“Bless them!” she murmured tenderly, “bless them both.”

When the last notes had died away, and grandfather had closed the books and laid them one on top of the other, and their first Sunday-school might fairly be said to be closed, Jessie, looking up, saw her grandmother standing in the doorway, holding a snowy tablecloth in her hand.

“Tea-time!” cried Jessie delightedly, springing to her feet.  “I’ll carry away the books, granp, and help granny to bring out the tea-things.  Now don’t you move, you sit there and rest, we will do it all by ourselves.”

So the old man, well pleased, sat on and watched his little granddaughter.  There was nothing she loved better than to be busy, helping some one.

Such a tea it was, too, that she helped to bring out.  First came granny with the tray, with the old-fashioned blue and white tea-set, Jessie’s mug and a jug of milk, then followed Jessie with a plate of bread and butter.  When all this was arranged, back they went again, soon to reappear, Mrs. Dawson with a delicious-looking apple-pie and a bowl of sugar, while to Jessie was entrusted, what she considered the most precious burthen of all—­a dish of cream.  And there, amidst the scents of the mignonette and stocks, the roses and jessamine, the Sunday twitter of the birds and hum of the bees, they sat and slowly enjoyed their Sunday meal, lingering over it in the full enjoyment of the peace and calm of the hour and the scene.  And oh, how good the tea tasted, and the apple-pie and cream, and the bread and butter, all with the open-air flavour about them, which is better than any other.

Then, having eaten and drunk all they wanted, they sat back in their chairs and talked and listened to the birds and the bees, and gazed about them at the flowers close by and the hills in the distance, looking so far away and still and mysterious in the fading afternoon light.  And as they sat there, little dreaming of what was about to happen, a graceful woman’s figure came slowly along the sunny road to their gate and there paused.

“Why, it’s Miss Grace Barley, I do declare!” cried Mrs. Dawson, rising hurriedly to her feet.  “Go and open the gate for her, father, do.  Why, whatever is she doing here, at this time of day?  Sunday, too, and all.  It is very kind of her, I am sure.”

Patience began hurriedly gathering together the tea-things and carrying them into the house, Jessie helping her.

“Wouldn’t Miss—­the lady like some tart, granny?” she asked, as she saw her grandmother beginning to pick it up.  To her it seemed that every one must hunger for anything so delicious.  Somehow, too, it did not seem very kind to carry it all away from under their visitor’s very eyes.

“Well, now, I declare, I never thought of that,” said granny pausing and replacing the pie on the table, “at any rate, I can but ask her.  I’ll put the kettle on, in case she hasn’t had any tea.”