eat well--for there's lots to do. No
idlers on Brankly Farm, I can tell you. And we don't let young folk lie
abed till breakfast-time every day. We let you rest this morning, Bob
and Tim, just by way of an extra refresher before beginning. Here, tuck
into the bread and butter, little man, it'll make you grow. More tea,
Susy," (to his wife). "Why, mother, you're eating nothing--nothing at
all. I declare you'll come to live on air at last."

The old lady smiled benignly, as though rather tickled with that joke,
and was understood by the boys to protest that she had eaten more than
enough, though her squeak had not yet become intelligible to them.

"If you do take to living on air, mother," said her daughter-in-law, "we
shall have to boil it up with a bit of beef and butter to make it
strong."

Mrs Merryboy, senior, smiled again at this, though she had not heard a
word of it. Obviously she made no pretence of hearing, but took it as
good on credit, for she immediately turned to her son, put her hand to
her right ear, and asked what Susy said.

In thunderous tones the joke was repeated, and the old lady almost went
into fits over it, insomuch that Bob and Tim regarded her with a spice
of anxiety mingled with their amusement, while little Martha looked at
her in solemn wonder.

Twelve months' experience had done much to increase Martha's love for
the old lady, but it had done nothing to reduce her surprise; for
Martha, as yet, did not understand a joke. This, of itself, formed a
subject of intense amusement to old Mrs Merryboy, who certainly made
the most of circumstances, if ever woman did.

"Have some more fish, Bob," said Mrs Merryboy, junior.

Bob accepted more, gratefully. So did Tim, with alacrity.

"What sort of a home had you in London, Tim?" asked Mrs Merryboy.

"Well, ma'am, I hadn't no home at all."

"No home at all, boy; what do you mean? You must have lived somewhere."

"Oh yes, ma'am, I always lived somewheres, but it wasn't nowheres in
partikler. You see I'd neither father nor mother, an' though a good old
'ooman did take me in, she couldn't purvide a bed or blankets, an' her
'ome was stuffy, so I preferred to live in the streets, an' sleep of a
night w'en I couldn't pay for a lodgin', in empty casks and under
wegitable carts in Covent Garden Market, or in empty sugar 'ogsheads. I
liked the 'ogsheads best w'en I was 'ungry, an' that was most always,
'cause I could sometimes pick a litt