Having delivered her ultimatum on the subject of Sunday work, Mrs. Corbett became quite genial.  She heaped Reginald’s plate with cold chicken and creamed potatoes, and, mellowed by them and the comfort of her well-appointed table, he was prepared to renounce the devil and all his works if Mrs. Corbett gave the order.

CHAPTER III.

THE SAILORS’ REST.

When Reginald reached home he found his brother in a state of mind bordering on frenzy, but when he shoved the basket which Mrs. Corbett had filled for him toward Randolph with the unnecessary injunction to “stow it in his hold,” the lion’s mouth was effectively closed.  When he had finished the last crumb Reginald told him Mrs. Corbett’s decree regarding Sunday work, and found that Randolph was prepared to abstain from all forms of labor on all days in the week if she wished it.

That night, after the twins had washed the accumulated stock of dishes, and put patches on their overalls with pieces of canvas and a sail needle, and performed the many little odd jobs which by all accepted rules of ethics belong to Sunday evening’s busy work, they sat beside the fire and indulged in great depression of spirits!

“She can’t live forever,” Reginald broke out at last with apparent irrelevance.  But there was no irrelevance—­his remark was perfectly in order.

He was referring to a dear aunt in Bournemouth.  This lady, who was possessed of “funds,” had once told her loving nephews—­the twins—­that if they would go away and stay away she might—­do something for them—­ by and by.  She had urged them so strongly to go to Canada that they could not, under the circumstances, do otherwise.  Aunt Patience Brydon shared the delusion that is so blissfully prevalent among parents and guardians of wayward youth in England, that to send them to Canada will work a complete reformation, believing that Canada is a good, kind wilderness where iced tea is the strongest drink known, and where no more exciting game than draughts is ever played.

Aunt Patience, though a frail-looking little white-haired lady, had, it seemed, a wonderful tenacity of life.

“She’ll slip her cable some day,” Reginald declared soothingly.  “She can’t hold out much longer—­you know the last letter said she was failin’ fast.”

“Failin’ fast!” Randolph broke in impatiently.  “It’s us that’s failin’ fast!  And maybe when we’ve waited and waited, and stayed away for ’er, she’ll go and leave it all to some Old Cats’ ‘Ome or Old Hens’ Roost, or some other beastly charity.  I don’t trust ’er—­’any woman that ’olds on to life the way she does—­’er with one foot in the grave, and ’er will all made and everything ready.”

“Well, she can’t last always,” Reginald declared, holding firmly to this one bit of comfort.

The next news they got from Bournemouth was positively alarming!  She was getting better.  Then the twins lost hope entirely and decided to treat Aunt Patience as one already dead—­figuratively speaking, to turn her picture to the wall.