The old dame took such evident pleasure in preparing the tea, that the visitors felt no compunction in giving her the trouble. She toasted the cakes in the kitchen, but popped into the parlour every few minutes, fork in hand, to assure them that she would not be long. When all was ready, she donned her best widow’s cap, and took her seat at the head of the table. Then Montella inquired after Tom. “Oh, Tom’s well enough,” she replied, with affability. “He’s grown mightily since you saw him last, Master Linie, only his poor brain seems to stand still. He is sitting in his corner of the kitchen, looking at a picture-book the lady up at the lodge has given him. He’s mighty fond of pictures, is my Tom.” The “Master Linie” caused a smile to flit across Patricia’s face, and immediately she called up the vision of her husband as a child in frocks and pinafores. “Is Tom your little grandson?” she asked. The old nurse nodded. “Yes; leastways, he isn’t a little boy, for he will be fifteen next March, and he’s an orphan, poor lad! Perhaps you would like to see him, my lady, after tea?” Patricia answered in the affirmative, and proceeded to attack a somewhat substantial toasted bun. She knew that if she did not do justice to the tea, Mrs. Whiteside would feel aggrieved, so she strove courageously to demolish her share of the feast. Her duty fulfilled, she followed her kindly hostess to the kitchen, where the shining cleanliness of the stove and culinary utensils excited her admiration. In a corner by the window sat the afflicted boy. Patricia went over to him, and held out her hand.