palm along the backs of the volumes to level any irregularities
left by careless browsers. He put out a hand to push the book into
place. Then he stopped.

"Queer again," he thought. "Carlyle's Oliver Cromwell! I looked for
that book last night and couldn't find it. When that professor fellow
was here. Maybe I'm tired and can't see straight. I'll go to bed."

The next day was a date of some moment. Not only was it Thanksgiving
Day, with the November meeting of the Corn Cob Club scheduled for that
evening, but Mrs. Mifflin had promised to get home from Boston in time
to bake a chocolate cake for the booksellers. It was said that some of
the members of the club were faithful in attendance more by reason of
Mrs. Mifflin's chocolate cake, and the cask of cider that her brother
Andrew McGill sent down from the Sabine Farm every autumn, than on
account of the bookish conversation.

Roger spent the morning in doing a little housecleaning, in preparation
for his wife's return. He was a trifle abashed to find how many
mingled crumbs and tobacco cinders had accumulated on the dining-room
rug. He cooked himself a modest lunch of lamb chops and baked
potatoes, and was pleased by an epigram concerning food that came into
his mind. "It's not the food you dream about that matters," he said to
himself; "it's the vittles that walk right in and become a member of
the family." He felt that this needed a little polishing and
rephrasing, but that there was a germ of wit in it. He had a habit of
encountering ideas at his solitary meals.

After this, he was busy at the sink scrubbing the dishes, when he was
surprised by feeling two very competent arms surround him, and a pink
gingham apron was thrown over his head. "Mifflin," said his wife, "how
many times have I told you to put on an apron when you wash up!"

They greeted each other with the hearty, affectionate simplicity of
those congenially wedded in middle age. Helen Mifflin was a buxom,
healthy creature, rich in good sense and good humour, well nourished
both in mind and body. She kissed Roger's bald head, tied the apron
around his shrimpish person, and sat down on a kitchen chair to watch
him finish wiping the china. Her cheeks were cool and ruddy from the
keen air, her face lit with the tranquil satisfaction of those who have
sojourned in the comfortable city of Boston.

"Well, my dear," said Roger, "this makes it a real Thanksgiving. You
look as plump and f