“I am sure I never before had so much to be thankful for!” was Grace Harlowe’s fervent declaration as she viewed with loving eyes the little circle of friends of which she was the center.

It was Thanksgiving eve, and the Nesbits had gathered under their hospitable roof a most congenial company to help them commemorate America’s first holiday. Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe, in company with Mrs. Gray, had come from Oakdale. J. Elfreda Briggs had won a reluctant consent from her family, who invariably spent their Thanksgivings at Fairview, to make one of Miriam’s house party. Anne, who was playing an extended engagement in New York City, was transplanted from the Southards’ to Miriam’s home for a week’s stay. There were, of course, many loved faces missing, but this only made those who had assembled for a brief sojourn together more keenly alive to the joy of reunion.

“This is the first Thanksgiving since my senior year in high school that I’ve been given the chance to sit between Father and Mother and count my blessings,” Grace continued, looking fondly from one to the other of her parents. She was occupying a low stool between them, her favorite seat at home when the day was done, and the devoted little family gathered in the living room to talk over its events.

“We are counting our blessings, too,” smiled Mr. Harlowe. “One of them is very lively, and runs away almost as soon as it arrives.” He pinched Grace’s soft cheek.

“But it always runs back again,” reminded Grace, “and it’s always yours for the asking. I’d leave my work, everything, and come home on wings if you needed me.”

“I used to hate Thanksgiving when I was a youngster,” broke in J. Elfreda. “We always had a lot of company and I always behaved like a savage and spent Thanksgiving evening in solitary confinement. I’d wail like a disappointed coyote and make night generally hideous for the company. I’ve improved a lot since those days,” she grinned boyishly at her friends. “I can see now that it was a pretty good thing the Pilgrim Fathers set aside a day for counting their blessings. If they thought they were lucky, I wonder what we are.”

Elfreda had unconsciously gone from the comic to the serious.

“We are favored beyond understanding,” Mrs. Harlowe said solemnly. “When one thinks of the poor and unfortunate, to whom Thanksgiving can bring nothing but sorrow and bitterness, it seems little short of marvelous that we should be so happy.”

“I don’t wish to be selfish and forget life’s unfortunates, but I’d rather not think about them now,” was Miriam’s candid comment. “We mustn’t be sad to-night. Grace must sparkle, and Elfreda be funny, and Anne must recite for us, and I’ll play and David must sing. I’ve discovered that he has a really good tenor voice. We’ve been practising songs together this fall.”

“Really?” asked Grace, with interest. “And all these years we never knew it. David, you can surely keep a secret.”

“Oh, I can’t sing,” protested David, coloring. “Miriam only thinks I can. Our real singers are among the missing to-night.”

“You mean Hippy and Nora?”

“Yes,” nodded David. “Isn’t it strange we didn’t hear from them. I wrote Tom, Hippy and Reddy to come on here for Thanksgiving if they could. Reddy and Jessica couldn’t make it. They are coming home for Christmas, though. Tom Gray is away up in the Michigan woods. Still he sent a telegram that he couldn’t come. But Hippy didn’t answer. This morning I sent him a telegram, and so far there’s no answer to that, either.”

“I hope neither of them is ill.” Mrs. Gray’s face took on a look of concern. “It is not like Hippy to neglect his friends.”

“Nora is usually the soul of promptness, too,” reminded Anne.

“If I don’t hear anything to-night, I’ll telegraph Hippy again to-morrow,” announced David.

There was a pleasant silence in the room. Every one’s thoughts were on the piquant-faced Irish girl, whose sprightly manner and charming personality made her a favorite, and her plump, loquacious husband, whose ready flow of funny sayings never seemed to diminish.

“There aren’t any wishing rings nowadays,” sighed Grace, “so there’s no use in saying, ‘I wish Nora and Hippy were here.’ Come on, David, and sing for us. Miriam says you can, and you know it wouldn’t be nice in you to contradict your sister.”

“You can sing, ‘Ah, Moon of My Delight,’” suggested Miriam to her brother. “It is Omar Khayyam set to music, you know”—she turned to Grace—“from the song cycle, ‘In a Persian Garden.’”

“I love it,” commented Anne, her eyes dreamy. “Do sing it, David.”

As Miriam went to the piano the whirr of the electric bell came to their ears.

Grace glanced interrogatively at David. “Perhaps it’s a telegram,” she commented.

