exactly imagined how, but of course not as they did in real houses
that were not shops. And when Mrs. Ingraham, who had bustled off
down-stairs, came shuffling up again as well as she could with both
hands full and her petticoats in her way, and appeared bearing a cup
of hot tea and a plate of spiced gingerbread,--the latter _not_ out
of the shop, but home-made, and out of her own best parlor
cupboard,--she perceived almost with bewilderment, that cup and
plate were of spotless china, and the spoon was of real, worn,
bright silver. She might absolutely put these things to her own lips
without distaste or harm.

"It'll do you good after your start," said kindly Mrs. Ingraham.

The difference came in with the phraseology. A silver spoon is a
silver spoon, but speech cannot be rubbed up for occasion. Sylvie
thought she must mean _before_ her start, about which she was
growing anxious.

"O, I'm sorry you should have taken so much trouble," she exclaimed.
"I wonder if the phæton will be ready soon?"

"Mr. Ingraham he's got back," replied the lady. "He says Rylocks'll
be through with it in about half an hour. Don't you be a mite
concerned. Jest set here and drink your tea, and rest. Dot, I guess
you'd as good's come down-stairs. I shall be wantin' you with them
fly nets. Your father's fetched home the frames."

Ray Ingraham sat in the side window, and crocheted thread
edging,--of which she had already yards rolled up and pinned
together in a white ball upon her lap,--while Sylvie sipped her tea.