ake believe that we have. Won't that do instead, Joan?"
asked Darby anxiously.

"Yes, it'll do quite well--to-day," answered Joan, jumping up and
beginning in true housewifely fashion to set out their repast.

From each child's pocket came a crumpled pocket-handkerchief, not very
large, and, if the truth must be told, not over clean. These Joan spread
on the grass to serve as a tablecloth. Then Darby proceeded to
distribute the rations for the midday meal--to each a tiny tart, a slice
of seed-cake, one biscuit, and a mellow russet pear.

"Now, isn't that a lovely dinner?" he demanded proudly; "and there's
nearly--not quite, but almost--as much more for tea," he added, peering
into the depths of the old reticule which was slung, haversack fashion,
across his shoulders.

"Yes, it's 'licious," agreed Joan, with her mouth full of cracknel
biscuit. Now cracknels are rather dry eating, and when one's mouth is
otherwise occupied it is not easy to speak distinctly. However, the
biscuit went over with an effort, and Joan's mouth was free for further
speech. "It's a puffic'ly 'licious dinner," she repeated. "Why, if we'd
been at home instead of goin' to the Happy Land, nurse would only have
given us chops, and maybe rice and jam."

"Yes; she's always giving us things like that, and they've hardly any
taste. When I'm big I'll never eat rice or mutton, but nice, nippy,
mustardy meat, like what father used to give us from his dinners. We
never get nothing like that now," sighed the little boy, as if he were
very badly used indeed.

"It's because Aunt Catharine doesn't think they're good for you,"
replied Joan wisely. "I heard her tellin' cook to be sure an' give the
chil'ens plenty of pow'idge, bread an' milk, an' lots of busted rice. I
wonder why she calls the rice busted."

"It's not 'busted'," corrected Darby, laughing gleefully; "it's _burst_
you mean!"

"It doesn't matter which, I'm sure, for it's just nonsense to speak
about rice bein' busted. It's us that's busted when we've eated great
plates of it--nashty, messy stuff!" and Joan turned up her dainty little
nose in disgust at what she was so tired of hearing called "plain,
wholesome food."

Then she sighed heavily.

"What's the matter with you?" anxiously asked Darby. "Have you not had
enough?"

"Yes, I've had enough--at least--it doesn't matter. I was only wishin'
we had a drink of milk. I don't want to be gweedy; but oh, I does want a
drink so badly! I's so