"AND now," said Sunnie, when the singing was over, and all had withdrawn except the doctor and Jean, "now you're going to have tea with me, Miss Desmond. It's to be a Sabbath treat, and Cousin Leslie will have it, too. Mother and Cousin Meta have each other downstairs, and we'll have ourselves up here."
Jean was delighted to stay. Dr. Fergusson drew up another chair to the fire, and nurse presently wheeled a round tea-table up to the couch. It was daintily laid; hot scones were there, home-made jam and honey, and several varieties of cake and bread and butter. Sunnie poured out the tea with important pride.
"Now isn't this good!" exclaimed Dr. Fergusson. "I always say you are a born tea-maker, Sunnie. No tea downstairs tastes like this."
The child flushed all over with pleasure.
"Now," she said, clapping her hands, "we'll pretend—" Her face fell—"I forgot it was the Sabbath."
"We won't pretend anything. We'll be real, and be thankful for what we are," said the doctor.
Sunnie looked down at her little legs under the fur rug.
"Yes," she said, "I might have had my hands and arms cut off, then what should I have done?"
"And I," said the doctor, "might be sweeping a crossing in Edinburgh, with a cough shaking me to pieces, and only a cellar to sleep in, a crust of bread soaked in hot water for my tea, and twopence in my pocket to keep me from the workhouse."
"And I," remarked Jean, "might be a prisoner shut in for life, with only a cell to pace up and down day and night, and without a sound or sight of any human being but my gaoler."