David, who had just risen from his chair to go to the piano, stopped short and listened. “False alarm. Must be the doctor. One of the maids is sick.” He crossed to the piano where Miriam already stood, turning over a pile of music. Having found the song for which she was searching, she took her place before the piano and began the quatrain’s throbbing accompaniment.

David’s voice rang out tunefully. He sang with considerable feeling and expression. He had reached the exquisite line, “Through this same Garden—and for One in Vain!” when a clear high voice from the doorway took up the song with him.

With a startled cry of “Nora!” Grace ran to the door.

The song came to an abrupt end. Miriam whirled on the piano stool. One glance and she had joined the group that now surrounded a slender figure with a rosy, laughing face and a saucy turned-up nose.

“Nora O’Malley! You dear thing! No wonder David didn’t hear from Hippy. But where is he? Not far away, I hope.”

“Ah!” called a voice from behind the thin silk curtain of a small alcove at one end of the hall, and Hippy emerged, the picture of offended dignity. “Missed at last,” was his sweeping rebuke. “I had begun to think I was doomed to languish behind that green silk curtain for life. It’s all Nora’s fault. If I had been immured there forever and always, it would be her fault just the same. She proposed that I should hide. ‘Make them think I came alone. They will be so disappointed,’ was her deceitful counsel. And I believed her and wrapped myself in the curtain to wait for you to be disappointed. I see it all now. It was merely a scheme to attract attention to herself. She is jealous of my popularity.”

“Oh, hush, you wicked thing,” giggled Nora. “You didn’t give any one time even to ask for you.”

“That sounds well,” was Hippy’s lofty retort, “but remember, all that prattles is not truth.”

“Squabbling as usual,” groaned David, shaking Hippy’s hand with an energy that belied the groan.

“Just as usual,” smirked Hippy. “Neither of us will ever outgrow it. You see we once lived in a town called Oakdale and associated daily with a number of very quarrelsome people. I wouldn’t like to mention their names, but if some day you should happen to go to Oakdale just ask any one if David Nesbit and Reddy Brooks ever reformed. They’ll understand what you mean.”

“Your Oakdale friends will have cause to inquire what awful fate has overtaken you if you don’t reform speedily,” warned David. “I’m obliged to stand your insults because you are company. Just wait until the newness of seeing you again wears off, and then see what happens.”

“You don’t have to show me,” flung back Hippy hastily. “I’ll take your word for it. I believe in words, not deeds. You know I used to be so fond of quoting that immortal stanza about doing noble deeds instead of dreaming them all day long. Well, I’ve altered that to fit any little occasion that might arise. I find it much more comforting to say it this way:

A ripple of laughter followed Hippy’s sadly altered quotation of the famous lines.

“That’s a most ignoble sentiment, Hippy,” criticized Miriam. “I can’t believe that you would practice it.”

“I didn’t say I would practice it,” responded Hippy, with a wide grin. “I merely stated that it was comforting to have around. Must I repeat that I believe in words, and lots of them.”

“We all knew that years ago,” jeered David. “I believe in words, too. Sensible words from Nora explaining how you and she happened to drift in here at the eleventh hour. You haven’t a sensible word in your vocabulary.”

“I have,” protested Hippy. “Nora, as your husband, I command you, don’t give David Nesbit any information.”

Nora dimpled. “I won’t tell David,” she capitulated. “I’ll tell Miriam and Anne and Grace.” The five Originals were still grouped together in the hall. “When David’s letter came we were just wondering how we would spend Thanksgiving with not one of the old crowd at home. Hippy handed me the letter. It came while we were at luncheon. ‘Let’s go,’ we both said at once. So we locked little fingers, wished and said ‘Thumbs.’ I said ‘salt, pepper, vinegar,’ but Hippy went on indefinitely with such pleasant reminders as ‘death, famine, pestilence, murder.’ He believes in words, you know.” She shot a roguish glance at her broadly-smiling spouse. “Finally I reduced him to reason and we planned to surprise you. This morning found two lonely Originals hurrying to catch up with their pals.” Nora surveyed her friends with a loving loyalty that brought her extra embracing from Grace, Anne and Miriam.

“We mustn’t be selfish,” reminded Grace. “The folks in the living room are anxious to welcome you.”

Hippy and Nora were escorted into the living room by a fond bodyguard, and were soon exchanging affectionate greetings with the older members of the house party. J. Elfreda Briggs had not gone into the hall on the arrival of Hippy and Nora. She could never be induced to intrude upon the more intimate moments of the Originals.

