there isn't a thing but bread and milk, and little grandmother is
cleaning the attic."

She picked up her hat and flew through the orchard with Belinda a white
streak behind her, and Becky Sharp in the rear, a pursuing black shadow.

"Little grandmother, little grandmother," called Anne, when she reached
a small gray house at the edge of the orchard.

At a tiny window set in the angle of the slanting roof, a head
appeared--a head tied up just now in a clean white cloth, which framed
a rosy, wrinkled face.

"Little grandmother," cried Anne, breathlessly, "Judge Jameson is
coming, and there isn't anything for lunch."

"There's plenty of fresh bread and milk," said the little grandmother
calmly.

"But we can't give the Judge just that," said Anne.

"It isn't what you give, it's the spirit you offer it in," said the
little grandmother, reprovingly. "It won't be the first time that
Judge Jameson has eaten bread and milk at my table, Anne, and it won't
be the last," and with that the little grandmother untied the white
cloth, displaying a double row of soft gray curls that made her look
like a charming, if elderly, cherub.

"You go and meet him, Anne," she said "and I'll come right down."