s the cover from the boiled leg of mutton.

"Oh! no, not yet," says Mr. Dysart, quite as cheerfully, raising the
carving knife and fork.

Something, however, ominous in the silence, that has fallen on both
children makes itself felt, and without being able exactly to realize it
he suspends operation for a moment to look at them.

He finds four eyes staring in his direction with astonishment,
generously mingled with pious horror shining in their clear depths.

"Eh?" says he, involuntarily.

"Aren't you going to say it?" asks Mabel, in a severe tone.

"Say what?" says he.

"Grace," returns Tommy with distinct disapprobation.

"Oh--er--yes, of course. How could I have forgotten it?" says Dysart
spasmodically, laying down the carvers at once, and preparing to
distinguish himself. He succeeds admirably.

The children are leaning on the table cloth in devout expectation, that
has something, however, sinister about it. Nurse is looking on, also
expectant. Mr. Dysart makes a wild struggle with his memory, but all to
no effect. The beginning of various prayers come with malignant
readiness to his mind, the ends of several psalms, the middles of a
verse or two, but the graces shamelessly desert him in his hour of need.

Good gracious! What is the usual one, the one they use at home--the--er?
He becomes miserably conscious that Tommy's left eye is cocked sideways,
and is regarding him with fatal understanding. In a state of desperation
he bends forward as low as he well can, wondering vaguely where on earth
is his hat, and mumbles something into his plate, that might be a bit of
a prayer, but certainly it is not a grace. Perhaps it is a last cry for
help.

"What's that?" demands Tommy promptly.

"I didn't hear one word of it," says Mabel with indignation.

Mr. Dysart is too stricken to be able to frame a reply.

"I don't believe you know one," continues Tommy, still fixing him with
an uncompromising eye. "I don't believe you were saying anything. Do
you, nurse?"

"Oh, fie, now, Master Tommy, and I heard your ma telling you you were to
be good."

"Well, so I am good. 'Tis he isn't good. He won't say his prayers. Do
you know one?" turning again to Dysart, who is covered with confusion.
What the deuce did he stay here for? Why didn't he go to his club? He
could have been back in plenty of time. If that confounded grinning
woman of a nurse would only go away, it wouldn't be so bad; but----

"Never mind," says Mabe