“Well, it is beautiful, Mrs. Lambert, and what a Thanksgiving ought to be,—­what it was in the old pilgrim days at Plymouth, when those who had more than others invited the less fortunate to share with them.  It’s beautiful, and I wish everybody who could afford it would go and do likewise.”

“Speaking of affording it, I thought, when my husband died last spring, I should have to give up our guest day with most other things, for you know that railroad business that my husband entered into with his half-brother John nearly ruined him.  I think the worry and fret of it killed him, anyway, and I told John so, and he has never forgiven me.  But I have never forgiven him, and never shall; for if it hadn’t been for John’s representations, his continual urging, Charles would never have gone into the business.  Oh, I shall always hold John responsible for his death, and I told him so.”

“You told him so?  How did he take that?  What did he say?”

“Oh, you know John.  He flew into a rage, and said he loved his brother as well as I did.  As well as I did!  Think of that; and that he had urged him into that business, thinking that it was for his benefit,—­that no one could have foreseen what happened, and that if Charles lost, he also had lost, and much more heavily.  But, as I was saying, I thought at first I should have to give up our guest day; but when matters came to be settled, I found there were other things I would rather economize on.”

“Where is John now, Mrs. Lambert?”

“He is in—­” But just at that moment a tall pretty girl of fourteen entered the room.  It was Elsie, the eldest of the Lambert children.

“Why, Elsie, how you have grown!” cried Mrs. Mason, who hadn’t seen Elsie for some months, “and you’ve quite lost the look of your mother.”

“Yes, Elsie is getting to look like the Lamberts,” remarked the mother.

“Everybody says I look just like Uncle John,” spoke up Elsie.

“Oh, you were asking me where John was now,” said Mrs. Lambert, turning to Mrs. Mason.  “He is in New York, dabbling in railroads, as usual, and getting poorer and poorer by this obstinate folly, I heard last week. We don’t see him, of course; for, as I told you, we don’t forgive each other.  Oh!” as her visitor cast a questioning glance toward Elsie, who had suddenly given a little start here, “Elsie knows all about it.  Elsie is my big girl now.  But what is it, my dear?—­you came in to ask me something,—­what is it?”

“It’s about Tommy.  He has told me who he is going to invite for next week,”—­next week was Thanksgiving week,—­“and I knew you would not like it, and I felt that I ought to tell you; it is that horrid Marchant boy.”

“Like it,—­I should think not!  Why, what in the world has put Tommy up to that?”

“He says that Joe Marchant hasn’t any home of his own this Thanksgiving, because his father has gone out West on business, and left Joe all alone with those people that his father and he boarded with just after his mother died; and Tommy pities Joe so, he says he is going to invite him here for next Thursday, and I knew you wouldn’t want him.”