Hippy, with understanding tact, at once proceeded to draw her into the charmed circle. “Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Whom do I see? J. Elfreda, and in the clutches of the law, so I am told.”

J. Elfreda’s fear of intruding vanished at this sally. Her own sense of humor caused her to claim kinship with Hippy and his pranks and she answered him in kind.

“What I don’t see is how you ever escaped those same clutches,” put in David. “Don’t you have a hard time, usually, to convince the jury that you are not the defendant?”

“Not in the least,” responded Hippy, with dignity. “The jury knows me for what I am. Just let me tell you that if I were to have you arrested for slander there wouldn’t be the slightest chance of my being mistaken for the defendant.”

Even David was obliged to join in the laugh against himself.

“All right, old man. We’ll cry quits. I’ll bring my law cases to you if ever I have any.”

“And now that you are a broker I’ll bring anything I want broken to you,” promised Hippy glibly. “So far I’ve left all those little business details to the maid. She has successfully broken a number of our wedding presents, and we look for still greater results. She knows more about ‘brokerage’ or, rather ‘breakerage,’ than would fill a book.”

“What a blessed thing it is to find you the same ridiculous Hippy we’ve always known,” smiled Mrs. Gray, as Hippy seated himself beside her for a few minutes’ sensible conversation. “You and Nora will never be staid and serious. I’m so glad of it.”

She sighed. She was thinking of Tom Gray, her nephew, and of how grave, almost moody, he had become during the last year. Long ago she had deplored the fact that no engagement existed between Tom and Grace. Tom had grown strangely unlike his old cheery self, and in his changed bearing she read refusal of his love on Grace’s part. It saddened her. Her heart ached for Tom. She had always looked forward to the day when Grace would give her life into Tom’s keeping.

She had never approached Grace on the subject of Tom and his love, but to-night, as she watched Hippy and Nora, serene in their mutual love and comradeship, and marked, too, the quiet devotion of Anne and David, who were to be married in Oakdale on New Year’s night, her heart went out to her gray-eyed boy, far away in the great North woods, and she determined to say a word for him to Grace.

It was late in the evening before she found her opportunity. With the arrival of Hippy and Nora the interest soon centered about the piano. Grace, while not a performer, was an ardent lover of music, and her delight in Nora’s singing was so patent that Mrs. Gray would not disturb her.

It was during the serving of a dainty little repast that Mrs. Gray called to Grace, “Come here, Grace, and sit by me.”

Grace obeyed with alacrity, drawing her chair close to that of her old friend.

“I thought I would ask you, my dear—what do you hear from Tom?” began the dainty old lady with apparent innocence.

Grace felt the color mount even to her forehead.

“I haven’t heard from him lately,” she confessed. “I—that is—I owe him a letter.”

“I wish you would write to him. Poor boy. He is very lonely, away up there in the woods.”

Grace did not answer for a moment. Then she said in a constrained voice, “I will write to him, Mrs. Gray. I know he is lonely.”

There was an awkward pause in the conversation; then came the abrupt question, “Grace, do you love my boy?”

“No, Fairy Godmother,” replied Grace in a low tone. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. That is, not in the way he wishes me to love him.”

“I am sorry, too, Grace. I feel almost as though I were responsible for his sorrow. For to him it is a deep sorrow. If I had not given Harlowe House to Overton College, you might have found that your work lay in being Tom’s wife. He has never reproached me, but I wonder if he ever thinks that.”

“I am sure he doesn’t,” Grace’s clear eyes met sorrowfully the kind blue ones. “Please don’t think that Harlowe House has anything to do with my not marrying Tom. It is only because I do not love him that I am firm in refusing him. My heart is bound up in my work. Really, dear Fairy Godmother, I am almost sure I shall never marry. For your sake and his, I’d rather marry Tom than any other man in the world, if I felt that marriage was best for me. But I don’t. I glory in my work and freedom and I couldn’t give them up. I’ve wanted to say this to you for a long time, but I didn’t know just how to begin. Now that I have said it, I hope it hasn’t wounded you.”

“My dear Grace,” Mrs. Gray’s voice was not quite steady, “I would give much to welcome you as my niece, but not unless you love Tom with the tenderness of a truly great love. If that love ever comes to you, I shall indeed be happy. But my dear boy is worthy of the highest affection. If you cannot give him that affection, then it is far better that you two should spend your lives apart.”