“If the juices of certain herbs can produce melancholia, or the fury of madness, or idiocy, why should we not find in others the soothing of oblivion, or the stimulus to exalted thought, or the spur of genius? Why not,” he would say, “But life’s so short, life’s so short....” The door was opened noiselessly. Barnaby, the _famulus_, clutching the tray, stood staring, open mouthed, in upon them. “Hang that boy!” said Master Simon testily and, pretending not to notice the interruption, proceeded with his disquisition on the admirable things he meant to extract from Camphire or Henne-weed. “Is that all they give you for supper, father?” She had walked up to the tray which had been deposited on a corner of the table. “A jug of ale!” she exclaimed with disfavour. “Small-ale—and sour at that, I’ll be bound!” She poured a few drops into the tumbler, sipped and grimaced. “Pah! Bread—heavy and yesterday’s. Cheese! Last year’s, I should say—and simply because the mice wouldn’t have any more of it!” Indignation rose within her as she compared this treatment of her father with memories of Bindon’s hospitality in bygone days. “And an apple!” she added, with scathing precision. “Most wholesome,” suggested the simpler, deprecating interference. “Wholesome!” she snorted. “Upon the theory of the dangers of over-eating, I suppose! And what a jug—what a tumbler!” “Barnaby is rather clumsy,” apologised his master. “Apt to break a good deal. So I, it was I, begged Mrs. Nutmeg to provide us with stout ware.” “What old Margery!—old Margery Nutmeg still here!” A shadow fell upon Ellinor’s face—the next moment it was gone. “Ugh! How I always hated that woman! I had forgotten all about her. It is a way I have: I forget the unpleasant! Well!” with a laugh, “now I understand. But I’ll warrant her well-cushioned frame is not supported upon the diet of wholesomeness meted out to you! Heavens! but what is this dreadful little mess in the brown bowl?” “Belphegor’s supper,” answered his master with rebuking gravity. “They treat him no better than they do you, father!” She paused, took the edge of the tablecloth between her taper finger and thumb and thrust out a disdainful lip. “What a cloth! Not even quite clean!” “Mrs. Nutmeg has limited us. Barnaby has an unfortunate propensity for upsetting things,” humbly interposed the philosopher. “Then Barnaby, whoever he is, ought to be soundly trounced,” asserted Mrs. Marvel. She wheeled round on the boy, who still stared at her with round eyes—but her father laid an averting hand upon her arm. “Hush,” he said, inconsequently lowering his voice, “the poor lad is deaf and dumb.” “Deaf and dumb, your servant?” Fresh amazement sprang to her face, succeeded by a lightening tenderness. “He suits me, child,” cried the old man, hurriedly. “Pray do not attribute to me any foolish philanthropy, I’m a——” She interrupted him with a gay note: