McGinnises and the dog.
Weigh the turkey so that you'll know exactly how long to cook it. Put
the pies in the oven in time to get piping hot--lukewarm mince pies
are an abomination. Be sure--"

"Laura, don't confuse us with any more cautions," I groaned, "or we
shall get hopelessly fuddled. Come on, Kate, before she has time to."

[Illustration]

It wasn't very far up to the Pinery--just ten minutes' walk, and such
a delightful walk on that delightful morning. We went through the
orchard and then through the white birch wood where the loveliness of
the frosted boughs awed us. Beyond that there was a lane between ranks
of young, balsamy, white-misted firs and then an open pasture field,
sere and crispy. Just across it was the Pinery, a lovely old house
with dormer windows in the roof, surrounded by pines that were dark
and glorious against the silvery morning sky.

The McGinnis dog was sitting on the back-door steps when we arrived.
He wagged his tail ingratiatingly, but we ruthlessly pushed him off,
went in and shut the door in his face. All the little McGinnises were
sitting in a row on their fence, and they whooped derisively. The
McGinnis manners are not those which appertain to the caste of Vere de
Vere; but we rather like the urchins--there are eight of them--and we
would probably have gone over to talk to them if we had not had the
fear of Aunt Susanna before our eyes.

We kindled the fires, weighed the turkey, put it in the oven and
prepared the vegetables. Then we set the dining-room table and
decorated it with Aunt Susanna's potted ferns and dishes of lovely red
apples. Everything went so smoothly that we soon forgot to be nervous.
When the turkey was done, we took it out, set it on the back of the
range to keep warm and put the mince pies in. The potatoes, cabbage
and turnips were bubbling away cheerfully, and everything was going as
merrily as a marriage bell. Then, all at once, things happened.

In an evil hour we went to the yard window and looked out. We saw a
quiet scene. The McGinnis dog was still sitting on his haunches by the
steps, just as he had been sitting all the morning. Down in the
McGinnis yard everything wore an unusually peaceful aspect. Only one
McGinnis was in sight--Tony, aged eight, who was perched up on the
edge of the well box, swinging his legs and singing at the top of his
melodious Irish voice. All at once, just as we were looking at him,
Tony went over backward and apparentl