“Upstairs, mother; when you’ve done—­not before.”

“Then bad’s the noos!  Something have happened, William.  You ’m not going to push me out?  And my place is by the tea-pot, which I cling to, rememberin’ how I seen her curly head grow by inches up above the table and the cups.  Mas’ Gammon,” she appealed to the sturdy feeder, “five cups is your number?”

Her hope was reduced to the prolonging of the service of tea, with Master Gammon’s kind assistance.

“Four, marm,” said her inveterate antagonist, as he finished that amount, and consequently put the spoon in his cup.

Mrs. Sumfit rolled in her chair.

“O Lord, Mas’ Gammon!  Five, I say; and never a cup less so long as here you’ve been.”

“Four, marm.  I don’t know,” said Master Gammon, with a slow nod of his head, “that ever I took five cups of tea at a stretch.  Not runnin’.”

“I do know, Mas’ Gammon.  And ought to:  for don’t I pour out to ye?  It’s five you take, and please, your cup, if you’ll hand it over.”

“Four’s my number, marm,” Master Gammon reiterated resolutely.  He sat like a rock.

“If they was dumplins,” moaned Mrs. Sumfit, “not four, no, nor five, ’d do till enough you’d had, and here we might stick to our chairs, but you’d go on and on; you know you would.”

“That’s eatin’, marm;” Master Gammon condescended to explain the nature of his habits.  “I’m reg’lar in my drinkin’.”

Mrs. Sumfit smote her hands together.  “O Lord, Mas’ Gammon, the wearisomest old man I ever come across is you.  More tea’s in the pot, and it ain’t watery, and you won’t be comfortable.  May you get forgiveness from above! is all I say, and I say no more.  Mr. Robert, perhaps you’ll be so good as let me help you, sir?  It’s good tea; and my Dody,” she added, cajolingly, “my home girl ’ll tell us what she saw.  I’m pinched and starved to hear.”

“By-and-by, mother,” interposed the farmer; “tomorrow.”  He spoke gently, but frowned.

Both Rhoda and Robert perceived that they were peculiarly implicated in the business which was to be discussed without Mrs. Sumfit’s assistance.  Her father’s manner forbade Rhoda from making any proposal for the relief of the forlorn old woman.

“And me not to hear to-night about your play-going!” sighed Mrs. Sumfit.  “Oh, it’s hard on me.  I do call it cruel.  And how my sweet was dressed—­ like as for a Ball.”

She saw the farmer move his foot impatiently.

“Then, if nobody drinks this remaining cup, I will,” she pursued.

No voice save her own was heard till the cup was emptied, upon which Master Gammon, according to his wont, departed for bed to avoid the seduction of suppers, which he shunned as apoplectic, and Mrs. Sumfit prepared, in a desolate way, to wash the tea-things, but the farmer, saying that it could be done in the morning, went to the door and opened it for her.