Page:Comin' Thro' the Rye (1898).djvu/37

Rh to admire the self-restraint that has kept the governor from pulling them in his frequent rages.

Do you think it is going to rain, papa?" asks Alice, making her small votive offering in a voice that refuses to come boldly forth, but seems to be strangled half-way. The sky is one clear vault of blue, and it has not rained for a week.

"I don't know," says the governor crossly. Apparently he has seen the pumping-up process, and is not grateful for the effort.

Alice looks over at Milly with a glance that plainly says, "Your turn now;" for it is a point of honour with us that when one makes a remark, each shall follow in turn, and thus divide the labour of conversation.

"Dorley killed a lot more snails last night," says Milly, looking at papa; but the snails go the way of the weather, and no notice whatever is vouchsafed to this delicate morceau.

It is Jack's turn now, but he is stolidly eating his breakfast, with a mean and reprehensible indifference to his duty; therefore it devolves upon me.

"The pig was killed this morning," I say, starting with a tolerably loud voice, and dying gradually into a very little one. "It made such a noise!" But, alas! the pig goes the way of the snails and the weather.

There is an anxious silence, broken only by Amberley's meek voice offering the master of the house more coffee, but upon being told it is filthy stuff she collapses, as do we, and sit counting the moments to our departure. Jack sneezes violently, and we look at him gratefully; it makes an agreeable little diversion, but he must not do it twice, or he will be ordered out of the room. Papa has finished his bacon and coffee, and we are just thinking we may venture to rise and make our escape, when his angry voice makes us bound in our seats.

"Can't you talk, some of you?" he asks, eyeing us wrathfully