By the way, boys, I'll tell you a good story
about this very waistcoat of mine. When
I was in Boolunn, and lost my passport, and
there was a money-letter lying for me at
the post-office, divil a bit"— the Doctor
when excited always relapsed into his
native Doric— "would th' employer give it
to me. What d'ye think  A bright thought
struck me, sir, and I turned down my
waistcoat collar, and there it was, ' Peter
Findlater, M.D., F.R.C.S.,' marked in full.
We're going to be Barmecides to-day,"
he continued. "Why, it's all plates and
salads, and two or three little poor chickens
out of hospital."

It was an accurate description. For
there was a great show of tumblers, and
glasses, and salad, with some miniature
chickens, each occupying an enormous
dish.

"See here, Findlater," said his lordship,
mysteriously, "I have made some little
preparations, and have rather gone beyond
what was the agreement. It always seems
invidious to go beyond others, and makes
them feel uncomfortable. There must be
a whip for the woman at the gate."

"Take my coachman's, then."

"Nonsense. You must have your joke.
I mean for boiling the potatoes. It's the
perquisite, and always done. A shilling a
head. By the way, I see you have brought
a sort of basket of things, and the officers
too. My men had better unpack them,
and lay them out with the rest."

Colonel Bouchier and some of the
officers were now come up, and standing by.

"Better not," said the Doctor, quietly;
"leave all to the mess waiters. Our things
would only get mixed up with your chickens.
Colonel, our victuals will all be together
at this end, under this big tree."

In another moment the Doctor was
superintending the unpacking of quite a
banquet, his own and the officers'. What
he called "brown massive fowls," like
blocks of boxwood; little fore-quarters of
lamb, like "a cushion of meat."

A pasty, and a line of champagne flasks
— the "Royal Fizzileers," he called them
— were all drawn up with their silver helmets
on. Lord Shipton was rather angry, as he
saw all this, and spoke warmly to the colonel
and Doctor. "It is not fair," he said; "it
puts me in an invidious attitude. It was
understood that this was to be a mere slight
refection: we were to dine at home."

"But that was just it," said the colonel;
"never do for men in the saddle. I'd die
or faint without my lunch."

"My dear Shipton, say no more about
it, we're uncommonly well off."

Just as they were sitting down they
heard the sound of horses' hoofs; up rode
Mr. Randall Morrison, carelessly got down,
and walked up smiling to Lord Shipton,
who welcomed him with delight. The
Doctor's brow contracted, and Polly's
cherry lips, brilliant in the sun, assumed
quite a sour pout. This was the evil genius
of the party. Yet no one appeared so glad
to see him as the Doctor.

As for the meal itself, nothing could be
so pleasant. It was like the change at
Cinderella's feast. Only instead of pumpkins,
there were Lord Shipton's "blue
chickens" changed by a touch into a
banquet. Lord Shipton still adroitly
supported the character of host, and by making
a fuss, throwing his head back to his stage
servants with a "Here, Wilkins, hand
round that salad. Drinkwater, see if there
is enough salad down there. Bring those
gentlemen the dressing." For two pickle
bottles had also been supplied by his lord-ship,
containing a yellowish, frothy liquid,
which the Doctor persisted in asking for
as "th' embrocation, please." At times
the host would get up and hurry about
to see that every one was taken care of.
The Doctor, warming with the pleasant
entertainment, could hardly contain his
humour at this notion. "It's better than
broad farce: I declare I admire him for
it. I couldn't do it, though not imperfectly
furnished with the rich ore of self-confidence."

Mr. Webber, who was opposite, was
not slow to seize this opening for a sally,
and retorted with, "I think you've
exhausted the mine, my dear fellow;" which
was a signal for the flow of pleasant spirits
and the highest enjoyment. You should
have seen the two heroines, seated next
to the Adonis of the feast. Polly, glowing
with excitement, brilliant as a flower;
and, it would be affectation to deny it,
pleasantly stimulated by the day's
champagne, a rare delicacy with her — sparkling
like the very beads of that welcome beverage
— laughing, oh, laughing so much—
a very Rubens Beauty. While Katey,
whose gentler blood flowed more slowly,
followed in softer tones, the second in the
duet; just as happy, and endowed with a
fluency in suggesting things to her sister's
advantage. The young man himself had
drawn inspirations from the generous
vintage, and was full of that universal
happiness and brotherly love which is