“Oh, he’ll grow better as he grows older.  Don’t trouble yourself about him.  But, Chloe, there’s one favor I am going to ask of you.”

“Yes, Mass’ Richard.”

“Don’t call me by my real name.  For some reasons, which I can’t at present explain, I prefer to be known as Henry Morton, for some months to come.  Do you think you can remember to call me by that name?”

“Yes, Mass’—­Henry,” said Chloe, looking perplexed.

Henry Morton turned round to meet the surprised looks of Frank and his mother.

“My friends,” he said, “I hope you will not feel distrustful of me, when I freely acknowledge to you that imperative reasons compel me for a time to appear under a name not my own.  Chloe and I are old acquaintances, but I must request her to keep secret for a time her past knowledge concerning me.  I think,” he added with a smile, “that she would have nothing to say that would damage me.  Some time you shall know all.  Are you satisfied?”

“Quite so,” said Mrs. Frost.  “I have no doubt you have good and sufficient reason.”

“I will endeavor to justify your confidence,” said Henry Morton, an expression of pleasure lighting up his face.

CHAPTER XVIII.  THANKSGIVING AT THE FARM

The chill November days drew to a close.  The shrill winds whistled through the branches of the trees, and stirred the leaves which lay in brown heaps upon the ground.  But at the end of the month came Thanksgiving—­the farmer’s Harvest Home.  The fruits of the field were in abundance but in many a home there were vacant chairs, never more, alas! to be filled.  But he who dies in a noble cause leaves sweet and fragrant memories behind, which shall ever after make it pleasant to think of him.

Thanksgiving morning dawned foggy and cold.  Yet there is something in the name that warms the heart and makes the dullest day seem bright.  The sunshine of the heart more than compensates for the absence of sunshine without.

Frank had not been idle.

The night before he helped Jacob kill a turkey and a pair of chickens, and seated on a box in the barn they had picked them clean in preparation for the morrow,

Within the house, too, might be heard the notes of busy preparation.  Alice, sitting in a low chair, was busily engaged in chopping meat for mince pies.  Maggie sat near her paring pumpkins, for a genuine New England Thanksgiving cannot be properly celebrated without pumpkin pies.  Even little Charlie found work to do in slicing apples.

By evening a long row of pies might be seen upon the kitchen dresser.  Brown and flaky they looked, fit for the table of a prince.  So the children thought as they surveyed the attractive array, and felt that Thanksgiving, come as often as it might, could never be unwelcome.

Through the forenoon of Thanksgiving day the preparations continued.  Frank and Mr. Morton went to the village church, where an appropriate service was held by Reverend Mr. Apthorp.  There were but few of the village matrons present.  They were mostly detained at home by housewifely cares, which on that day could not well be delegated to other hands.