A few lines
were, I confess, shaping themselves in my mind; it is very apt to be the
case, when my surroundings are so gracious--so harmonious--I may say so
inspiring, as at the present moment."

He waved his hands over the table, whose general effect was of crystal
and gold, cream and honey, shining on the dark mirror of the bare table.

"I agree with you, I'm sure, Mr. Hollopeter," said little Mrs. Bliss,
heartily. "I couldn't write a line of poetry to save my life, but if I
could, I am sure it would be about this table, Miss Blyth. It _is_ the
prettiest table I ever saw, and the prettiest setting."

Miss Phoebe looked pleased.

"It is a Darracott table," she said. "My aunt, Mrs. Tree, has the mate
to it. They were saved when Darracott House was burned, and naturally we
value them highly. I believe they formed part of the original furnishing
brought over from England by James Lysander James Darracott in 1642. It
is a matter of rivalry between our good Diploma Crotty and her aunt,
Mrs. Tree's domestic, as to which table is in the more perfect
condition. Mrs. Tree's table has no dent in it--"

"Ah, Phoebe, I shall carry that dent to my grave with me!" said Doctor
Stedman, with a twinkle in his gray eyes. "You will never forgive it, I
see."

"On the contrary, James, I forgave it long ago," said Miss Phoebe,
graciously. "I was about to remark that though the other table has no
dent, it has a scratch, made by Jocko in his youth, which years of labor
have failed to efface. To my mind, the scratch is more noticeable than
the dent, though both are to be regretted. Mr. Bliss, you are eating
nothing. I beg you will allow me to give you a little honey! It is made
by our own bees, and I think I can conscientiously recommend it. A
little cream, you will find, takes off the edge of the sweet, and makes
it more palatable."

"Miss Blyth, you must not give us too many good things," said the little
minister, shaking his head, but holding out his plate none the less.
"Thank you! thank you! most delicious, I am sure. I only hope it is not
a snare of the flesh, Miss Phoebe."

He spoke merrily, in full enjoyment of his first spoonful of honey--not
the colorless, flavorless white clover variety, but the goldenrod honey,
rich and full in color and flavor. He smiled as he spoke, but Miss
Phoebe looked grave.

"I trust not, indeed, Mr. Bliss," she said. "It would ill become my
sister and me to lay snares of any kind for your feet. I