"We will have our dessert in style," said Hal.
"Kit, please help take off the dishes, for I know Dot must be tired."
"I will too," responded Charlie promptly.
They gathered up the fragments, and carried them in the pantry, took away the dishes, brushed off the cloth, and then came the crowning glories. First, two beautiful bouquets, with a setting of crisp, fragrant geranium leaves; then a dish of apples, rosy-cheeked and tempting.
"It is fortunate that I made a good large pie," said Dot with much complacency.
Hal bundled Granny in a shawl; but, before he could help her out of bed, Joe's strong arms had borne her to the kitchen. Hal brought the rocking-chair, and they made her comfortable with pillows.
They all, I think, saw a strange beauty in her on this Christmas Day. The little silvery curls,—they always would curl; the pale, wrinkled face; the faded eyes, with their youth and glory a thing of the past; the feeble, cracked voice; the trembling hands,—all beautiful in their sight. For the hands had toiled, the voice had comforted, the lips had kissed away pains and griefs. Every furrow in the face was sacred. What watching and anxiety and unfaltering labor they bespoke!
Dot poured her a cup of tea: then she proceeded to cut the pie.
"Dot, you are a royal cook!" exclaimed Joe. "We have discovered your special genius."