Mrs. Brandon was laying the cloth for dinner when she heard a scuffling sound, as of footsteps, in the entry.

"Who is with Mr. Brandon?" she thought. "It can't be Grit. They wouldn't be likely to come home together."

Her uncertainty was soon at an end, for the door was opened, and her husband reeled in, sinking into the nearest chair, of necessity, for his limbs refused to support him. Just behind him was Mr. Thomas Travers, who was also under the influence of his recent potations, but not to the same extent as his companion.

"How do, Mrs. B.?" said her liege lord. "Mrs. B., I have the pleasure of introducin' my frien' Travers. Come in, Travers."

Mrs. Brandon surveyed the two with a look of disgust, and did not speak.

"I hope I see you well, ma'am," said Travers, rather awkwardly, endeavoring, with some difficulty, to maintain an erect attitude. "Sorry to intrude, but my old friend Brandon insisted."

"You can come in if you like," said Mrs. Brandon coldly.

"I say, Mrs. B., is dinner almost ready? My frien', Mr. Travers, is hungry, an' so'm I."

"Dinner is nearly ready. I suppose, Mr. Brandon, you have just come from the tavern."

"Yes, Mrs. B., I've come from the tavern," hiccoughed Brandon. "Have you anything to say against it?"

"I would say something if it would do any good," said his wife despondently.

"If you think—hic—that I've been drinking Mrs. B., you're mistaken; ain't she, Travers?"

"You didn't drink enough to hurt you, Brandon," said his companion, coming to his assistance.

Mrs. Brandon looked at Travers, but did not deign to answer him. It was clear that his assurance possessed no value in her eyes.

She continued her preparations, and laid the dinner on the table.

Then she went to the door, and, shading her eyes, looked out, hoping to see Grit on his way home. But she looked in vain. Just as he was about fastening his boat, or, rather, the boat he had borrowed, two passengers came up and wished to be conveyed across the river.

"My dinner can wait," thought Grit. "I must not disappoint passengers."

So his coming home was delayed, and Brandon and his friend had the field to themselves.

When dinner was ready, Brandon staggered to the table and seated himself.

"Sit down, Travers," he said. "You're in my house, and you must make yourself at home."

He said this a little defiantly, for he saw by Mrs. Brandon's expression that she was not pleased with his friend's presence.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Travers, with a knowing smile. "I was told that the house belonged to your wife."

"It's the same thing, isn't it, Mrs. B.?" returned Brandon.

"Not quite," answered his wife bitterly. "If it were, we should not have a roof over our heads."

"There you go again!" said Brandon fiercely, pounding the table with the handle of his knife. "Don't let me hear no more such talk. I'm master here, d'ye hear that?"

"That's the talk, Brandon!" said Travers approvingly. "I like to hear a man show proper independence. Of course you're master here."

Mrs. Brandon was of a gentle nature, but she was roused to resentment by this rudeness. Turning to Travers, she said:

"I don't know who you are, sir, but your remarks are offensive and displeasing."

"I'm the friend of my friend Brandon," said Travers insolently, "and as long as he don't complain of my remarks, I shall remark what I please. What d'ye say, Brandon?"

"Quite right, Travers, old boy! You're in my house, and I expect you to be treated accordingly. Mrs. B., you will be kind enough to remember that this gen'leman is a frien' of mine," and Brandon closed the sentence with a drunken hiccough.

"I think it necessary to say that this house belongs to me," said Mrs. Brandon, "and that no one is welcome here who does not treat me with respect."

"Spunky, eh?" said Travers, laughing rudely.

"Yes, she's spunky," said Brandon, "but we'll cure her of that, eh, Travers?—the same way as I cured that boy of hers."

"That was good!" laughed Travers. "He's an impudent young rascal."

Mrs. Brandon was alarmed. What did they mean by these references? What had been done to Grit, and how had he been served? Was it possible that Brandon had dared to use violence to the boy? The very thought hardened her, and gave her courage.

"Mr. Brandon," she said, with flashing eyes, "what do you mean? What have you done to Grit? Have you dared to illtreat him? If you have, it will be a bad day's work for you."

"Ha! She threatens you, Brandon. Now, brace up, man, and show your spunk," said Travers, enjoying the scene.

"I'm not accountable to you, Mrs. B.," stammered Brandon, in what he essayed to make a dignified tone. "Grit is my stepson, and I'm his natural guardian."

"Mr. Brandon, what have you done to Grit?" persisted his wife, with flashing eyes. "Have you dared to lay a finger upon him?"

"I'll lay two fingers, three fingers, on him, if I like," said Brandon doggedly. "He's a sassy puppy, Mrs. B."

Mrs. Brandon became more and more anxious. Generally, Grit was home by this time, and his failure to appear led the anxious mother to conclude that he had been injured by her husband.

"Where is Grit?" she asked, with startling emphasis.

"He's all right," stammered Brandon.

"He's all right, but he isn't happy," said Travers, laughing. "That was a good move of yours, selling his boat."

"Did you sell Grit's boat, Mr. Brandon?" demanded his wife quickly.

"Yes, I did, Mrs. B. Have you got anything to say against it?"

"I say that it was a mean, contemptible, dishonest act!" said Mrs. Brandon warmly. "You have taken away the poor boy's means of living, in order to gratify your love of drink. The food which you are eating was bought with his earnings. How do you expect to live, now that you have taken away his boat?"

"He'll get along; he's got sixty dollars," said Brandon thickly.

"Sixty dollars won't last forever. To whom did you sell the boat?"

"Phil Courtney."

"He was just the boy to buy it. Little he cared for the harm he was doing my poor Grit. How much did he pay you?"

"Five dollars."

"And how much of the money have you got left?"

Brandon drew out two silver half-dollars from his pocket.

"That's all I've got left," he said.

"And you have actually squandered four dollars on liquor, you and your friend!" said Mrs. Brandon—"nearly the whole sum you received for my poor boy's boat!"

"Hush up, Mrs. B.! It's none of your business," said Brandon.

"That's the way to talk, Brandon!" said Travers, surveying the scene with boorish delight. "I like to see a man show the proper spirit of a man. I like to see a man master in his own house."

"You would not insult me so if Grit were here!" said Mrs. Brandon, with a red spot on either cheek. "Mr. Brandon, I tolerate your presence here, because I was foolish enough to accept you as my husband. As for this man whom you have brought here, he is unwelcome. He has dared to insult me while sitting at my table, and I ask him in your presence to leave the house."

"Travers is my frien'; he will stay here, Mrs. B., and don't you forget it!"

Brandon pounded the table as he spoke, and nodded his head vigorously.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Brandon," said Travers impudently, "but when my friend Brandon tells me to stay, stay I must. If you don't enjoy my being here, let me suggest to you, in the politest manner, to go and take a walk. Eh, Brandon?"

"Yes, go take a walk!" said Brandon, echoing his friend's remark. "I'll have you to know, Mrs. B., that this is my house, an' I am master here. My frien' Travers will stay here as long as he pleases."

"That's the talk, Brandon. I knew you weren't under petticoat government. You're too much of a man for that."

"Yesh, I'm too much of a man for that," said Brandon sleepily.

Travers took from his pocket a clay pipe, and, deliberately filling the bowl with tobacco, began to smoke.

As he leaned back in his chair, winking insolently at Mrs. Brandon, the poor woman cried:

"Will no one relieve me from this insolent intruder?"

The words caught the ears of Grit, who entered at this moment.

He looked from one to the other of the two men who sat at his mother's table, and his eyes flashed, and his boyish form dilated with passion.