"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."