"I have no sand."

He presently brought her a biggin of fine white sand, which brought
the shore of Surrey to my mind's eye. I followed her as she carried
it to the well-room, where I saw, on the meal-chest, two large pewter
plates, two flagons of the same metal, and a dozen or more cups, some
of silver, and marked with the owner's name. They were soon cleaned.
Then she made a fire in the oven, and mixed loaves in a peculiar
shape, and launched them into the oven. She watched the bread
carefully, and took it out before it had time to brown.

"This work belongs to the deacons' wives," she said; "but it has
been done in this house for years. The bread is not like ours--it is
unleavened."

Grand'ther carried it into the church after she had cut it with a
sharp knife so that at the touch it would fall apart into square bits.
When the remains were brought back, I went to the closet, where they
were deposited, and took a piece of the bread, eating it reflectively,
to test its solemnizing powers. I felt none, and when Aunt Mercy
boiled the remnants with milk for a pudding, the sacred ideality of
the ceremony I had seen at church was destroyed for me.

Was it a pity that my life was not conducted on Nature's plan, who
shows us the beautiful, while she conceals the interior? We do not see
the roots of her roses, and she hides from us her skeletons.

November passed, with its Thanksgiving--the sole day of all the year
which grand'ther celebrated, by buying a goose for dinner, which goose
was stewed with rye dumplings, that slid over my plate like glass