is it now? Who has done
any thing now? I do hope it is the Brat," cries Bobby, viciously; "it is
quite his turn; he has been good boy of the family for the last week."

"I dare say it is," replies the Brat, resignedly; "one can't expect such
prosperity as mine to last forever."

"Of course it is _I_," says Algy, rather bitterly, "it is always I. I
have never been good boy since I was ploughed; and, please God, I never
will be again."

"But what is it? what is it? About how bad is it? Is it to be one of our
worst rows?"

We are all speaking together at the top of our voices; indeed, we rarely
employ a lower key.

"It is no one; no one has done any thing," replies mother, when, at
last, we allow her to make herself heard, "only your father sends you a
message that, as Sir Roger Tempest is coming here to-day, he hopes you
will make less noise this evening in here than you did last night: he
says he could hardly hear the sound of his own voice."

"Ahem!" "Very likely!" "I dare say!" in different tones of angry
incredulity.

"He begs you to see that the swing-door is shut, as he does not wish his
friend to imagine that he keeps a private lunatic asylum."

A universal snort of indignation.

"If we are bedlamites, we know who made us so. We will tell old Roger if
he asks," etc.

"For my part," say I, resolutely pinching my lips together as I kneel on
the carpet, and violently hammer the now cold and hard taffy with the
handle of the poker, which in its day has been put to many uses vile, "I
can tell you that I shall not dine with you to-night: I should
infallibly say something to father--something unfortunate--I feel it
rising; and it would be unseemly to have one of our _emeutes_ before
this old gentleman, would not it?"

"They are nice breezy things when you are used to them," says Barbara,
laughing; "but one requires to be brought up to them."

"Do not you dine either, Brat," say I, looking up, and waving the poker
with suave command at him, "and we will broil bones for tea, and roast
potatoes on the shovel."

"Some of you must dine," says poor mother, rather wearily, "or your
father--"

"He cannot complain if we send our two specimen ones," say I, again
looking up, and indicating Barbara and Algy with my weapon, "our sample
figs: if Sir Robert--Sir Robin--Sir Roger--what is he?--does not see the
rest of us, he may perhaps imagine that we are all equally presentable,
which would be more to your credit, m