under their wing on their way back East.  Judge and Mrs. Stockton brought me.  I must remember the date of Mrs. Stockton’s birthday, November the fourth, and send her one of those bead purses.  She admired the one she saw me making so much that I know she would like it, and she certainly was an angel to me on the trip.  It seems to me it’s my luck to meet nice people everywhere I go.

“I’m not going to wait till the last Thursday in November for my Thanksgiving Day.  I’ve got seven good reasons for thanksgiving this very minute.  First, we got here without a wreck.  Second, the ribbon on my hat doesn’t show a single spot, after all the hard shower that we got caught in, that I thought had ruined it.  Third, I think I impressed Hawkins as I hoped to, even if I was a bit nervous.  Fourth, while my introduction to Madam Chartley was horribly mortifying, all’s well that ends well, and she didn’t lay it up against me.  I think she must have taken quite a fancy to me instead or she wouldn’t have given me my fifth and greatest reason for thankfulness, the privilege of occupying Lloyd’s old room.  Maybe I oughtn’t to put that as the greatest reason, for of course it’s greater just to be here at all, and seventh, I’ll never get done being thankful that I’ve got Jack for a brother.  That really is the best of all, and I’m going to make so much out of my opportunities this year, that he’ll feel repaid for all he’s done for me, and be glad and proud that he could do it.”

Filling another page with an account of her journey and her impressions of the place, Mary closed her journal with a sigh of relief that the long-neglected entry had been made.  Then she leaned back on the rustic bench and gave herself up to the enjoyment of her surroundings.  The fountain splashed softly.  A lazy breeze stirred the vines, and fanned her face.  Far below, the shining Potomac took its slow way to the sea between its lines of drooping willows.  The calm and repose of the stately old place seemed to steal in on her soul not only through eye and ear and sense of touch, but at every pore.

“It’s the strangest thing,” she mused.  “I must be a sort of chameleon, the way I change with my surroundings.  It doesn’t seem possible that only last week I was scrambling around with my head tied up in a towel, scrubbing and cleaning and dragging furniture around at a break-neck speed.  I could almost believe I’ve never done anything all my life but trail around this garden at my elegant leisure like some fine lady-in-waiting.”

There was time for a stroll down to the river before the falling twilight recalled her to the house.  As she went down the flight of marble steps it was with the self-conscious feeling that she was a girl in a play, and this was one of the scenes in Act I. She had seen a setting like this on a stage one time, when a beautiful lady trailed down the steps of a Venetian palace to the gondola waiting in the lagoon