of the
guests, and says he--"

"Oh dear, I am so hungry."

This was not from the comedy, but from one of the boys.

"And so am I," cried a girl.

"That is an absurd remark, Lysimachus," said Triplet with a suspicious
calmness. "How can a boy be hungry three hours after breakfast?"

"But, father, there was no breakfast for breakfast."

"Now I ask you, Mrs. Triplet," appealed the author, "how I am to write
comic scenes if you let Lysimachus and Roxalana here put the heavy
business in every five minutes?"

"Forgive them; the poor things are hungry."

"Then let them be hungry in another room," said the irritated scribe.
"They shan't cling round my pen, and paralyze it, just when it is going
to make all our fortunes; but you women," snapped Triplet the Just,
"have no consideration for people's feelings. Send them all to bed;
every man Jack of them!"

Finding the conversation taking this turn, the brats raised a unanimous
howl.

Triplet darted a fierce glance at them. "Hungry, hungry," cried he;
"is that a proper expression to use before a father who is sitting
down here, all gayety" (scratching wildly with his pen) "and hilarity"
(scratch) "to write a com--com--" he choked a moment; then in a very
different voice, all sadness and tenderness, he said: "Where's the
youngest--where's Lucy? As if I didn't know you are hungry."

Lucy came to him directly. He took her on his knee, pressed her gently
to his side, and wrote silently. The others were still.

"Father," said Lucy, aged five, the germ of a woman, "I am not very
hungry."

"And I am not hungry at all," said bluff Lysimachus, taking his sister's
cue; then going upon his own tact he added, "I had a great piece of
bread and butter yesterday!"

"Wife, they will drive me mad!" and he dashed at the paper.

The second boy explained to his mother, _sotto voce:_ "Mother, he _made_
us hungry out of his book."

"It is a beautiful book," said Lucy. "Is it a cookery book?"

Triplet roared: "Do you hear that?" inquired he, all trace of ill-humor
gone. "Wife," he resumed, after a gallant scribble, "I took that sermon
I wrote."

"And beautiful it was, James. I'm sure it quite cheered me up with
thinking that we shall all be dead before so very long."

"Well, the reverend gentleman would not have it. He said it was too hard
upon sin. 'You run at the Devil like a mad bull,' said he. 'Sell it in
Lambeth, sir; here calmness and decency are before everything,' says h