before. Mother was rather serious, and father did his laughing at the
stores.

When Thanksgiving-Day came, however, and the married ones began to flock
in with their families, he spoke of going,--of not belonging. But we
persuaded him, and the girls did all they could to take up his mind,
knowing what his feelings must be.

The Thanksgiving dinner was a beautiful sight to see. I mean, of course,
the people round it. Father talked away, and could eat. But mother sat
in her frilled cap, looking mildly about, with the tears in her eyes,
making believe eat, helping everybody, giving the children two pieces of
pie, and letting them talk at table. This last, when we were little, was
forbidden. Mother never scolded. She had a placid, saintly face,
something like Mary's. But if we ever giggled at table, she used to say,
"Sho! girls! Don't laugh over your victuals."

At sunset we missed Jamie. I found him in the hay-mow, crying as if his
heart would break. "Oh, Joseph," said he, "she was just as pleasant as
your mother!" It was sunset when he first ran away, and sunset when he
returned to find his mother dead. He told me that "God brought him home
at that hour to make him _feel_."

Our ship was a long while repairing. Then freights were dull, and so it
lingered along, week after week. Jamie often spoke of going, but nobody
would let him. Father said he had always wanted another boy. Mother told
him I should be lonesome without him. The girls said as much as they
thought it would do for girls to say, and he stayed on. I knew he wanted
to badly enough, for I saw he liked Mary. I thought, too, that she liked
him, because she said so little about his staying. To be sure, they were