Cyn, Mr. Stanwood replied by seating himself down in a rocking-chair, and saying gayly,
"I feel positive that I am about to enjoy myself as I have not since I was a boy, and stole eggs, and cooked them on a flat rock behind my uncle's barn, and bad raw turnip for dessert. Sit down, Quimby!"
Upon this Quimby, with a blushing protest against an intrusion, that did not seem to trouble his merry friend in the least, also sat down.
As he did so, Nattie screamed; but too late. On the crowning glory of the feast, on those enticing Charlotte Russes, crowded from the table on to a chair, there was Quimby!
"Bless my soul! what is the matter?" he asked, staring astounded at Nattie's scream, but still sitting there, entirely unconscious of the ruin he had wrought.
Cyn's anguish knew no bounds, as she saw what had happened.
"Get up!" she cried, wringing her hands, "can't you get up? good gracious! don't you know what you are sitting on?"
"Eh?" he queried, rising obediently, and looking at her with a blank expression. "Sitting on?" then following her frantic gesture, he turned and looked at the chair behind him, and instantly horror overspread his countenance.
