“I am sure I can’t understand it,” said Miss Grizzy in a rueful accent; “there really appears to have been some fatality.”

“Fatality!—­humph!  I wish you would give everything its right name.  What do you mean by fatality?”

“I declare—­I am sure—­I—­I really don’t know,” stammered the unfortunate Grizzy.

“Do you mean that the spilling of the custard was the work of an angel?” demanded her unrelenting friend.

“Oh, certainly not.”

“Or that it was the devil tempted you to throw away your ace there?  I suppose there’s a fatality in our going to supper just now,” continued she, as her deep-toned voice resounded through the passage that conducted to the dining-room; “and I suppose it will be called a fatality if that old Fate,” pointing to Donald, “scalds me to death with that mess of porridge he’s going to put on the table—­humph!”

No such fatality, however, occurred; and the rest of the evening passed off in as much harmony as could be expected from the very heterogeneous parts of which the society was formed.

The family group had already assembled round the breakfast-table, with the exception of Lady Juliana, who chose to take that meal in bed; but, contrary to her usual custom, no Lady Maclaughlan had yet made her appearance.

“The scones will be like leather,” said Miss Grizzy, as she wrapped another napkin round them.

“The eggs will be like snowballs,” cried Miss Jacky, popping them into the slop-basin.

“The tea will be like brandy,” observed Miss Nicky, as she poured more water to the three teaspoonfuls she had infused.

“I wish we saw our breakfast,” said the Laird, as he finished the newspapers, and deposited his spectacles in his pocket.

At that moment the door opened, and the person in question entered in her travelling dress, followed by Sir Sampson, Philistine bringing up the rear with a large green bag and a little band-box.

“I hope your bed was warm and comfortable.  I hope you rested well.  I hope Sir Sampson’s quite well!” immediately burst as if from a thousand voices, while the sisters officiously fluttered round their friend.

“I rested very ill; my bed was very uncomfortable; and Sir Sampson’s as sick as a cat—­humph!”

Three disconsolate “Bless me’s!” here burst forth.

“Perhaps your bed was too hard?” said Miss Grizzy.

“Or too soft?” suggested Miss Jacky.

“Or too hot?” added Miss Nicky.

“It was neither too hard, nor too soft, nor too hot, nor too cold,” thundered the Lady, as she seated herself at the table; “but it was all of them.”

“I declare, that’s most distressing,” said Miss Grizzy, in a tone of sorrowful amazement.  “Was your head high enough, dear Lady Maclaughlan?”

“Perhaps it was too high,” said Miss Jacky.

“I know nothing more disagreeable than a high head,” remarked Miss Nicky.