"Be quiet!" said 'Possum in an agonized whisper. "Behave yourself!"
Joe's mouth drooped at the corners.
"Can't I have some?"
"But of course you can: and it is scrummy!" said Tom cheerfully. "I know, because I helped to make it! Don't you mind 'Possum, Joe: she can boss us when it comes to ploughing, but not when it's eating cake." He smiled at the girl over the small boy's head. "Have a scone, 'Possum."
'Possum accepted a scone unhappily, and held it as if doubtful of how to eat it, sitting miserably on the extreme edge of her chair, and grasping her cup with a clutch born of despair. Visions of flight stole across her: she wondered if it would look queer if she said that the old grey horse would not stand, and so might escape for home. But the grey was certainly asleep, with his nose against a post: and little Joe was sitting up to the table, eating scones and cake together with perfect contentment. Wild horses—let alone the old grey—would have found it difficult to move little Joe.
"Can't 'Poss come an' sit at the table too?" queried Joe suddenly, with his mouth full. "It's comf't'fler: an' she'll spill her tea, to a dead cert., if she sits over there!"
"Joe!" burst from his sister. "Haven't you any manners?"
"Well, you always say you like sittin' up to a table," Joe defended himself. "Come along."
Aileen laughed delightedly.
"It's not a bit of good to hope that small brothers will behave the way one expects them to, 'Possum," she said, pitying the girl's scarlet face. "Never mind, he's full of good sense. Come, and we will all sit up to the table; it is comf't'fler."