to his own gun, in a dining-room that was only a dining-room, not a Pirate's Barque or a Robber's Cave. On Monday, too, he was apt to be more than usually oppressed by his conviction of the utter futility of going to school when he knew of at least fifty better ways of spending the precious hours. So he kicked the table-leg and mumbled when his father asked him questions about his lessons. Ellen coming in with the letters seemed another messenger of Satan sent to buffet him. Time was when he had been Mercury to his family, but having fallen into the pernicious practice of concealing about his person any letters that took his fancy and forgetting about them till bed-time brought them to light, he was deposed. The memory rankled, and he gloomily watched the demure progress of Ellen as she took the letters to Elizabeth. "Three for you, Father," said Elizabeth, sorting them out, "and three for me. The Indian letters are both here." "Read them, will you?" said Mr. Seton, who disliked deciphering letters for himself. "I'll just see if they're both well and read the letters afterwards if you don't mind. We'll make Buff late. Cheer up, old son" (to that unwilling scholar). "Life isn't all Saturdays. Monday mornings are bound to come. You should be glad to begin again. Why, the boys"--Walter and Alan were known as "the boys"--"wouldn't have thought of sitting like sick owls on Mondays: they were pleased to have a fine new day to do things in."