“John, ladies and gentlemen,” said Brandon, “when I look around me on these varied attractions, when I behold those raspberry turnovers of a flakiness and a puffiness so ethereal, that one might think the very eyes of the observer should drop lightly on them, lest that too appreciative glance should flatten them down—­I say, ladies and gentlemen, when I smell that crackling, when I cast my eyes on those cinders in the gravy, I am irresistibly reminded of occasions when I myself, arrayed in a holland pinafore, have presided over like entertainments; and of one in particular when, being of tender age—­of one occasion, I say, that is never to be forgotten, when, during the small hours of the night, I was hauled out of bed to assist in mixing hardbake, by one very dear to us all—­who shall be nameless.”

What more he would have added will never be known, for with ringing laughter that spoke for the excellence of their lungs, the whole tableful of young Mortimers, with the exception of Johnnie, rose, and, as if by one impulse, fell upon their father.

“Hold hard,” he was heard to shout, “don’t smother me.”  But he received a kissing and hugging of great severity; the elder ones who had understood Brandon’s speech, closing him in; the little ones, who only perceived to their delight that the occasion had become festive again, hovering round, and getting at him where they could.  So that when they parted, and he was visible again, sitting radiant in the midst of them, his agreeable face was very red, and he was breathing fast and audibly.  “I’ll pay you for this!” he exclaimed, when he observed, to his amusement, that Brandon’s serious look was now really genuine, as if he was afraid the experiment might be repeated on himself.  “Johnnie, my boy, shake hands, I forgive you this once.  And you may pass the bottle.”  Johnnie, who knew himself to be the real offender, made haste to obey.  “It’s not blacking, of course,” continued John, looking at the thick liquor with distrust.

“The betht black currant,” exclaimed his heir, “at thirteen-penth a bottle.”

“And where’s Cray?” exclaimed John, suddenly observing the absence of his young guest.

“He’s down in the kitchen, dishing up the pudding,” said Barbara blushing, and she darted out of the room, and presently returned, other footsteps following hers.

“Cray,” exclaimed John, as the boy seemed inclined to linger outside, “don’t stand there in the draught.  And so it is not by your virtuous inclinations that you have hitherto been excluded from this festive scene?”

“No, sir,” said Crayshaw with farcical meekness of voice and air, “quite the contrary.  It was that I’ve met with a serious accident.  I’ve been run over.”

John looked aghast.  “You surely have not been into the loose-box,” he said anxiously.

“Oh no, father, nothing of the sort,” said Barbara.  “It was only that he was down in the kitchen on his knees, and two blackbeetles ran over his legs.  You should never believe a word he says, father.”