"I wonder what I did wrong, or didn't do right," said Giles. "At worst, Hodge, I've got on better than you, and next Sunday maybe Michael will manage best of all. Surely you'll get some hot potatoes at least, Mike?"
"I don't think I'm going to try at all," said the youngest of the cousins.
"It's been a mean sort of lega——" began Hodge.
But before he finished the word, Michael stopped him. "You mustn't speak against Uncle Peter," he said. "He did his best for us, of that I'm sure. The spell was not of his making. He had no power over it. He taught us all he could. Strikes me we're not good enough to succeed, somehow. Think what he was! So contented and patient, and so unselfish! Giving away of the little he had, keeping scarce anything for himself."
"He was always sure of a good Sunday dinner, anyway," grumbled Hodge.
"And did he keep even that to himself?" queried Michael.
By this time the table was cleared of the little it had offered. Giles stood up and held out the bell.
"We may as well send it back again," he said, ringing, as he spoke, and in a few moments the whole had disappeared as they had seen it do that last Sunday at old Peter's.
Hodge walked off without speaking. Giles turned to Michael—he was still holding the little bell.
"Are you in earnest, Mike," he asked, "about giving up your try? If so, what's to be done with this?"