loe, there's one favor I am going to ask of you."

"Yes, Mass' Richard."

"Don't call me by my real name. For some reasons, which I can't at
present explain, I prefer to be known as Henry Morton, for some months
to come. Do you think you can remember to call me by that name?"

"Yes, Mass'--Henry," said Chloe, looking perplexed.

Henry Morton turned round to meet the surprised looks of Frank and his
mother.

"My friends," he said, "I hope you will not feel distrustful of me, when
I freely acknowledge to you that imperative reasons compel me for a time
to appear under a name not my own. Chloe and I are old acquaintances,
but I must request her to keep secret for a time her past knowledge
concerning me. I think," he added with a smile, "that she would have
nothing to say that would damage me. Some time you shall know all. Are
you satisfied?"

"Quite so," said Mrs. Frost. "I have no doubt you have good and
sufficient reason."

"I will endeavor to justify your confidence," said Henry Morton, an
expression of pleasure lighting up his face.

CHAPTER XVIII. THANKSGIVING AT THE FARM

The chill November days drew to a close. The shrill winds whistled
through the branches of the trees, and stirred the leaves which lay
in brown heaps upon the ground. But at the end of the month came
Thanksgiving--the farmer's Harvest Home. The fruits of the field were in
abundance but in many a home there were vacant chairs, never more, alas!
to be filled. But he who dies in a noble cause leaves sweet and fragrant
memories behind, which shall ever after make it pleasant to think of
him.

Thanksgiving morning dawned foggy and cold. Yet there is something in
the name that warms the heart and makes the dullest day seem bright. The
sunshine of the heart more than compensates for the absence of sunshine
without.

Frank had not been idle.

The night before he helped Jacob kill a turkey and a pair of chickens,
and seated on a box in the barn they had picked them clean in
preparation for the morrow.

Within the house, too, might be heard the notes of busy preparation.
Alice, sitting in a low chair, was busily engaged in chopping meat
for mince pies. Maggie sat near her paring pumpkins, for a genuine New
England Thanksgiving cannot be properly celebrated without pumpkin pies.
Even little Charlie found work to do in slicing apples.

By evening a long row of pies might be seen upon the kitchen dresser.
Brown and flaky they looked, fit f