"We'll have our little tea just as we used to, because it will please
you, and because I'd like nothing better," she said.

"And let me help at the table, just as I used to," Rose said, and
together they worked, Rose bringing the rosebud china, while Aunt
Judith brought the pale green plates, and cups and saucers from the
little china closet, and placed them upon the dainty, spindle-legged
table. There were tiny, fresh rolls, chocolate with cream, a dish of
raspberry jam of which Rose was very fond, and even the little round
pound cakes that Rose so well remembered. Aunt Judith had sent a small
boy to purchase them for her while she was telephoning at Mrs.
Grafton's.

When all was ready, they took their places, Aunt Judith pouring the
chocolate, while Rose served the cream from the dainty jug, and
dropped the cubes of sugar from the quaint little silver tongs.

"Aunt Judith, I'm so happy with Uncle John, that everything I have at
his home seems perfect, but there's one queer thing that I don't
understand. No raspberry jam ever seems just like the jam I always
had at this cottage."

Aunt Judith was delighted.

"To think that you would always remember the jam, and think it a bit
nicer than any other!" she said.

"Perhaps it was because we were choice of it, and served it on Sundays
and holidays that made you think it extra nice."

Rose leaned toward her and laid her hand upon her arm. "And perhaps it
was because you always kept the jam in that lovely cream colored crock
that has the butterflies upon it. I do believe things taste nicer for
being kept in pretty jars like that."

"I think so, too," Aunt Judith said, "but your Uncle John has
beautiful china, so doubtless his housekeeper could find plenty of
pretty dishes for serving."

"Oh, she does," Rose replied, "but in the closet, the jam is kept in a
stone crock, while yours was always in the butterfly jar that I always
thought so lovely."

"The dearest thing about this cosy little tea is the fact----" Aunt
Judith bent to kiss her cheek, "that I have you for my guest, little
Rose."

CHAPTER IX

AT AVONDALE

Harry was ready to go over to the cottage at eight the next morning,
but Leslie declared it a ridiculous hour to call.

"Call!" cried Harry. "Who's going to make a prim old call, I'd like to
know? S'pose a fellow is going to lug a card case just to go and play
with Rose?"

"Of course not," said Leslie, "but even if we are just going over t