There was silence for a few moments.  Then little SARAH said, timidly:  “I think it must be because, when a man wishes to drink, whiskey is the first thing which naturally occurs to his mind.  He does not think about water until afterwards.”

“Quite right.  That is the explanation of the scientists.  And why do you think I put in the water first and the whiskey afterwards?”

“It was,” said CHARLIE, brightly, “in order that we might not see so exactly how much whiskey you took.”

“No, that’s quite wrong.  I did it out of sheer originality.  Now what would happen if I drank this curious mixture?”

“You would be breaking the pledge, Uncle WILLIAM,” said both children, promptly and heartily.

“Wrong again.  I should be acting under doctor’s orders.”

“Why hasn’t a brick any fluidity?” asked SARAH, patiently.

“Don’t interrupt, my dear child.  We’re coming to that.  Now, CHARLIE, when you eat or drink anything, where does it go?”

“It goes into my little—­oh, no, Uncle, I cannot say that word,” and CHARLIE, who was of a singularly modest and refined disposition, buried his face in his hands, and blushed deeply.

“Admirable!” exclaimed Uncle WILLIAM.  “One cannot be too refined.  Call it the blank.  It goes into your blank.  Well, whiskey raises the tone of the blank.  Just as, when you screw up the peg of a violin, you raise the tone of the string.  By drinking this I raise the tone of my blank.”  He suited the action to the word.

“Now you’ll be screwed,” said CHARLIE, “like the pegs of the—­”

“On one glass of weak whiskey-and-water—­never!”

“But why hasn’t a brick any fluidity?” asked SARAH, quite patiently.

“First of all, listen to this.  That whiskey-and-water is now inside me.  I want you to understand what inside means.  Go and stand in the passage, and shut the door of this room after you.”

“But, Uncle,” said SARAH, patiently, “why hasn’t a brick any—­”

“Hush, SARAH, hush!” said the obedient CHARLIE.  “It is our duty to obey Uncle WILLIAM in all things.”

So the two children went out of the room, and shut the door after them.  Uncle WILLIAM went to the door, and locked it.

“Now then,” he said, cheerily, “I am inside.  And where are you?”

“Outside.”

“Yes—­and outside you’ll stop.  One of the servants will put you to bed.”  And Uncle WILLIAM went back to the decanter.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  ANOTHER SCENE FROM THE PANTOMIME AT ST. STEPHEN’S.

The Illuminated Doorway.  Brilliant effect lately introduced into the House of Commons.]

* * * * *

A DEAD FROST.

When I saw you on “a January morning,”
With a very little pair of skates indeed,
And the frosty glow your fairy face adorning,
I was suddenly from other passions freed. 
And the year at its imperial beginning
Showed the woman who alone was worth the winning;
Though the growing flame awhile I tried to smother
Like a brother;
And that’s a very common phase indeed,
As we read.