He liked her little, modest, delicate old face and her curls and her little cap with the ribbons so much that he smiled with a twinkling eye every time he looked at her. He wanted to suggest something he thought would be mighty comfortable, but he was half afraid he might be asking her to do something which wasn't “her job,” and it might hurt her feelings. But he ventured to hint at it. “Has Burrill got to come back and pour that out?” he asked, with an awkward gesture toward the tea-tray. “Has he just GOT to?” “Oh, no, unless you wish it,” she answered. “Shall--may I give it to you?” “Will you?” he exclaimed delightedly. “That would be fine. I shall feel like a regular Clarence.” She was going to sit at the table in a straight-backed chair, but he sprang at her. “This big one is more comfortable,” he said, and he dragged it forward and made her sit in it. “You ought to have a footstool,” he added, and he got one and put it under her feet. “There, that's all right.” A footstool, as though she were a royal personage and he were a gentleman in waiting, only probably gentlemen in waiting did not jump about and look so pleased. The cheerful content of his boyish face when he himself sat down near the table was delightful. “Now,” he said, “we can ring up for the first act.” She filled the tea-pot and held it for a moment, and then set it down as though her feelings were too much for her. “I feel as if I were in a dream,” she quavered happily. “I do indeed.” “But it's a nice one, ain't it?” he answered. “I feel as if I was in two. Sitting here in this big room with all these fine things about me, and having afternoon tea with a relation! It just about suits me. It didn't feel like this yesterday, you bet your life!” “Does it seem--nicer than yesterday?” she ventured. “Really, Mr. Temple Barholm?” “Nicer!” he ejaculated. “It's got yesterday beaten to a frazzle.” It was beyond all belief. He was speaking as though the advantage, the relief, the happiness, were all on his side. She longed to enlighten him. “But you can't realize what it is to me,” she said gratefully, “to sit here, not terrified and homeless and--a beggar any more, with your kind face before me. Do forgive me for saying it. You have such a kind young face, Mr. Temple Barholm. And to have an easy-chair and cushions, and actually a buffet brought for my feet!” She suddenly recollected herself. “Oh, I mustn't let your tea get cold,” she added, taking up the tea-pot apologetically. “Do you take cream and sugar, and is it to be one lump or two?” “I take everything in sight,” he replied joyously, “and two lumps, please.” She prepared the cup of tea with as delicate a care as though it had been a sacramental chalice, and when she handed it to him she smiled wistfully. “No one but you ever thought of such a thing as bringing a buffet for my feet--no one except poor little Jem,” she said, and her voice was wistful as well as her smile.