Moreover, she was so happy herself, at the reunion with her idolized child, whom she had lost as a tiny baby, that she had no wish to dictate or to interfere with Betty’s plans. Mrs. McGuire was a gentle little lady, with golden hair and blue eyes, and her amiability made her beloved by all the servants and adored by the three children. She had fitted into her niche at Denniston without disturbing any one else, and had supplied the one want of Betty’s life, that of a real mother, who would love her with real mother-love. And happy in the knowledge and possession of this love, Betty felt that life had no further joys to offer her; and she was as contented as any girl of fifteen could wish to be. On this particular sunny afternoon, as she went skimming along the white roads in her new sleigh, her mind was divided between the actual delights of the bracing winter atmosphere and gay jingle of her new sleigh-bells, and her busy imagination which was looking forward to some fine plans that she and May Fordham had in prospect. She drove in through the open gates of a large, well-kept place, and as she neared the house, May, who had watched from the window, came out, all ready for the sleigh-ride. “Oh, Betty, what a beautiful cutter!” she exclaimed, as Dixie paused and stood in prancing attitude to be praised. “And it suits Dix perfectly, doesn’t it?” she added, patting the pony, who showed by his actions that he fully appreciated the applause he was getting. May jumped in beside Betty, and in another moment, away they went, flying along the firm, well-packed road. Betty turned away from the village, and toward the open country, where they might dash over long stretches without meeting much traffic, and thus have a better chance to chatter. “Thanksgiving’s only just a week from to-day,” said May; “will there be time, Betty, to get everything ready?” “Well, we’ll have to fly round, of course. But if we invite everybody to-day, they can all get to work on their costumes at once. And a week’s time enough, I should think. I hope Tilly will like the idea, but I don’t know about her,—she’s such a fuss.” “We’ll soon know,” laughed May, as Dixie was gently drawn to a standstill in front of Tilly Fenn’s home. The well-trained little pony always stood without being tied, so the girls jumped from the sleigh and ran up the steps, moderating their gay laughter as they decorously pushed the door-bell. “Come up to my room, girls,” called Tilly, over the banister, as they were admitted. So in a few moments the three chums were busily talking of Betty’s project. “A real old-fashioned Thanksgiving party,” said Betty, enthusiastically; “everything Puritan, you know. We’ll all wear plain gray dresses and white fichus and aprons, and dear little Puritan caps, and the boys must rig up the right kind of clothes. What did men wear then?” “Oh, knee-breeches and long stockings, and bunches of bows at the knees,” said May, who was a history lover.