“St. Alexis,” said Babie; “he was asked to versify it.”

“As a wholesome incentive to filial duty and industry,” said Bobus.  “Does the Parsoness mean to have it sung in the school?”

“It might be less dangerous than ’the fox went out one moonshiny night,’” said their mother, anxious to turn the conversation.  “Mr. Parsons brought Mr. Todd of Wrexham in to see the school just as the children were singing the final catastrophe when the old farmer ’shot the old fox right through the head.’  He was so horrified that he declared the schools should never have a penny of his while they taught such murder and heresy.”

“Served them right,” said Jock, “for spoiling that picture of domestic felicity when ‘the little ones picked the bones, oh!’ How many guns shall we be, Bobus?”

“Only three.  My uncle has a touch of gout, the Monk has got a tutorship, Joe has gone back to his ship, but the mighty Bob has a week’s leave, and does not mean a bird to survive the change of owners.”

“Doesn’t Armine come?”

“Not he!” said Bobus.  “Says he doesn’t want to acquire the taste, and he would knock up with half a day.”

“But you’ll all come and bring us luncheon?” entreated Jock.  “You will, mother!  Now, won’t you?  We’ll eat it on a bank like old times when we lived at the Folly, and all were jolly.  I beg your pardon, Bob; I didn’t mean to turn into another poetical brother on your hands, but enthusiasm was too strong for me!  Come, Mother Carey, do!”

“Where is it to be?” she asked, smiling.

“Out by the Long Hanger would be a good place,” said Bobus, “where we found the Epipactis grandiflora.”

“Or the heathery knoll where poor little mother got into a scrape for singing profane songs by moonlight,” laughed Jock.

“Ah! that was when hearts were light,” she said; “but at any rate we’ll make a holiday of it, for Jock’s sake.”

“Ha! what do I see?” exclaimed Jock, who was opposite the open window.  “Is that Armine, or a Jack-in-the-Green?”

“Oh!” half sighed Barbara.  “It’s that harvest decoration!” And Armine, casting down armfuls of great ferns, and beautiful trailing plants, made his entrance through the open window, exchanging greetings, and making a semi-apology for his late appearance as he said—-

“Mother, please desire Macrae to cut me the great white orchids.  He won’t do it unless you tell him, and I promised them for the Altar vases.”

“You know, Armie, he said cutting them would be the ruin of the plant, and I don’t feel justified in destroying it.”

“Macrae’s fancy,” muttered Armine.  “It is only that he hates the whole thing.”

“Unhappy Macrae!  I go and condole with him sometimes,” said Bobus.  “I don’t know which are most outraged-—his Freekirk or his horticultural feelings!”

“Babie,” ordered Armine, who was devouring his breakfast at double speed, “if you’ll put on your things, I’ve the garden donkey-cart ready to take down the flowers.  You won’t expect us to luncheon, mother?”