This was on Saturday; the next day the ceremony of the Lord's Supper would take place, and grand'ther recommended that the minister should be asked to suggest something to the church which might remove it from its hardness.
"Are the vessels scoured, Mercy ?" he asked, after the deacons had gone.
"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.