"It only has butter in the little holes of it, not at the top, Miss
Fosbrook," said, in an odd pleading kind of tone, a stout good-
humoured girl of thirteen, with face, hair, and all, a good deal like
a nice comfortable apricot in a sunny place, or a good respectable
Alderney cow.

"I think it would be better not to grumble, Susan, my dear," replied,
in a low voice, a pleasant dark-eyed young lady who was making tea;
but the boys at the bottom of the table neither heard nor heeded.

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary," was Sam's cry, in so funny a voice,
that Miss Fosbrook could only laugh; "is this bread and scrape the
fare for a rising young family of genteel birth?"

"Oh!" with a pathetic grimace, cried the pretty-faced though sandy-
haired Henry, the next to him in age, "if our beloved parents knew
how their poor deserted infants are treated--"

"A fine large infant you are, Hal!" exclaimed Susan.

"I'm an infant, you're an infant, Miss Fosbrook is an infant--a
babby."

"For shame, Hal!" cried the more civilized Sam, clenching his fist.

"No, no, Sam," interposed Miss Fosbrook, laughing, "your brother is
quite right; I am as much an infant in the eye of the law as little
George."

"There, I said I would!" cried Henry; "didn't I, Sam?"