"But—but!" flustered Mr. Lawton, "that doesn't belong to us—we have no hens!"
"No," acquiesced Lena, "but dot hen she nest on us—so I tak' dot egg!"
"Well, that's dishonest!" declared Mr. Lawton.
"Nein! nein!" contradicted Lena, who always grew more German in excitement: "Uf it is tree egg—four—six egg, dot may make of de steal—but youst one eggs only pay for de use of de nest!" And Lena made a triumphant exit to the laughter of the girls and a thrill of song from the canary on the mantel-piece, who dearly loved a noise.
Meantime Mrs. Lawton, untroubled by questions of right or wrong, enjoyed the fresh egg without even a word of protest against the shaving-mug accompaniment. As she wiped her lips, she asked, suddenly: "Girls, where on earth are your dear grandparents?"
"Under the piano," promptly replied Sybil, who was worrying a tough chip of beef between her white teeth.
Dorothy giggled hysterically, while John Lawton exclaimed: "Sybil, are you absolutely without reverence?"
"Why, papa," replied the indomitable Sybil, "I'm sure the old people are better off under the piano than they would have been lying with the tables and chairs in the grass out there, a temptation to Lena's fairy footsteps. We'll hang the old people up as soon as we finish our luncheon. They had better stay in this room—don't you think so, mamma?" And Mrs. Lawton again took up the proffered thread of direction and never laid it down till she at the same moment laid her head upon her pillow.
After that picnicky luncheon Mr. Lawton betook himself to the village to hunt up the butcher, the baker, and, if not the candle-stick maker, at least his successor, the gas man. Firmly rejecting the piece of string Mrs. Lawton wished to tie about his thumb as an assistance to his somewhat unreliable memory, he rearranged his thin locks with the aid of a pocket-comb, tightly buttoned his well-fitting, seedy old coat, and with a warm young kiss on either cheek sallied forth, pursued by his wife's warning cry: "Candles—candles! Now, John, no matter what they promise at the gas-store, gas-house—er—er, I mean office—don't I, girls? Oh, well, no matter what anyone promises, anywhere, do you buy some candles for fear of accidents, for light we must have! Food for to-morrow is desirable, but light for to-night is an absolute necessity! So get candles, for fear——"—then, as John disappeared, "Do you suppose your father understood?" she asked, anxiously.
"Why—er! why—er!" hesitated Sybil, as she gently rubbed the canvas that preserved Grandmamma Bassett's antique prettiness: "Dorothy—what is the condition of papa's intelligence at present?"