And while the woman went to obey the order, Mrs. Mowbray went on round the room. There were so many to speak to, Rotha thought she would forget the kettle and the tea; but she did not. From the very door which should have let her into another ward, she turned back The kettle was boiling; she ordered several cups; she made the tea, not out of the old woman's particular private store; and then she poured it out, sugared and creamed and gave her her cup; took one herself, and gave the rest to whosoever came for it. They held quite a little festival there round the fire; for Mrs. Mowbray brought out some cake too. "Now," she said to Rotha as they hurried away, "they will not forget that for a year to come. I always take a cup of tea with aunty Lois." They went now among the men, distributing the tobacco. Rotha admired with unending admiration, the grace and sweetness and tact with which Mrs. Mowbray knew how to season her gifts; the enormous amount of pleasure she gave and good she did which were quite independent of them. Bent figures straightened up, and dull faces shone out, as she talked. The very beauty which belonged to her in so rare measure, Rotha saw how it was a mighty talent for good when brought thoroughly into the service of Christ. She was a fair human angel going about among those images of want and suffering and hopelessness; her light lingered on them after she had passed on. "How do you do, uncle Bacchus?" she said as she approached an old, gray- haired, very black man in a corner. He rose to his feet and shewed a tall, slim figure, not bent at all, though the indications of his face pointed to very advanced age. He bowed profoundly, and with dignity, before the lovely lady who had extended her hand to him, and then he took the hand. "Nearer home, madam," he said; "a year nearer home." The hand trembled, and the voice; yet the mental tone of it was very firm. "You are not in a hurry to leave us?" "It's better on de oder side, madam." "Yes, that is true! And it is good to know there _is_ an 'other side,' isn't it? Are you comfortable here, uncle Bacchus?" '"Comfortable--" he repeated. "I don' know. I'm sittin' at de gates, waitin' till de Lord say open 'em; and 'pears I'm lookin' dat way all de time. Dis yer's a waitin' place. A waitin' place." "Yes, but I want you to be comfortable while you are waiting. What can I do for you? The dear Lord has sent me to ask you." He smiled a little, a very sweet smile, though the lips were so withered on which it came. "Don't want for not'ing, madam. Dis yer'll do to wait in. When I get home, I'll have all I want; but it's up _dere_." "I thought, uncle Bacchus, you would like a very plain page to read the words in that you love. See, I have brought you this. This will almost do without spectacles, hey?"