your pardon, sir,” said the maid, hurriedly. “I was brushing it, and it flew out of my hand.”

“Ah! You should hold it tight,” said the doctor, picking up the hat, and looking at a dint in the crown. “It will require an operation to remove that depression of the brain-pan on the dura mater. I mean on the lining, eh, Vane?”

“Oh, I can soon put that right,” said the boy merrily, as he gave it a punch with his fist and restored the crown to its smooth dome-like shape.

“Yes,” said the doctor, “but you see we cannot do that with a man who has a fractured skull. Been out I see?” he continued, looking down at the lad’s discoloured, dust-stained boots.

“Oh, yes, uncle, I was out at six. Glorious morning. Found quite a basketful of young chanterelles.”

“Indeed? What have you done with them?”

“Been fighting Martha to get her to cook them.”

“And failed?” said the doctor quietly, as he peered into the basket, and turned over the soft, downy, red-cheeked peaches he had brought in.

“No, uncle,—won.”

“Now, you good people, it’s nearly half-past eight. Breakfast—breakfast. Bring in the ham, Eliza.”

“Good-morning, my dear,” said the doctor, bending down to kiss the pleasantly plump elderly lady who had just opened the dining-room door, and keeping up the fiction of its being their first meeting that morning.

“Good-morning, dear.”

“Come, Vane, my boy,” cried the doctor, “breakfast, breakfast. Here’s aunt in one of her furious tempers because you are so late.”

“Don’t you believe him, my dear,” said the lady. “It’s too bad. And really, Thomas, you should not get in the habit of telling such dreadful fibs even in fun. Had a nice walk, Vane?”

“Yes, aunt, and collected a capital lot of edible fungi.”

“The word fungi’s enough to make any one feel that they are not edible, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah. “What sort did you get? Not those nasty, tall, long-legged things you brought before?”

“No, aunt; beautiful golden chanterelles. I wanted to have them cooked for breakfast.”

“And I have told him it would be high treason,” said the doctor. “Martha would give warning.”

“No, no, my dear, not quite so bad as that, but leave them to me, and I’ll cook them for lunch myself.”

“No need, aunt; Martha came down from her indignant perch.”

“I’m glad of that,” said the lady smiling; “but, one minute, before we go in the dining-room: there’s a beautiful souvenir rosebud over the window where I cannot reach it. Cut it and bring it in.”

“At your peril, sir,” said the doctor fiercely. “The last rose of summer! I will not have it touched.”

“Now, my dear Tom, don’t be so absurd,” cried the lady. “What is the use of your growing roses to waste—waste—waste themselves all over the place.”

“You hear that, Vane? There’s quoting poetry. Waste their sweetness on the desert air, I suppose you mean, madam?”

“Yes: it’s all the same,” said the lady. “Thank you, my dear,” she continued, as Vane handed the rose in through the window.

“My poor cut-down bloom,” sighed the doctor; but Vane did not hear him, for he was setting his hat down again in the museum-like hall, close by the fishing-tackle and curiosities of many lands just as a door was opened and a fresh, maddening odour of fried ham saluted his nostrils.

“Oh, murder!” cried the lad; and he rushed upstairs, three steps at a time, to begin washing his hands, thinking the while over his encounter with his Creole fellow-pupil.

“Glad I didn’t fight him,” he muttered, as he dried his knuckles, and looked at them curiously. “Better than having to ask uncle for his sticking-plaster.”

He stopped short, turning and gazing out of the bedroom window, which looked over the back garden toward the field with their Jersey cows; and just then a handsome game-cock flapped his bronzed wings and sent forth his defiant call.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo! indeed,” muttered Vane; “and he thinks me a regular coward. I suppose it will have to come to a set-to some day. I feel sure I can lick him, and perhaps, after all, he’ll lick me.”

“Oh, Vane, my dear boy, don’t!” cried Mrs Lee, as the lad rushed down again, his feet finding the steps so rapidly that the wonder was that he did not go headlong, and a few seconds later, he was in his place at the dining-room table, tastily arranged with its plate, china, and flowers.

A walk before breakfast is a wonderful thing for the appetite, and Vane soon began with a sixteen-year-old growing appetite upon the white bread, home-made golden butter, and the other pleasant products of the doctor’s tiny homestead, including brahma eggs, whose brown shells suggested that they must have been boiled in coffee.

The doctor kept the basket he had brought in beside him on the cloth, and had to get up four times over to throw great fat wood-lice out of the window, after scooping them up with a silver tablespoon, the dark grey creatures having escaped from between the interstices of the basket, and being busily making their way in search of some dry, dark corner.

“It is astonishing what a predilection for peaches the wood-louse has,” said the doctor, resuming his seat.

“All your fault, uncle,” said Vane, with his mouth full.

“Mine! why?”

“You see you catch them stealing, and then you forgive them and let them go to find their way back to the south wall, so that they can begin again.”

“Humph! yes,” said the doctor; “they have plenty of enemies to shorten their lives without my help. Well, so you found some mushrooms, did you?”

“Yes, uncle, just in perfection.”

“Some more tea, dear?” said Vane’s aunt. “I hope you didn’t bring many to worry cook with.”

“Only a basket full, aunty,” said Vane merrily.

“What!” cried the lady, holding the teapot in air.

“But she is going to cook them for dinner.”

“Really, my dear, I must protest,” said the lady. “Vane cannot know enough about such things to be trusted to bring them home and eat them. I declare I was in fear and trembling over that last dish.”

“You married a doctor, my dear,” said Vane’s uncle quietly; “and you saw me partake of the dish without fear. Someone must experimentalise, somebody had to eat the first potato, and the first bunch of grapes. Nature never labelled them wholesome food.”

“Then let somebody else try them first,” said the lady. “I do not feel disposed to be made ill to try whether this or that is good for food. I am not ambitious.”

“Then you must forgive us: we are,” said the doctor dipping into his basket. “Come, you will not refuse to experimentalise on a peach, my dear. There is one just fully ripe, and—dear me! There are two wood-lice in this one. Eaten their way right in and living there.”

He laid one lovely looking peach on a plate, and made another dip.

“That must have fallen quite early in the night,” said Vane, sharply, “slugs have been all over it.”

“So they have,” said the doctor, readjusting his spectacles. “Here is a splendid one. No: a blackbird has been digging his beak into that. And into this one too. Really, my dear, I’m afraid that my garden friends and foes have been tasting them all. No, here is one with nothing the matter, save the contusion consequent from its fall from the mother tree.”

“On to mother earth,” said Vane laughing. “I say, uncle, wouldn’t it be a good plan to get a lot of that narrow old fishing net, and spread it out hanging from the wall, so as to catch all the peaches that fall?”

“Excellent,” said the doctor.

“I’ll do it,” said Vane, wrinkling up his brow, as he began to puzzle his brains about the best way to suspend the net for the purpose.