icious odours,
tonics alike of mind and body. From the Scotch firs whence the dwelling
took its name came a scent which mingled with wafted breath from the
remoter heather, and the creepers about the house-front, the lovely
bloom and leafage skirting the lawn, contributed to the atmosphere of
health and joy. It was nine o'clock. The urn was on the gleaming table,
the bell was sounding, Mr. Athel stepped in straight from the lawn,
fresh after his ten minutes' walk about the garden. Wilfrid Athel
appeared at the same moment; he was dark-complexioned and had black,
glossy hair; his cheeks were hollower than they should have been, but he
had not the aspect of an invalid. Mrs. Rossall glided into the room
behind him, fresh, fair, undemonstrative. Then came the twins, by name
Patty and Minnie, delicate, with promise of their mother's English style
of beauty; it was very hard to distinguish them, their uncle had
honestly given up the pretence long ago, and occasionally remonstrated
with his sister on the absurdity of dressing them exactly alike. The
last to enter the room was the governess, Miss Emily Hood.

Mr. Athel, having pronounced a grace, mentioned that he thought of
running up to town; did anybody wish to give him a commission? Mrs.
Rossall looked thoughtful, and said she would make a note of two or
three things.

'I haven't much faith in that porridge regimen, Wilf,' remarked the
master of the house, as he helped himself to chicken and tongue. 'We are
not Highlanders. It's dangerous to make diet too much a matter of
theory. Your example is infectious; first the twins; now Miss Hood.
Edith, do you propose to become a pervert to porridge?'

'I have no taste for it,' replied his sister, who had become
absent-minded.

'There's a certain dishonesty about it, moreover,' Mr. Athel pursued.
'Porridge should be eaten with salt. Milk _and_ sugar--didn't I hear a
suggestion of golden syrup, more honestly called treacle, yesterday?
These things constitute evasion, self-deception at the least. In your
case, Miss Hood, the regimen is clearly fruitful of ill results.'

'Of what kind, Mr. Athel?'

'Obviously it leads to diminution of appetite. You were in the habit of
eating a satisfactory breakfast; at present some two ounces of that
farinaceous mess--'

'My dear Philip!' interposed Mrs. Rossall, still absently.

I hold that I am within my rights,' asserted her brother. 'If Miss Hood
goes down into Yorkshire in a state of