The Brat complies, though not with eagerness.  They change occupations:  the Brat stirs, and she fishes for almonds.  Ten minutes pass:  the taffy is done, and what is more it really is taffy.  The upshot of our cookery is in general so startlingly indifferent from what we had intended, that the result in the present case takes us by surprise.  We all prove practically that, in the words of the receipt-book, it “breaks clear between the teeth without sticking to them.”  It is poured into Bobby’s soup-plate, and we have thrown up the window-sashes, and set it on the ledge to cool.  The searching wind blows in dry and biting.  Now it is rushing in a violent current through the room, for the door has opened.  Mother enters.

“To what may we attribute the honor of this visit?” says Algy, turning away from the window to meet her, and setting her a chair.  Bobby gives her a kiss, and the Brat a lump of taffy, concerning which it would be invidious to predicate which were the stickier; so exceedingly adhesive are both.

“Your father says,” begins she, sitting down.  She is interrupted by a loud and universal groan.

“Says what?  Something unpleasant of course, who is it now?  Who has done any thing now?  I do hope it is the Brat,” cries Bobby, viciously; “it is quite his turn; he has been good boy of the family for the last week.”

“I dare say it is,” replies the Brat, resignedly; “one can’t expect such prosperity as mine to last forever.”

“Of course it is I,” says Algy, rather bitterly, “it is always I. I have never been good boy since I was ploughed; and, please God, I never will be again.”

“But what is it? what is it?  About how bad is it?  Is it to be one of our worst rows?”

We are all speaking together at the top of our voices; indeed, we rarely employ a lower key.

“It is no one; no one has done any thing,” replies mother, when, at last, we allow her to make herself heard, “only your father sends you a message that, as Sir Roger Tempest is coming here to-day, he hopes you will make less noise this evening in here than you did last night:  he says he could hardly hear the sound of his own voice.”

“Ahem!” “Very likely!” “I dare say!” in different tones of angry incredulity.

“He begs you to see that the swing-door is shut, as he does not wish his friend to imagine that he keeps a private lunatic asylum.”

A universal snort of indignation.

“If we are bedlamites, we know who made us so.  We will tell old Roger if he asks,” etc.

“For my part,” say I, resolutely pinching my lips together as I kneel on the carpet, and violently hammer the now cold and hard taffy with the handle of the poker, which in its day has been put to many uses vile, “I can tell you that I shall not dine with you to-night:  I should infallibly say something to father—­something unfortunate—­I feel it rising; and it would be unseemly to have one of our emeutes before this old gentleman, would not it?”