"Our last foregathering on earth," chuckled my Great-Aunt brightly throughout the afternoon.
Death was discussed till tea-time: with dogmatic satisfaction by Aunt Jael, with vulgar self-assurance by Salvation, with mystical hope by Glory, with reverent delight by my Grandmother.
"Though Death, mind 'ee, is a pain," said Salvation; wagging her head sagely.
"Nay, 'tis a portal," corrected Glory.
"Yes," said my Grandmother, "a portal to the Life Everlasting."
The Life Everlasting. Yet I looked and saw joy in the four old faces.
Glory was absolved her corner penitence for this Last Tea, and the five of us sat down when I had laid the table and got the meal ready.
Immediately a row began. Now saying grace was a strictly regulated detail of the Tuesday ritual. Decades of dispute had not enabled Aunt Jael to oust my Grandmother from an equal share in this privilege in our ordinary daily life alone, and a compromise had obtained through all the years I remember whereby Aunt Jael asked the blessing before breakfast and dinner, and Grandmother before tea and supper. But on Tuesdays, with two guests to be reckoned with, both of whom were as eager in pre-prandial "testimony" as their hostesses, the position was more complicated. Though sometimes challenged, the rule of taking turns Tuesday by Tuesday in saying grace, had gradually become established: a childish and democratic arrangement which can have been little to Aunt Jael's taste, but which, despite occasional bickerings, was accepted as early as I can remember.
It was for the privilege of asking the blessing at this Last Tea, this ultimate spread, that the dispute now arose. Grandmother and Glory took no part, but Aunt Jael and Salvation each swore it was her turn.
"We'll all ask a blessing," finally proposed my Grandmother. The suggestion was accepted, and in turn the Four Graces were solemnly declaimed.