“Tell me just what time you’ll start, sir, and I’ll begin an hour beforehand,” said she.  “That’s the only way to be sure that they don’t disgrace you.”

For breakfast we had, among other things, some stewed oysters served in soup-plates.

“O Todd,” shrieked Budge, “there’s the turtle-plates again—­oh, ain’t I glad!”

“Oo—­ee—­turtle pyates,” squealed Toddie.

“What on earth do you mean, boys?” I demanded.

“I’ll show you,” said Budge, jumping down from his chair and bringing his plate of oysters cautiously toward me.  “Now you just put your head down underneath my plate, and look up, and you’ll see a turtle.”

For a moment I forgot that I was not at a restaurant, and I took the plate, held it up, and examined its bottom.

“There!” said Budge, pointing to the trademark, in colors, of the makers of the crockery, “don’t you see the turtle?”

I abruptly ordered Budge to his seat, unmoved even by Toddie’s remark, that—­

“Dey ish turtles, but dey can’t knawl awound like udder turtles.”

After breakfast I devoted a great deal of fussy attention to myself.  Never did my own wardrobe seem so meager and ill—­ assorted; never did I cut myself so many times while shaving; never did I use such unsatisfactory shoe-polish.  I finally gave up in despair my effort to appear genteel, and devoted myself to the bouquet.  I cut almost flowers enough to dress a church, and then remorselessly excluded every one which was in the least particular imperfect.  In making the bouquet I enjoyed the benefit of my nephews’ assistance and counsel and took enforced part in conversation which flowers suggested.

“Ocken Hawwy,” said Toddie, “ish heaven all like this, wif pretty f’owers?  Cos I don’t see what ze angels ever turns out for if ’tis.”

“Uncle Harry,” said Budge, “when the leaves all go up and down and wriggle around so, are they talking to the wind?”

“I—­I guess so, old fellow.”

“Who are you making that bouquet for, Uncle Harry?” asked Budge.

“For a lady—­for Miss Mayton—­that lady that saw us all muddy yesterday afternoon,” said I.

“Oh, I like her,” said Budge.  “She looks so nice and pretty—­just like a cake—­just as if she was good to eat—­Oh, I just love her, don’t you?”

“Well, I respect her very highly, Budge.”

“’Spect?  What does ’spect mean?”

“Why, it means that I think she’s a lady—­a real pleasant lady-just the nicest sort of lady in the world—­the sort of person I’d like to see every day, and like to see her better than any one else.”

“Oh, why, ‘spect an’ love means just the same thing, don’t they, Uncle Har—­”

“Budge,” I exclaimed, somewhat hastily “run ask Maggie for a piece of string—­quick!”

“All right,” said Budge, moving off, “but they do, don’t they?”