ng with the evening paper,
which he laid upon the table before coming to close the shutters.

"He's too old to say he is sorry," Di said to herself, as she turned
dejectedly away; "a great deal too old--and lonely--and dreary!"

And it was on that very evening that she made her little petition to
her mother, and that her father declared that Di was sure to bag her
game.

Old Mr. Crosby, meanwhile, was too well-used to his empty house and to
his boarded-in fireplace to mind them very much, too unaccustomed to
muslin curtains to miss them. Yet he had not been on very good terms
with himself for the past few weeks, and that was something which he
did mind particularly.

The result of his long cogitation in front of the grandfather picture
had been highly uncomplimentary to the artist. He pronounced the
homespun subject unworthy of artistic treatment, and he told himself
that it merited just that order of criticism which it had received at
the hands of the young person with the rather pretty turn of
countenance, who had regarded it with such enthusiasm. Nevertheless,
he did not forget the picture,--nor yet the young person!

It was the afternoon of Thanksgiving day, and there was a light fall
of snow outside. He remembered that in old times there used always to
be a lot of snow on Thanksgiving day. Things were very different in
old times. He wondered what would have been thought of a man fifty
years ago,--or seventeen years ago, for the matter of that,--who was
giving his servants a holiday and dining at the club. As if those
foreign servants had any concern in the Yankee festival! But then,
what concern had he, Horatio Crosby, in it nowadays? What had he to be
thankful for? Whom had he to be thankful with? He was very lucky to
have a club to go to! He might as well go now, though it was still two
or three hours to dinner time. He would ring for his overcoat and
snow-shoes.

His hand was on the bell-rope--for Mr. Horatio Crosby was
old-fashioned, and had never yet admitted an electric button to his
domain.

At that moment the door opened softly--what was Burns thinking of, not
to knock?--and there stood, not Burns, not Nora, but a slender
apparition in petticoats, with a dash of snow on hat and jacket, and a
dash of daring in a pair of very bright eyes.

"Good afternoon, Grandfather," was the apparition's cheerful greeting,
and involuntarily the old gentleman found himself replying with a
"Good afternoon" of his