THE YOUNG FUR-TRADERS. 63

her last baby was born, Mrs. Grant waddled towards her
tub with the intention of enjoying her accustomed siesta.
A few minutes previously, her seventh child, which was
just able to walk, had scrambled up into the seat and
fallen fast asleep there. As has been already said, Mrs.
~Grant’s intellect was never very bright, and at this par-
ticular time she was rather drowsy, so that she did not
observe the child, and on reaching her chair, turned round
preparatory to letting herself plump into it. She always
plumped into her chair. Her muscles were too soft to
lower her gently down into it. Invariably on reaching
a certain point they ceased to act, and let her down with
a crash. She had just reached this point, and her baby’s
hopes and prospects were on the eve of being cruelly
crushed for ever, when Mr. Grant noticed the impending
calamity. He had no time to warn her, for she had al-
ready passed the point at which her powers of muscular
endurance terminated ; so grasping the chair, he suddenly
withdrew it with such force that the baby rolled off upon
the floor like a hedgehog, straightened out flat, and gave
vent to an outrageous roar, while its horror-struck mother
came to the ground with a sound resembling the fall of
an enormous sack of wool. Although the old lady could
not see exactly that there was anything very blame-
worthy in her husband’s conduct upon this occasion, yet
her nerves had received so severe a shock that she refused
to be comforted for two entire days.

But to return from this digression. After Charley had
two or three times recommended Kate (who was a little
inclined to be quizzical) to proceed, she continued,—

“Well, then, you were carried up here by father and
Tom Whyte, and put to bed, and after a good deal of
rubbing and rough treatment you were got round. Then
Peter Mactavish nearly poisoned you; but fortunately he
was such a goose that he did not think of reading the