hifting about in his arms, he just managed to keep
possession of till he reached old Sylvester's knee. This was little Sam
Peabody, the youngest of the Peabodys, and as he looked up into his
grandfather's face you could not fail to see, though they grew so wide
apart, the same story of passion and character in each. The little
fellow began throwing the bright grain from the basin to a great
strutting turkey which went marching and gobbling up and down the
door-yard, swelling his feathers, spreading his tail, and shaking his
red neck-tie with a boundless pretence and restlessness; like many a
hero he was proud of his uniform, although the fatal hour which was to
lay him low was not far off. It was the thanksgiving turkey, himself, in
process of fattening under charge of Master Sam Peabody. Busy in the
act, he was regarded with smiling fondness by his mother, the widow
Margaret Peabody, and his old grandfather, when he suddenly turned, and
said--

"Grand-pa, where's brother Elbridge?"

The old man changed his countenance and struggled a moment with himself.

"He had better know all," he said, after a pause of thought, in which he
looked, or seemed to look afar off from the scene about him. "Margaret,
painful though it be to you and to me, let the truth be spoken. God
knows I love your son, Elbridge, and would have laid down my life that
this thing had not chanced, but the child asks of his brother so often,
and is so often evaded that he will be presently snared in a net of
falsehoods and deceptions if we speak not more plainly to him."

An inexpressible anguish overspread the countenance of the widowed
woman, and she turned aside to breathe a brief prayer of trust and hope
of strength in the hour of trial.

The thanksgiving turkey, full of his banquet of corn, strutted away to
a slope in the sun by the roadside, and little Sam Peabody renewed his
question.

"Can't I see brother Elbridge, grand-pa?"

"Never again, I fear, my child."

"Why not, grandfather?"

"Answer gently, father," the widow interposed. "Make not the case too
harsh against my boy."

"Margaret," said the old man, lifting his countenance upon her with
dignity of look, "I shall speak the truth. I would have the name of my
race pure of all stains and detractions, as it has been for an hundred
years, but I would not bear hardly against your son, Margaret. This
child, innocent and unswayed as he is, shall hear it, and shall be the
judge."

Risin