ountry!"

"Well, they can't eat them raw, uncle."

"Why not, sir? They are only so many ravening savages, ready to breathe
out battle and slaughter if they got free."

"That poor boy didn't seem much of a savage, uncle," said Rodd quietly;
and after a sidelong glance to see whether he dared say it, the boy
continued tentatively, "I wish the poor fellow had been here to have
this ham."

"What!" roared his uncle fiercely. "Bah! You wouldn't have left him a
mouthful. Wolf--raven!"

"Yes, I would, uncle. I'd have left him all."

"Umph!" grunted Uncle Paul, taking up a very thin, old, much-worn silver
table-spoon and looking at it with the eye of a connoisseur. "H'm! Ha!
Queen Anne."

"She's dead, uncle," said the boy.

"Well, I know that, don't I?" growled Uncle Paul, as he tilted the empty
dish, and carefully scraped all the golden brown fat and gravy to one
side, getting together sufficient to nearly fill the spoon, and then
making as if to put it upon his own plate, but with a quick gesture
dabbing it down upon Rodd's.

"Fair play, uncle!" shouted the boy.

"Bah!" grunted the doctor. "Cut me a thin slice of bread, all crumb,
Pickle. Thunder and lightning! I have got the best share, after all;"
and then, with his face puckered up into a pleasant smile, he inserted a
fork into the newly-cut slice of home-made bread, and began passing it
round and round the dish until it had imbibed the remains of the liquid
ham and the golden new-laid eggs, when he deposited it upon his own
plate with a triumphant smile which seemed to Rodd to make him look
five-and-twenty years younger.

"Shall I fill another cup of tea for you, uncle?" cried Rodd; and by the
way, they were breakfast cups.

"No, no, Pickle; I--I--er--well, say half."

At that moment the door was opened, and, looking hot and out of breath,
their landlady entered.

"I hope you haven't been waiting for anything, gentlemen," she cried,
giving the table a comprehensive glance. "I am so sorry. I will cook
another rasher or two directly."

"Madam, no," said Uncle Paul didactically. "What does the great classic
author say?"

"Really I don't know, sir," cried Mrs Champernowne, with a perplexed
look wrinkling up her pleasant face. "But it won't take many minutes."

"Enough, madam, is as good as a feast. This has been a banquet, eh,
Pickle? I never enjoyed anything half so much before in my life. The
ham was tenderness itself, the eggs new-lai