'For a green goose!' shouted Lance, indignantly.

'Oh! cried Robina, in the tone of one who had made a scientific
discovery, 'did the goose have a high stool to lay the golden eggs?'

'A most pertinent question, Bobbie, and much more reasonable than
mine,' said Mr Underwood; while his colleague gravely answered, 'Yes,
Bobbie, golden eggs are almost always laid by geese on high stools.'

'I've got a picture of one! It has got a long neck and long legs,
quoth Bobbie.

'It is only a flamingo, you little goose yourself,' cried Clement.

'Here is the golden egg of the present,' said Mr. Underwood,
replenishing the boy's plate with that delicious pie. 'What's that
beverage, Wilmet? Any horrible brew of your own?'

'No, it is out of Mr. Audley's hamper.'

'The universal hamper. It is like the fairy gifts that produced
unlimited eatables. I dreaded cowslip wine or periwinkle broth.'

'No, no, Papa,' sighed Alda, 'we only once made cowslip tea at Vale
Leston.'

'Vale Leston is prohibited for the day.--Master Felix Chester
Underwood, your good health; and the same to the new Underwood of
Centry Underwood.'