s served, sir," announced the old butler, his eyes on his
master's face.

William rose with alacrity, and gave his arm to Aunt Hannah.

"Well, I'm sure we're ready for dinner," he declared.

It was a good dinner, and it was well served. It could scarcely have
been otherwise with Dong Ling in the kitchen and Pete in the dining-room
doing their utmost to please. But even had the turkey been tough instead
of tender, and even had the pies been filled with sawdust instead of
with delicious mincemeat, it is doubtful if four at the table would have
known the difference: Cyril and Marie at one end were discussing where
to put their new sideboard in their dining-room, and Bertram and Billy
at the other were talking of the next Thanksgiving, when, according to
Bertram, the Strata would have the "dearest little mistress that ever
was born." As if, under these circumstances, the tenderness of the
turkey or the toothsomeness of the mince pie mattered! To Aunt Hannah
and William, in the centre of the table, however, it did matter; so it
was well, of course, that the dinner was a good one.

"And now," said Cyril, when dinner was over, "suppose you come up and
see the rug."

In compliance with this suggestion, the six trailed up the long flights
of stairs then, Billy carrying an extra shawl for Aunt Hannah--Cyril's
rooms were always cool.

"Oh, yes, I knew we should need it," she nodded to Bertram, as she
picked up the shawl from the hall stand where she had left it when she
came in. "That's why I brought it."

"Oh, my grief and conscience, Cyril, how _can_ you stand it?--to climb
stairs like this," panted Aunt Hannah, as she reached the top of the
last flight and dropped breathlessly into the nearest chair--from which
Marie had rescued a curtain just in time.

"Well, I'm not sure I could--if I were always to eat a Thanksgiving
dinner just before," laughed Cyril. "Maybe I ought to have waited and
let you rest an hour or two."

"But 'twould have been too dark, then, to see the rug," objected Marie.
"It's a genuine Persian--a Kirman, you know; and I'm so proud of it,"
she added, turning to the others. "I wanted you to see the colors by
daylight. Cyril likes it better, anyhow, in the daytime."

"Fancy Cyril _liking_ any sort of a rug at any time," chuckled Bertram,
his eyes on the rich, softly blended colors of the rug before him.
"Honestly, Miss Marie," he added, turning to the little bride elect,
"how did you ever manage to