te that year. The red-lettered Thursday on the
calendar didn't appear until the last part of the month. But winter had
set in early, and already there was fine coasting and skating.

Marjorie loved all out-of-door sports, and the jolly afternoons spent on
the hill or on the lake sent her home with cheeks as rosy as a hard,
sound, winter apple.

The Thanksgiving season always meant festivity of some sort. Sometimes
they all went to Grandma Sherwood's in orthodox traditional fashion, and
sometimes they went to Grandma Maynard's, who lived in New York.

But this year Mr. and Mrs. Maynard expected friends of their own, some
grown-ups from the city, to spend the holiday.

"No children!" exclaimed Marjorie, when she heard about it.

"No, Midge," said her mother. "You must help me entertain my guests this
time, as I sometimes help you entertain yours."

"Indeed you do, you sweetest mother in all the world!" cried impetuous
Midget, as she flung herself into her mother's arms. Midget's embraces
were of the strenuous order, and, though Mrs. Maynard never warded them
off, she was often obliged to brace herself for the sudden impact.

"And I'll help you a heap," went on Marjorie. "What can I do? May I make
Indian pudding with raisins in it?"

Midge was just having a spell of learning to cook, and good-natured
Ellen had taught her a few simple dishes, of which Indian pudding was
the favorite.

"No thank you, dearie. As it is a festival occasion, I think we'll have
something a little more elaborate than that. You can help me better by
trying to behave decorously, and by keeping the other children quiet
when they are in the drawing-room. Mr. and Mrs. Crawford have never had
any children, and they don't like noise and confusion."

"You're more used to it, aren't you, Mother?" said Marjorie, again
springing to give her mother one of her spasmodic embraces, and
incidentally upsetting that long-suffering lady's work-basket.

"I have to be if I live with my whirlwind of an eldest daughter," said
Mrs. Maynard, when she could get her breath once more.

"Yes'm. And I'm awful sorry I upset your basket, but now I'll just dump
it out entirely, and clear it up from the beginning; shall I?"

"Yes, do; it always looks so nice after you put it in order."

And so it did, for Marjorie was methodical in details, and she arranged
the little reels of silk, and put the needles tidily in their cushion,
until the basket was in fine order.