your
sewin' over and take a cup o' tea with me."

"La! now that 's so kind o' you, Mis' Martin. I was jest thinkin' how
good a cup o' tea would taste, but I did n't want to stop to make it. I
'll be over in a minute, jest as soon as I see if my front door is
locked." And she disappeared within the house, while Mrs. Martin
returned to her own sitting-room.

The invited knew very well what the invitation to tea meant. She knew
that some fresh piece of news was to be related and discussed. The
beverage of which she was invited to partake was but a pretext, but
neither the one nor the other admitted as much. Each understood
perfectly, as by a tacit agreement, and each tried to deceive herself
and the other as to motives and objects.

There is some subtle tie between tea-drinking and gossip. It is over
their dainty cups that women dissect us men and damn their sisters. Some
of the quality of the lemon they take in their tea gets into their
tongues. Tea is to talk what dew is to a plant, a gentle nourishing
influence, which gives to its product much of its own quality. There are
two acids in the tea which cultured women take. There is only one in the
beverage brewed by commonplace people. But that is enough.

Mrs. Martin had taken her tray into the sitting-room, where a slight
fire was burning in the prim "parlour cook," on which the hot water was
striving to keep its quality when Mrs. Smith came in.

"La, Mis' Martin, you do manage to have everything so cosy. I 'm shore a
little fire in a settin'-room don't feel bad these days."

"I jest thought I 'd have to have a fire," replied Mrs. Martin, "fur I
was feelin' right down chilly, though goodness knows a person does burn
enough coal in winter, without throwin' it away in these early fall
days."

"Well, the Lord 's put it here fur our comfort, an' I think we 're
a-doin' His will when we make use o' the good things He gives us."

"Ah, but Mis' Smith, there 's too many people that goes about the world
thinkin' that they know jest what the Lord's will is; but I have my
doubts about 'em, though, mind you, I ain't a-mentionin' no names: 'no
name, no blame.'" Mrs. Martin pressed her lips and shook her head, a
combination of gestures that was eloquent with meaning. It was too much
for her companion. Her curiosity got the better of her caution.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed. "What is it _now_?"

"Oh, nothin' of any consequence at all. It ain't fur me to be a-judgin'
my neighbo