Jennings took the tray and closed the door, then drew a small tea-table up to the fire. She watched him eagerly, as he poured out the tea.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Jennings," she said, gratefully, taking the cup from his shaking hand. "Oh, that's good! I've never tasted such delicious tea. Is it a new kind?"
Jennings shook his head, handing her the toast. "Yer little leddyship must be very hungry."
"Jennings, I can trust you—I know you won't say anything."
"No, yer little leddyship."
"Did I do so very wrong, did I, that I should be treated like this?" She caught her breath with a sob, the tears rising to her eyes.
"It was cruel, cruel, yer little leddyship," answered Jennings, in a heart-broken voice. "There, there—have another cup of tea—that'll comfort yer."
"Do the servants all like me, Jennings?" asked Indiana, eating the sugar out of her tea, like a child.
"They'd go through fire and water for yer little leddyship, every mother's soul of them," answered Jennings, enthusiastically. "And my lady—she's taken on a new lease of life."
Indiana smiled brightly through her tears. "How long have you really been with the family, Jennings?"