“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Merryweather, evidently receiving a new idea.  “I suppose it might be mended, Miles.  Do you know, I never thought of that!  Certainly; it shall be mended.  Bell, remind me to-morrow to get some glue.  That is one of the set of chairs that came from my father’s house, you remember, Miles, and the seats were always loose.  One night my mother had a party, and your Uncle Frederick went round before the people came, and set the seats forward in the frames, so that whoever sat down would go through at once.  The governor of the State was the first to take his seat, and he went directly through to the floor, just as Phil did now.  My father was excessively angry, and Frederick and I spent the next day in bed, but we thought it was worth the punishment.”

“These are improving reminiscences, my dear Miranda!” said Mr. Merryweather.

“Oh! but what do you think mamma did this morning?” cried Gertrude.  “May I tell them, mamma?  Do you mind?”

“Tell them, by all means, my dear,” said Mrs. Merryweather, cheerfully.  “Did I do anything more foolish than usual?  Oh, yes, I remember!  I was measuring the whale-oil soap.  Tell them, Gerty, if you think it would amuse them.  I am not very useful,” she added, turning to Mrs. Grahame, “but I do seem to give a good deal of amusement, and that is a good thing.”

“Well,” said Gertrude, “you see, we had to squirt the roses, and mamma said she would make the whale-oil mixture for us, because it is such horrid stuff, and we had some errands to do first.  So I came back after the errands, and she was measuring it out.  Dear mamma! am I a wretch?”

“Not at all, my child,” said her mother.  “I richly deserve to be exposed; besides, one can always serve to point a moral.  You see, Mrs. Grahame, the receipt said, ’half a pint of soap to a gallon of water!  Now I had ten gallons of water, so I—­tell what I was doing, cruel child.”

“She had the pint measure,” said Gerty, “and she was filling it half full and then pouring it into the water.  She was going to do that ten times, you see; and I said, ’Why don’t you fill it full, five times?’ Darling mamma, I am a wretch!”

“Yes, you are,” cried Bell.  “Poor mamma! dear mamma!”

The children all clustered round their mother, caressing her, and murmuring affectionate words.  Mrs. Merryweather smiled in a happy, helpless way.

“I am a sad goose, good neighbours,” she said; “but they always bring me out right, somehow.  There now, darlings, sit down, and be good.  And, by the way, Gertrude, I am minded to heap a coal of fire on your head.  Didn’t you tell me this morning that Titus Labienus was always on a hill, or something like that?”

“Yes,” said Gertrude.  “So he is, and ever will remain so.  Have you taken him down, dear mamma?”

“Not exactly!” said her mother.  “But I have made a ballad about him, and I thought it might possibly amuse you all.”