“Did you sleep well?” said Lyndsay.
“No; worse than usual.”
“I thought by your smiling you would have had a good night, but your dear old face is a dreadful purveyor of fibs. Are you feeling badly to-day?”
“Sh—sh—!” she cried, “don’t dose me with myself, Archy; as that delightful Mrs. Maybrook said to Margaret, ‘I do hate to be babied.’ Is that your tenth corncake, Jack?”
“Ninth, aunty,—I have to eat for you and me. I’m like Thunder Tom’s voice.”
“That’s the good of being twins,—you can eat for two!” cried Ned.
“It’s my seventh,” said Dick, complacently. “I wouldn’t be such a G. I. P. as Jack.”
“Sudden death is what he will get,” returned Dick.
“Your seventh,” said Anne. “But how can one die better than facing fearful odds?” And then there was a little moment of laughter, and the gay chatter went on. At last Mr. Lyndsay said:
“When you are through, boys, with this astounding breakfast, we will talk of our plans. Your mother wants to go up the river. She shall have the two Gaspé men. Rose, you will go with me for a first lesson in salmon-fishing, and you three boys shall go with Polycarp after trout. Lunch at one; and remember, boys, no nonsense in the canoe, mind. This water is too cold and too swift to trifle with. You are a pretty bad lot, but I should not like to have to choose which I would part with. As Marcus Aurelius said, ‘Girls make existence difficult, but boys make it impossible.’”