will take part in any such foolish
and sinful wager," her grandfather continued.

Submit arose, hugging Thankful convulsively. She glanced wildly at her
great-grandmother's musket over the shelf. The same spirit that had
aimed it at the Indian possessed her, and she spoke out quite clearly:
"Our turkey didn't weigh the most," said she. "I put the Revolutionary
bullets in his crop."

There was silence. Submit's heart beat so hard that Thankful quivered.

"Go upstairs to your chamber, Submit," said her mother, "and you need
not come down to dinner. Jonas, take that doll and carry it over to
the Adams' house."

Submit crept miserably out of the room, and Jonas carried Thankful
across the yard to Sarah.

Submit crouched beside her little square window set with tiny panes of
glass, and watched him. She did not cry. She was very miserable, but
confession had awakened a salutary smart in her soul, like the balm
of Gilead on her cut thumb. She was not so unhappy as she had been.
She wondered if her father would whip her, and she made up her mind
not to cry if he did.

After Jonas came back she still crouched at the window. Exactly
opposite in the Adams' house was another little square window, and
that lighted Sarah's chamber. All of a sudden Sarah's face appeared
there. The two little girls stared pitifully at each other. Presently
Sarah raised her window, and put a stick under it; then Submit did the
same. They put their faces out, and looked at each other a minute
before speaking. Sarah's face was streaming with tears.

"What you crying for?" called Submit softly.

"Father sent me up here 'cause it is sinful to--make bets, and Aunt
Rose has come, and I can't have any--Thanksgiving dinner," wailed
Sarah.

"I'm wickeder than you," said Submit. "I put the Revolutionary bullets
in the turkey to make it weigh more than yours. Yours weighed the
most. If mother thinks it's right, I'll give you the work-box."

"I don't--want it," sobbed Sarah. "I'm dreadful sorry you've got to
stay up there, and can't have any dinner, Submit."

Answering tears sprang to Submit's eyes. "I'm dreadful sorry you've
got to stay up there, and can't have any dinner," she sobbed back.

There was a touch on her shoulder. She looked around and there stood
the grandmother. She was trying to look severe, but she was beaming
kindly on her. Her fat, fair old face was as gentle as the mercy that
tempers justice; her horn spectacles and her knitting