The twins used to say that there was no tea like Lady O'Brien's, and I'm sure we all agreed with them. That was an ideal tea-table, to my mind, and we were always so hungry after our walk. Her continental life had not taught our old lady to scrimp about honest eatables. Delicious pink ham and cold fowl were flanked by thin bread-and-butter, and strawberries and cream, and honey and marmalade, and hot home-made cream-cakes, and boiled eggs for those who liked them. And the tea, so hot and fragrant, with delicious rich cream. Then our hostess, though she ate little herself, expected us to eat much, and was so delighted at our enormous appetites. Even the twins did not scandalize her, and how they could eat so much after feasting on the raspberries and strawberries in the garden, was beyond me to say. "Young people should eat," she would say, wagging her old head--"eat and grow: that is all young people should be asked to do." I really think that she quite put Esther and myself on a level with the boys and the twins in those matters. Then, when we were leaving, we would find in the pony-carriage a little hamper packed with the dainties we had been forced to leave. "Martha would be so vexed if she thought her sweet things weren't appreciated", was the regular excuse. Martha was Lady O'Brien's invaluable cook, housekeeper, and personal attendant; and the two had been together years out of mind, though Martha was but a personable woman of fifty. Martha, indeed, would have been sorely hurt if any of her confections had had to go to the kitchen to be devoured by Curtis, the page-boy, whom Martha always referred to as "that dratted boy", or fat Dobson, or the pretty housemaid, who was the old servant's _bête noire_. Then there was no end to the dainties that were sent for Pierce, to Oona's mingled jealousy and delight. Once, when we had been visiting at Annagower, Lady O'Brien brought me upstairs, alone, in a rather mysterious way. "You can keep a still tongue in your head?" she asked as we went along the low corridor under the thatch. "I think so, Lady O'Brien. I have that reputation," said I modestly. "Well, you shall see my secret room," she said. A little farther she opened the door of a room, and motioned me to step inside. The room was fresh from the hands of the workmen. It had a green-painted ceiling following the lines of the roof, so that it was very low on the side where the gable-window opened. It had been papered in pink, a pretty paper with roses on it, and the woodwork was white. A little brass bed, hung with green and pink, stood in the corner, and there was pretty white-enamelled furniture, and several low wicker chairs were covered with the rosy and green chintz. I sighed with delight as I took a long, long look. "You think it pretty?" inquired the old lady, who had been watching me anxiously. "Pretty! it is delicious." "A girl would be happy in it, hey?" "A girl would adore it," said I.