"Can you do nothing but laugh, Caroline?" gravely said Mrs. Brownlow.
"Janet, shut that window. Children, out of the way! If you were
mine, I should send you to bed."
"There's no bed to be sent to," muttered Jock, running round to give
a sly puff to the white heap, diffusing a sprinkling of white powder
over his aunt's dress.
"Jock," said his mother with real firmness and indignation in her
voice, "that is not the way to behave. Beg your aunt's pardon this
instant."
And to everyone's surprise the imp obeyed the hand she had laid on
him, and muttered something like, "beg pardon," though it made his
face crimson.
His uncle exclaimed, "That's right, my boy," and his aunt said, with
dignity, "Very well, we'll say no more about it."
Mary Ogilvie was in the meantime getting some of the powder back into
the tin, and Janet running in from the kitchen with a maid, a soup
tureen, and sundry spoons, everyone became busy in rescuing the
remains-—in the midst of which there was a smash of glass.
"Jock again!" quoth Janet.
"Oh, mother!" called out Jock. "It's so long! I thought I'd get the
feather-brush to sweep it up with, and the other end of it has been
and gone through this stupid lamp."
"Things are not unapt to be and go through, where you are concerned,
Mr.
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