On Thanksgiving-day the Americans gave the club a Thanksgiving dinner. It was a great mystery and novelty to the other members, but they enjoyed it hugely. The turkeys were found without much trouble, but the whole city had to be searched for cranberries. At last they were found in a small grocery-shop in the American quarter, on the Avenue Wagram. Bishop superintended the cooking, M. Annaie serving as first assistant. How M. Annaie stared when he beheld the queer American mixtures that Bishop was concocting! "Mon Dieu! Not sugar with meat!" he cried, aghast, seeing Bishop serve the turkey with cranberry sauce. A dozen delicious pumpkin-pies that formed part of the menu staggered the old cook. The Italian cooked a pot of macaroni with mushroom sauce, and it was superb. "The Hole in the Wall" eminently deserves its name. It is on the Boulevard du Montparnasse, within two blocks of the Bal Bullier. A small iron sign projecting over the door depicts two students looking down at the passers-by over bowls of coffee, rolls also being shown. It was painted by an Austrian student in payment of a month's board. The Hole is a tiny place, just sufficiently large for its two tables and eight stools, fat Madame Morel, the proprietress, and a miniature zinc bar filled with absinthe and cognac bottles and drinking glasses. The ceiling is so low that you must bend should you be very tall, for overhead is the sleeping-room of Madame Morel and her niece; it is reached by a small spiral stair. [Illustration: 0173] A narrow slit in the floor against the wall, where the napkin-box hangs, leads down to the dark little kitchen. It is a tight squeeze for Madame Morel to serve her customers, but she has infinite patience and geniality, and discharges her numerous duties and bears her hardships with unfailing good-nature. It is no easy task to cook a halfdozen orders at once, wait on the tables, run out to the butcher-shop for a chop or a steak, and take in the cash. But she does all this, and much more, having no assistant. The old concierge next door, Madame Mariolde, runs in to help her occasionally, when she can spare a moment from her own multifarious duties. Madame Morel's toil-worn hands are not bien propre, but she has a kind heart. For seven years she has lived in this little Hole, and during that time has never been farther away than to the grocery-shop on the opposite corner. Her niece leaves at seven o'clock in the morning to sew all day on the other side of town, returning at eight at night, tired and listless, but always with a half-sad smile. So we see little of her. Many nights I have seen her come in drenched and cold, her faded straw hat limp and askew, and her dark hair clinging to her wet face. For she has walked in the rain all the way from the Avenue de l'Opéra, unable to afford omnibus fare. She usually earns from two to two and half francs a day, sewing twelve hours.