"Why do they do it?" said Ethel.

"For the cause of all evil! That daughter marries a grazier, and
wants to set up for gentility; she comes and squeezes presents out of
her mother, and the whole family are distrusting each other, and
squabbling over the spoil before the poor old creature is dead! It
makes one sick! I gave that Mrs. Thorn a bit of my mind at last; I
could not stand the sight any longer. Madam, said I, you'll have to
answer for your mother's death, as sure as my name's Dick May--a
harpy dressed up in feathers and lace."

There was a great laugh, and an entreaty to know whether this was
really his address--Ethel telling him she knew he had muttered it to
himself quite audibly, for which she was rewarded by a pretended box
on the ear. It certainly was vain to expect order at dinner on
Saturday, for the doctor was as bad as the boys, and Mrs. May took it
with complete composure, hardly appearing sensible of the Babel which
would sometimes almost deafen its promoter, papa; and yet her
interference was all-powerful, as now when Harry and Mary were
sparring over the salt, with one gentle "Mary!" and one reproving
glance, they were reduced to quiescence.

Meanwhile Dr. May, in a voice above the tumult, was telling "Maggie,"
as he always called his wife, some piece of news about Mr. Rivers,
who had bought Abbotstoke Grange; and Alan Ernescliffe, in much lower
tones, saying to Margaret how he delighted in the sight of these home
scenes, and this free household mirth.

"It is the first time you have seen us in perfection," said Margaret,
"with mamma at the head of the table--no, not quite perfection