"Nothing," replied Sarah. She had taken off her blanket, and sat in
one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs, holding Thankful.

"You look dreadful sober," said her mother. "Are you tired?"

"No, marm."

"I'm afraid you've got cold standing out there in the wind. Do you
feel chilly?"

"No, marm. Mother, how much do you suppose our turkey weighs?"

"I believe father said he'd weigh about twenty pounds. You are sure
you don't feel chilly?"

"No, marm. Mother, do you suppose our turkey weighs more than
Submit's?"

"How do you suppose I can tell? I ain't set eyes on their turkey
lately. If you feel well, you'd better sit up to the table and stone
that bowl of raisins. Put your dolly away, and get your apron."

But Sarah stoned raisins with Thankful in her lap, hidden under her
apron. She was so full of anxiety that she could not bear to put her
away. Suppose the Thompson turkey should be larger, and she should
lose Thankful--Thankful that her beautiful Aunt Rose had made for her?

Submit, over in the Thompson house, had sat down at once to her apple
paring. She had not gone into the best room to look at the work-box
whose possession she had hazarded. It stood in there on the table,
made of yellow satiny wood, with a sliding lid ornamented with a
beautiful little picture. Submit had a certain pride in it, but her
fear of losing it was not equal to her hope of possessing Thankful.
Submit had never had a doll, except a few plebeian ones, manufactured
secretly out of corncobs, whom it took more imagination than she
possessed to admire.

Gradually all emulation over the turkeys was lost in the naughty
covetousness of her little friend and neighbour's doll. Submit felt
shocked and guilty, but she sat there paring the Baldwin apples, and
thinking to herself: "If our turkey is only bigger, if it only is,
then--I shall have Thankful." Her mouth was pursed up and her eyes
snapped. She did not talk at all, but pared very fast.

Her mother looked at her. "If you don't take care, you'll cut your
fingers," said she. "You are in too much of a hurry. I suppose you
want to get out and gossip with Sarah again at the wall, but I can't
let you waste any more time to-day. There, I told you you would!"

Submit had cut her thumb quite severely. She choked a little when her
mother tied it up, and put on some balm of Gilead, which made it smart
worse.

"Don't cry!" said her mother. "You'll have to bear more than a cut
thumb if you