Gainah sat down at the side, shaking her hands and vibrating her head with anger. But Mrs. Turle smiled approval. “You must find a young lady in the house a great help,” she said innocently, as she sat down, spreading her thick silk skirt flat beneath her. “Nancy always pours out for me.” Pamela was sulky. She hated what she called a “sit-down” tea. Tea was not a meal; it was an interlude, a good way of helping out an idle afternoon. Jethro on the high stool at the end was hospitably carving a ham. The smiling housemaid kept coming with fresh plates of toasted tea-cake, preserve, or buns. “You must give me the recipe for these rice cakes,” Mrs. Turle said. “Two cups of rice flour,” returned Gainah solemnly. “You beat your butter to a cream, of course?” “Yes. Two eggs.” “That is very economical. We have hardly any eggs. The hens are all getting broody again, and I must say an October brood is not worth hatching. I wish Evergreen would let me have a non-setting breed.” “Nothing better than Leghorns,” said Jethro. “Tch!” interrupted Gainah, with her air of absolutism, “Langshans are better.” “But they are not nice table birds.” Mrs. Turle smiled on them both and took another cake. “Now, I must say I like the Plymouth Rock--only its legs are yellow.” Pamela, with the superior air of a being on a higher plane, poured out her newly-found aunt a third cup of tea. The talk went on. She heard Gainah and Mrs. Turle talk of wine-making, cider-making, apple-storing. “Our Blenheims,” Gainah complained, “have all gone a-bitel.” “They will go mildewed some years. I don’t know why,” returned Mrs. Turle sympathetically; “ours have kept beautifully so far. I’ll ask Evergreen if we can spare you some.” It was a very long meal. The dying sun straggled round the house and filled the dull room with yellow light. Through the latticed window they could see the mist rising like a huge bridal wreath from the wet grass. Mrs. Turle got up hurriedly when the housemaid came in to say that her carriage had come round. “You must spend a long afternoon with us soon,” she said, kissing Pamela. “What are we doing on Wednesday, Nancy?” “It’s the Shakspere class, mamma.” “Of course. Pamela must join the Shakspere class. Mrs. McAlpine, my dear, who started it, is extremely clever--she reads German novels in the original. And she is very particular--they only read the _nice_ parts of the plays. I inquired into that when Nancy joined. For although one admires and loves dear Shakspere, I must say one is never sure of him. It seems such a pity. Are we free on Thursday, Nancy?” “I usually go round with the _Parish Magazines_, mamma--it is the third Thursday in the month.” “So it is. And Friday is unlucky. I don’t believe in such nonsense, of course, but it is as well not to run unnecessary risk. And Saturday, that is no day at all.” “I usually give out stores on Saturday, mamma.”