“Oh, a beautiful tea! She couldn’t have done more if I’d been the Queen,” said Mrs. Hand. “I don’t know how she could ever have done it all in the time, I’m sure. The table was loaded down; there was cup-custards and custard pie, an’ cream pie, an’ two kinds o’ hot biscuits, an’ black tea as well as green, an’ elegant cake,—one kind she’d just made new, and called it quick cake; I’ve often made it since—an’ she’d opened her best preserves, two kinds. We set down together, an’ I’m sure I appreciated what she’d done; but ’twa’n’t no time for real conversation whilst we was to the table, and before we got quite through the doctor come hurryin’ along, an’ I had to leave. He asked us if we’d had a good talk, as we come out, an’ I couldn’t help laughing to myself; but she said quite hearty that she’d had a nice visit from me. She appeared well satisfied, Mis’ Fulham did; but for me, I was disappointed; an’ early that fall she died.” Abby Pendexter was laughing like a girl; the speaker’s tone had grown more and more complaining. “I do call that a funny experience,” she said. “‘Better a dinner o’ herbs.’ I guess that text must ha’ risen to your mind in connection. You must tell that to Aunt Cynthy, if conversation seems to fail.” And she laughed again, but Mrs. Hand still looked solemn and reproachful. “Here we are; there’s Aunt Cynthy’s lane right ahead, there by the great yellow birch,” said Abby. “I must say, you’ve made the way seem very short, Mis’ Hand.” III. Old Aunt Cynthia Dallett sat in her high-backed rocking-chair by the little north window, which was her favorite dwelling-place. “New Year’s Day again,” she said, aloud,—“New Year’s Day again!” And she folded her old bent hands, and looked out at the great woodland view and the hills without really seeing them, she was lost in so deep a reverie. “I’m gittin’ to be very old,” she added, after a little while.