her room. Jessie resumed
her study, and especially her practice, for she hoped some day to be a
great musician. She waited on her mother and took charge of the
housekeeping, so much as was necessary with the well-tried servant at
the head of the kitchen. And though she had but sixteen years over her
bright brown head, she proved herself to be what in that little New
England town was called "capable."

But that box of goodies! Let us see where it went.

It was Thanksgiving morning in a rough-looking little mining
settlement in Colorado. In a shanty rougher and more comfortless than
the rest were two persons: one, a man of thirty, was deeply engaged in
cleaning and oiling a gun which lay in pieces about him on the rough
bench where he sat; the other, a youth of sixteen, was trying to make
a fire burn in the primitive-looking affair that did duty as a stove.
Both wore coarse miner's suits, and picks and other things about the
room told that their business was to dig for the yellow dust we are
all so greedy to have.

Evidently luck had not been good, for the whole place appeared run
down, and the two looked absolutely hungry.

It was Thanksgiving morning, as I said, but no thankfulness shone in
the two pale, thin faces. Both were sad, and the younger one almost
hopeless.

"Jack," said the elder, pausing in his operations, "mind you give that
old hen a good boil, or we won't be able to eat it."

"It'll be better'n nothing, anyway, I suppose," said Jack gloomily.

"Not much. 'Specially if you don't get the taste of sage brush out of
it. Lucky I happened to get that shot at her, anyway," he went on,
"I've seen worse dinners--even Thanksgiving dinners--than a sage hen."

"I haven't," said Jack shortly; for the mention of Thanksgiving had
brought up before him with startling vividness the picture of a bright
dining-room in a certain town far away, a table loaded with good
things, and surrounded by smiling faces, and the contrast was almost
more than he could bear.

"Well, don't be down on your luck, boy, so long as you can get a good
fat hen to eat, if she does happen to be too fond of seasoning before
she's dead!" replied the other cheerfully; "we haven't struck it yet,
but it's always darkest just before dawn, you know. We may be
millionaires before this time to-morrow."

"We may," answered Jack; but he didn't look as if he had much hope of
it.

A few hours later the occupants of the cabin sat down to their
Than