“Oh yes, it will, dear; and Fred likes his tea strong.”
“Yes, yes, very strong, my dear; and always preaches at me if I take it only just coloured. I sometimes think it’s because he thinks I cost too much.”
“Now, auntie, how can you?” cried Laura. “Don’t you believe her, Bel.”
“I do not,” said the girl, smiling. “Poor aunt is not well this morning.”
“How can I be, my child, knowing as I do that my little bit of property is slowly wasting away, and—”
“Here’s the urn, aunt,” cried Laura. “Shall I make the tea?”
“Certainly not, my dear. Let me, pray, enjoy the last few privileges of my age while I am here. I do not mean in this house, Isabel, my child, but living out my last weary span.”
“Auntie darling,” said Laura, tenderly, getting up as soon as the maid had placed tea-urn and covered dishes upon the table, “don’t be so miserable this morning now that dear Bel is here,” and she kissed the old lady lovingly.
“How can I help it, my child? It is her being here makes me feel so bad.”
“Oh, my dear Mrs Crane!” cried Isabel.