The dinner was set on the table and the father began to carve. George looked over his book to survey the fare then read until his plate was handed him. The maid sat at her little table near the window, and we began the meal. There came the treading of four feet along the brick path, and a little girl entered, followed by her grown-up sister. The child’s long brown hair was tossed wildly back beneath her sailor hat. She flung aside this article of her attire and sat down to dinner, talking endlessly to her mother. The elder sister, a girl of about twenty-one, gave me a smile and a bright look from her brown eyes, and went to wash her hands. Then she came and sat down, and looked disconsolately at the underdone beef on her plate. “I do hate this raw meat,” she said. “Good for you,” replied her brother, who was eating industriously. “Give you some muscle to wallop the nippers.” She pushed it aside, and began to eat the vegetables. Her brother re-charged his plate and continued to eat. “Well, our George, I do think you might pass a body that gravy,” said Mollie, the younger sister, in injured tones. “Certainly,” he replied. “Won’t you have the joint as well?” “No!” retorted the young lady of twelve, “I don’t expect you’ve done with it yet.” “Clever!” he exclaimed across a mouthful. “Do you think so?” said the elder sister Emily, sarcastically. “Yes,” he replied complacently, “you’ve made her as sharp as yourself, I see, since you’ve had her in Standard Six. I’ll try a potato, mother, if you can find one that’s done.” “Well, George, they seem mixed, I’m sure that was done that I tried. There—they are mixed—look at this one, it’s soft enough. I’m sure they were boiling long enough.” “Don’t explain and apologise to him,” said Emily irritably. “Perhaps the kids were too much for her this morning,” he said calmly, to nobody in particular. “No,” chimed in Mollie, “she knocked a lad across his nose and made it bleed.” “Little wretch,” said Emily, swallowing with difficulty. “I’m glad I did! Some of my lads belong to—to——” “To the devil,” suggested George, but she would not accept it from him. Her father sat laughing; her mother with distress in her eyes, looked at her daughter, who hung her head and made patterns on the table-cloth with her finger. “Are they worse than the last lot?” asked the mother, softly, fearfully. “No—nothing extra,” was the curt answer. “She merely felt like bashing ’em,” said George, calling, as he looked at the sugar bowl and at his pudding: “Fetch some more sugar, Annie.” The maid rose from her little table in the corner, and the mother also hurried to the cupboard. Emily trifled with her dinner and said bitterly to him: “I only wish you had a taste of teaching, it would cure your self-satisfaction.” “Pf!” he replied contemptuously, “I could easily bleed the noses of a handful of kids.” “You wouldn’t sit there bleating like a fatted calf,” she continued.