Madame smiled fondly at her son as she busied herself with the tea things. Rosemary watched the white, plump hands that moved so gracefully among the cups, and her heart contracted with a swift little pang of envy, of which she was immediately ashamed. Unconsciously, she glanced at her own rough, red hands. Madame saw the look, and understood. "We'll soon fix them, my dear," she said, kindly. "I'll show you how to take care of them." "Really?" cried Rosemary, gratefully. "Oh, thank you! Do you suppose that--that they'll ever look like yours?" "Wait and see," Madame temporised. She was fond of saying that it took three generations of breeding to produce the hand of a lady. The kettle began to sing and the cover danced cheerily. Tiny clouds of steam trailed off into space, disappearing in the late afternoon sunshine like a wraith at dawn. Madame filled the blue china tea-pot and the subtle fragrance permeated the room. [Sidenote: A Cup of Tea] "Think," she said, as she waited the allotted five minutes for it to steep, "of all I give you in a cup of tea. See the spicy, sunlit fields, where men, women, and children, in little jackets of faded blue, pick it while their queues bob back and forth. Think of all the chatter that goes in with the picking--marriage and birth and death and talk of houses and worldly possessions, and everything else that we speak of here. "Then the long, sweet drying, and the packing in dim storehouses, and then the long journey. Sand and heat and purple dusk, tinkle of bells and scent of myrrh, the rustle of silks and the gleam of gold. Then the open sea, with infinite spaces of shining blue, and a wake of pearl and silver following the ship. Dreams and moonbeams and starry twilights, from the other side of the world--here, my dear, I give them all to you." She offered Rosemary the cup as she concluded and the girl smiled back at her happily. This was all so different from the battered metal tea-pot that always stood on the back of the stove at Grandmother's, to be boiled and re-boiled until the colour was gone from the leaves. Alden was looking into his cup with assumed anxiety. [Sidenote: In the Bottom of the Cup] "What's the matter, dear?" asked his mother. "Isn't it right?" "I was looking for the poem," he laughed, "and I see nothing but a stranger." "Coming?" she asked, idly. "Of course. See?" "You're right--a stranger and trouble. What is there in your cup, Rosemary?" "Nothing at all," she answered, with a smile, "but a little bit of sugar--just a few grains." Alden came and looked over her shoulder. Then, with his arm over the back of her chair, he pressed his cheek to hers. "I hope, my dear, that whenever you come to the dregs, you'll always have that much sweetness left." Rosemary, flushed and embarrassed, made her adieus awkwardly. "Come again very soon, dear, won't you?" asked Madame. "Yes, indeed, if I may, and thank you so much. Good-bye, Mrs. Marsh."