afoot, if you’re in such a hurry. I shan’t budge an inch till I’ve had my
dinner; besides, I want to see Mr. Wilmot."

Julia saw that she must submit to the mortification of seeing her father
at Mrs. Crane’s dinner table, and with a beating heart she heard the bell
summon them to the dining room. Mrs. Carrington did not appear—her nerves
had received too great a shock—and for that Julia was thankful. Dr. Lacey
sat by her father and paid him every possible attention.

"Will you take soup, Mr. Middleton?" asked Mrs. Crane.

"What kind of soup? Beef soup, or mud turkle?"

"It is vermicelli," said Mrs. Crane, hardly able to keep her face
straight.

"Vermifuge—vermifuge," repeated Mr. Middleton. "That’s almighty queer
stuff to make soup on. No. I’m ’bleeged to you; I ain’t in need of that ar
medicine."

Julia reddened, while Fanny burst into a laugh and said, "Father isn’t
much used to French soups, I think."

"Use your napkin, father," softly whispered Julia.

"What shall I use that for?" said he. "My trousers are all tobacco spit
now, and grease won’t hurt ’em any now. Halloo! Here waiter, bring me a
decent fork, for Lord knows I can’t eat with this here shovel and if I
take my fingers Tempest’ll raise a row de dow."