greyer, stouter, shorter of breath, and was no longer funny. And,
as in the past, the prodigious snores of Mr. McOstrich, who still
followed his trade of baker, sounded at intervals through the wall
without causing the company the slightest concern, and were
likewise no longer funny.

After supper, which consisted largely of lemonade and pastries, the
hostess requested her guests, several being well-nigh torpid, to
attend to a song by Mr. Pumpherston. No one (excepting his wife)
wanted to hear it, but the Pumpherston song had become traditional
with the McOstrich entertainments. One could not have the latter
without the former.

'He's got a new sang,' Mrs. Pumpherston intimated, with a
stimulating glance round the company, 'an' he's got a tunin' fork,
forbye, that saves him wrastlin' for the richt key, as it were.
Tune up, Geordie!'

Mr. Pumpherston deliberately produced the fork, struck it on his
knee, winced, muttered 'dammit,' and gazed upwards. Not so many
years ago Macgregor would have exploded; to-night he was occupied
in trying to find Christina's hand under the table.

'Doh, me, soh, doh, soh, me, doh,' hummed the vocalist.

Christina, who had been looking desperately serious, let out a
small squeak and hurriedly blew her nose. Macgregor regarded her
in astonishment, and she withdrew the little finger she had
permitted him to capture.