. M'Cosh had
asked Bella Bathgate to sup with her and afterwards to witness what she
dubbed "a chiraide."

The living-room had been made ready for the entertainment, all the
chairs placed in rows, the deep window-seat doing duty for a stage, but
Jean was very doubtful about the powers of the actors, and hoped that
the audience would be both easily amused and long-suffering.

Jock and Mhor protested that they had chosen a word for the charade, and
knew exactly what they meant to say, but they would divulge no details,
advising Jean to wait patiently, for something very good was coming.

The little house looked very festive, for the boys had decorated
earnestly, the square hall was a bower of greenery, and a gaily coloured
Chinese lantern hanging in the middle added a touch of gaiety to the
scene. The supper was the best that Jean and Mrs. M'Cosh could devise,
the linen and the glass and silver shone, the flowers were charmingly
arranged Jean wore her gay mandarin's coat, and the guests--when they
arrived--found themselves in such a warm and welcoming atmosphere that
they at once threw off all stiffness and prepared to enjoy the evening.

The entertainment was to begin at eight, and Mrs. M'Cosh and Miss
Bathgate took their seats "on the chap," as the latter put it. The two
Miss Watsons, surprisingly enough, were also present. They had come
along after supper with a small present for Jean, had asked to see her,
and stood lingering on the doorstep refusing to come farther, but
obviously reluctant to depart.

"Just a little bag, you know, Miss Jean, for you to put your work in if
you're going out to tea, you know. No, it's not at all kind. You've been
so nice to us. No, no, we won't come in; we don't want to disturb
you--just ran along--you've friends, anyway. Oh, well, if you put it
that way ... we might just sit down for five minutes--if you're sure
we're not in the way...." And still making a duet of protest they sank
into seats.

A passage had been arranged, with screens between the door and the
window-seat, and much traffic went along that way; the screens bumped
and bulged and seemed on the point of collapsing, while smothered
giggles were frequent.

At last the curtains were jerked apart, and revealed what seemed to be a
funeral pyre. Branches were piled on the window-seat, and on the top,
wrapped in an eiderdown quilt, with a laurel wreath bound round his
head, lay David. Jock, with bare legs and black boots,