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 and I do my best to engage that burning eye of Dad’s elsewhere. But before very long there comes to my relief a prolonged “!” rumbling through the racy air—the unmistakable sound of a horn. “Dinner already? It can’t be!” cries poor Dad in dismay—nevertheless, dinner it is. In we all scamper, and lively presently about the kitchen-door are the demands for “more soap,” and “another towel.”

Mother has dished up; and now she and Nance take their stand at one end of the long table, and pass down, to any one who is seated, a generous plateful of roast pork, apple-sauce, and potatoes.

“We’re rough, you know,” Dad says apologetically, handing me the salt.

“And ready!” chuckles Sandy, falling to with a will upon his share.

“Roughest is best at times,” Mother placidly winds up.

But, in reality, there is very little that is rough about it. The cloth is clean, the set of sun-browned faces round it, shining with health and good humour, is a finer sight than any possible amount of silver on it could be, and the meal itself, though perhaps it might make a conscientious dyspeptic shudder, for the pork is followed by a hot plum-pudding, would likewise almost certainly make his mouth water, for it is excellently cooked. There is only one thing wrong, and that is, that every one of us drinks tea. Delicious, pernicious tea! when shall we of the back-blocks learn to do without you, anyway at dinner? No wonder that Nance has toothache, and patent medicines such a sale!