“Drink it, Grandma dear,” begged Jacqueline. “I warmed it up real nice. Do, please drink it and get well.”
“My cup,” whispered Grandma. “No—no.”
She shut her eyes and her lips, with the obstinacy of the very feeble, and turned her head away. Jacqueline looked down at her helplessly. From beneath the pale eyelids she saw two tears course slowly.
“Oh, Grandma! Don’t!” begged Jacqueline.
“Cup,” murmured Grandma. “Want—green cup.”
Then Jacqueline understood.
CHAPTER XXVII
AGAINST A CLOSED DOOR
Jacqueline laid Grandma down, very gently, and put away the rejected broth, which was too precious to be thrown out, and rinsed the thick cup. As she stood drying it, she found that she was softly crying.
Oh, it was too dreadful! Poor little old Grandma, who had never been able to relish tea drunk from thick crockery, was begging now in her illness for the delicate green cup that had been all that was left of her precious wedding china—and it was Jacqueline, in her moment of bad temper, who had broken it! Once more Jacqueline felt as she had felt long ago, when she had struck the little lap dog. Quite frankly she wept into the dish towel that she was using.
But now she must see Caroline right away. Whatever else they went without, there at the farm, Grandma must have the thin china for which she pined. Wildly Jacqueline thought of running away to Longmeadow that very night. But sober second thought showed her the folly of such a plan. Even if Aunt Martha were willing to let her go, she hadn’t the courage, after her former experience, to trudge through the onion fields alone, in the dark.