. . .With downcast eyes, Margaret took her place, and poured the tea in silence. She felt as if a weight were on her[56] eyelids; she could not lift her eyes; she could not speak, and yet she must. She shook herself, and made a great effort.

"How do you like your tea, Cousin Sophronia?" she asked, in a voice that tried to sound cheerful and unconcerned. And, when she had spoken, she managed, with another effort, to look up. Cousin Sophronia was smiling and composed, and met her timid glance with an affectionate nod.

"Weak, my dear, if you please,—weak, with cream and sugar. Yes,—that will be excellent, I have no doubt. I have to be a little exact about my tea, my nerves being what they are. The nights I have, if my tea is not precisely the right shade! It seems absurd, but life is made up of little things, my dear John. And very right and wise, to have the dear child learn to do these things, and practise on us, even if it is a little tryi. . . Read More