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Rh Mary ran away to prepare coffee for her, Mrs. Garden having decided “to become a real American,” she said, and break her fast with coffee, foregoing tea. But Anne had forestalled Mary. She had ready a delicious potful of the perfect coffee which was the pride of that household, and a tray filled with silver cups and saucers, cream and sugar, snowy rolls and golden butter, and another supplementary tray with a great bubble of a cut glass bowl filled with late strawberries, and the small translucent dishes in which to serve them.

“Oh, Anne, she must be happy here!” cried Mary, seeing these preparations.

“Don’t worry, Mary; she will be. She’s like a child, easily disturbed, easily pleased,” said Anne. “She hasn’t changed in the least. I knew you’d have to have something of this sort. Run back, dear child, and get out a small table and call Win down. Then I’ll have Abbie help me with these trays.”

“Isn’t it lovely, Anne?” Mary exclaimed, flying on her errands.

Win needed no calling; he met Mary in the hall. “I’ll take this, Molly,” he said, preventing her attempt to carry out an old-fashioned work table, whose drop-leaves could be raised