THE DOCTOR'S MIXTURE.

BOOK I

CHAPTER VIII. A LITTLE PARTY.

THEY went up, and found a few of the
neighbours gathered: " Just enough to
make a house," the Doctor said. There
was a young man there, tall, strong, and
good-looking—young Tom Clarke, the
parson's son—" a very pretty block," the
Doctor said again, " to chisel a parson out
of. There was no better material, for you
should hear his voice with the hounds."
This was one of the pleasant features in
the Doctor's character which made him so
original and amusing: he always gave odd
reasons for his various opinions. His metaphors,
too, were always of an exceptional
sort, and inexhaustible in their variety;
and thus his conversation had a sort of
grotesque air.

"How are you, Tom, my embryo?
Why didn't you look in on us below, and
help us with the mellow. Ah, Katey was
at the bottom of that! Miss Paget, you're
saving us a pint of colza for the moderature
lamp to-night, with those bright eyes of
yours. How's the father, and where is
he?" This reproachfully: " I declare you're
treating me scurvily among you all. Ah,
Mr. Rumford, give me the hand. What
have you started, my girls, since we've been
below? What's it to be?—old maid?
Then so be it. Tom, help with the round
table;" which was accordingly dragged
forward. In a moment the game was set
on foot, and a bright, cheerful ring formed.
Beside Katey was seated the honest, fair-haired
Tom, whom the acute reader will
have already divined to be the slave of
Katey, with the staid toleration of her
father. " A fine lad, with a proper spirit;

and sure, if Katey likes him, the creature,
there's no harm in keeping him on, until
something better turns up." And, strange
to say, the father had actually conveyed to
him that this was to be the arrangement
on which their intimacy was to be based.
"You know, my dear lad, Katey's a fit
wife for an English grand-duke. If he
came into this parlour, and said, ' Mr.
Findlater, I propose to do myself the honour
of asking your daughter's hand,' I'd
say it was yet more than an honour to
him. Oh! call a spade a spade, sir; and
it's been my rule always with any child of
my loins. No, no! Be he lord, duke, or
baron, baronight, or knight, I think, sir,
my Katey has as good as queen's blood
running in her tender veins. And I am
sure, my dear lad, it is not from you I'll
hear the contrary?" Thus artfully did the
father put it.

Round the table they were all pretty well
squeezed, which was no drawback, and, the
Doctor said, an " essential of the game."
Lord Shipton was on a little low chair
next Polly; his long, thin chest and head
just rising over the table. Polly was giggling
and tossing her head, and teaching
every one the game, the most wildly
animated creature that could be conceived.
At last, at the end of the game, it was
found that the badge of singleness had
been awarded to Katey, who received her
fate with the most natural laugh in the
world.

"Well, after that!" said her father, " the
cards have lost their character with me.
The poor benighted ignorant pack, that
knows no better. Now clear the decks,
boys, and let's have ' Clutch him who
can.'"

This was a game the Doctor recalled
plaintively, as having been played at Lord