Quimby immediately bounced up from the music-stool, on which, in his agitation, he had involuntarily dropped. "Oh, no!" he exclaimed hastily. "We--we did did not come to dinner, you know!" Cyn smiled at Quimby's anxiety to disclaim intentions no one thought of attributing to him, and turning to Mr. Stanwood, asked, thereby greatly scandalizing Nattie, "But supposing you were invited to stay and share our banquet, would you?" "Were I sure the invitation was heartfelt, I should be sorely tempted; wouldn't you, Quimby?" Mr. Stanwood replied, easily. Poor Quimby twirled his thumbs confusedly, and murmured something about leaving the ladies to enjoy their "feast" alone. "We have eatables enough for six, as Nat was just now intimating," went on Cyn, who certainly had a touch of true Bohemianism in her composition, as well as Jo Norton. "But our dishes, 'ay, there's the rub,'" and she laughingly held up the coffee-urn, while the less adaptable Nattie thought apprehensively of the propensity of things to cool. Undaunted by the urn, Mr. Stanwood said, with humorous wistfulness, but looking at Nattie, "You won't force us to eat the dishes, will you? and that steak smells so nice, and I haven't had any dinner!" "Then away with ceremony and sit down to the banquet!" said the reckless Cyn, regardless of the protest in Nattie's face; and truth to tell, the former young lady was not at all averse to this addition to their number. And to the consternation of Quimby, and dismay of Nattie, and possibly a little to the surprise of Cyn, Mr. Stanwood replied by seating himself down in a rocking-chair, and saying gayly, "I feel positive that I am about to enjoy myself as I have not since I was a boy, and stole eggs, and cooked them on a flat rock behind my uncle's barn, and had raw turnip for dessert. Sit down, Quimby!" Upon this Quimby, with a blushing protest against an intrusion, that did not seem to trouble his merry friend in the least, also sat down. As he did so, Nattie screamed; but too late. On the crowning glory of the feast, on those enticing Charlotte Russes, crowded from the table on to a chair, there was Quimby! "Bless my soul! what is the matter?" he asked, staring astounded at Nattie's scream, but still sitting there, entirely of the ruin he had wrought. Cyn's anguish knew no bounds, as she saw what had happened. "Get up!" she cried, wringing her hands, "can't you get up? good gracious! don't you know what you are sitting on?" "Eh?" he queried, rising obediently, and looking at her with a blank expression. "Sitting on?" then following her frantic gesture, he turned and looked at the chair behind him, and instantly horror overspread his countenance. "Bless my soul!" he gasped, turning round and round, trying to get a glimpse of his own coat-tails. "How did it come there? what is it?" "It is--_was Charlotte Russe!_" said Nattie, in gloomy despair.