“So we’re to have the Doctor on Thursday,” said Mrs Murchison, plainly not displeased.  “Well, I hope the dining-room carpet will be down.”

“I expect he’ll be wanting his tea,” replied Mr Murchison.  “He’s got you in the right place on the list for that, Mother—­as usual.”

“I’d just like to see him go anywhere else for his tea the day he was coming to our house,” declared Stella.  “But he generally has too much sense.”

“You boys,” said Mrs Murchison, turning back to her sons, “will see that you’re on hand that evening.  And I hope the Doctor will rub it in about the prayer meeting.”  Mrs Murchison chuckled.  “I saw it went home to both of you, and well it might.  Yes, I think I may as well expect him to tea.  He enjoys my scalloped oysters, if I do say it myself.”

“We’ll get Abby over,” said Mr Murchison.  “That’ll please the Doctor.”

“I must say,” remarked Stella, “he seems to think a lot more of Abby now that she’s Mrs Episcopal Johnson.”

“Yes, Abby and Harry must come,” said Mrs Murchison, “and I was thinking of inviting Mr and Mrs Horace Williams.  We’ve been there till I’m ashamed to look them in the face.  And I’ve pretty well decided,” she added autocratically, “to have chicken salad.  So if Dr Drummond has made up his mouth for scalloped oysters he’ll be disappointed.”

“Mother,” announced Stella, “I’m perfectly certain you’ll have both.”

“I’ll consider it,” replied her mother.  “Meanwhile we would be better employed in thinking of what we have been hearing.  That’s the third sermon from the Book of Job in six weeks.  I must say, with the whole of the two Testaments to select from, I don’t see why the Doctor should be so taken up with Job.”

Stella was vindicated; Mrs Murchison did have both.  The chicken salad gleamed at one end of the table and the scalloped oysters smoked delicious at the other.  Lorne had charge of the cold tongue and Advena was entrusted with the pickled pears.  The rest of the family were expected to think about the tea biscuits and the cake, for Lobelia had never yet had a successor that was any hand with company.  Mrs Murchison had enough to do to pour out the tea.  It was a table to do anybody credit, with its glossy damask and the old-fashioned silver and best china that Mrs Murchison had brought as a bride to her housekeeping—­for, thank goodness, her mother had known what was what in such matters—­a generous attractive table that you took some satisfaction in looking at.  Mrs Murchison came of a family of noted housekeepers; where she got her charm I don’t know.  Six-o’clock tea, and that the last meal in the day, was the rule in Elgin, and a good enough rule for Mrs Murchison, who had no patience with the innovation of a late dinner recently adopted by some people who could keep neither their servants nor their digestions in consequence.  It had been a crisp October day; as Mr Murchison remarked,