"Were there many out at church this morning?" asked Grandmother. "Was Mr. Drew's sermon good?"

"Oh, that reminds me," said Grandfather, "that I have to go out this afternoon. I promised Parson Drew that I would take something to eat down to the Widow Banks. The Young People's Society gave her five dollars to buy a Thanksgiving dinner for herself and her six children, and if she didn't go spend the five dollars on a crepe veil and a Bible."

Grandfather gave a chuckle as he thought of the surprise that the Widow Banks had given the Young People.

"I don't blame her," said he stoutly. "She probably takes more pride and pleasure in what she bought than we can imagine. The neighbors won't let her starve. You fix up a good basket for her, won't you, Grandmother?"

And that Mrs. Whiting did, though she shook her head over what she termed "extravagance and shiftlessness."

A little later, Susan and Mr. Whiting, who carried a large basket, the contents of which would mean far more to the six hungry Banks orphans than would a crepe veil and a Bible, started down Featherbed Lane on their charitable errand.

"The air will do Susan good," Grandfather declared. "And if she is tired, I will carry her home. It isn't far, anyway."

Susan enjoyed both the walk and the short call they made at the dingy little white house in the Hollow.

Mrs. Banks, a thin, tearful wisp of a woman, with pale-blue eyes and untidy hair, gratefully accepted their offering; and the six sorrowful little Banks cheered up immediately when word went round as to what the basket held, so their visitors made haste to be gone, that they might be kept no longer from their Thanksgiving feast.

While Mr. Whiting talked to Mrs. Banks, Susan gazed round the poor little room, and eyed the Banks orphans standing in a row like steps, who, to do them justice, quite as frankly eyed her in return. The crepe veil was not in evidence, but on the mantelpiece lay the new Bible, black and shiny, and smelling powerfully of leather.

"Yes, six of them," said Mrs. Banks in her melancholy voice, waving her hand at the line, which looked more dejected than ever when attention was thus directed to it. "And not one of them old enough to do a stroke of work or to earn a penny."

"This is Richie," she went on, pointing to the tallest son of Banks, who dug his bare toes into the floor in an agony of embarra.s.sment. "He's the flower of the family. He will amount to something. He never opens his mouth for a word. He's like me.

"And this is Mervin. He eats like a fish. And his brother Claudius is not far behind him. I gave them their names, for I do like a rich-sounding name. Mr. Banks wasn't of my way of thinking. He was all for plain, commonsense names. He named the next two,-Maria and Also Jane."

"'Also,' did you say?" inquired Mr. Whiting, who was thoroughly enjoying his call. "That is a name new to me."

"It was a mistake," explained Mrs. Banks dolefully. "The two girls were christened together, and, after Maria was baptized, the minister turned to Jane and, says he, 'Also Jane Banks,' and 'Also Jane' she has been to this day, for her father wouldn't go against the minister's word for anything in the world."

"What is the baby's name?" asked Mr. Whiting, preparing to depart.

"Her name is a compromise," answered Mrs. Banks, pulling out her damp handkerchief to wipe the baby's eyes which had instantly overflowed at hearing herself called a "mean name," as she whimpered into her mother's ear. "To please me we named her Cleopatra, but we always call her Pat, her father was such a one for plain names."

When Mr. Whiting and Susan reached home they found Grandmother and Miss Liza rocking placidly before a roaring fire, and room was made for Grandfather's chair with Susan on a cricket at his feet.

"Now, we will tell what we are most thankful for," said Grandmother, when the story of the call at the Banks' had been related, and a way of helping Mrs. Banks support her six children had been discussed. "You begin, Miss Liza."

"I'm thankful," said Miss Liza, without a moment's hesitation, "for good friends, for health, and a home."

"I'm most thankful," said Grandmother, "for Grandfather, and Susan, and a peaceful life. I couldn't live in strife with any one."

Grandfather thrust his boots out toward the fire and pulled his silk handkerchief from his pocket.

"I'm thankful," said he, carefully spreading his handkerchief over his head, "I'm thankful for my home, and that means Grandmother and Susan, and I'm thankful, too, that I have my own teeth. I mean it, I'm not joking." And he soberly snapped his strong white teeth together without a smile.

"I'm thankful," piped up Susan, glad her turn had come, "for Grandfather, and Grandmother, and Miss Liza, and Snuff, and Flip, and Nero, and-"

Grandfather caught her up from the cricket and held her in his arms.

"My black-eyed Susan," said he, tenderly.

Susan looked round with a smile.

"I think," said she,-"I think I'm thankful-why, I think I'm thankful for just everything."

THE END