And after a little time they consented. If Calliope found any sick or poor, they would do that. "We ain't gettin' many i-dees for guests," Calliope said, as we reached the street, "but we're gettin' helpers, anyway. An' some dinner, too." Then we went to the house of Mis' Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss--called so, of course, to distinguish her from the "Other" Holcombs. "Don't you be shocked at her," Calliope warned me, as we closed Mis' Holcomb's gate behind us; "she's dreadful diff'r'nt an' bitter since Abigail was married last month. She's got hold o' some kind of a Persian book, in a decorated cover, from the City; an' now she says your soul is like when you look in a lookin'-glass--that there ain't really nothin' there. An' that the world's some wind an' the rest water, an' they ain't no God only your own breath--oh, poor Mis' Holcomb!" said Calliope. "I guess she ain't rill balanced. But we ought to go to see her. We always consult Mis' Holcomb about everything." Poor Mis' Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss! I can see her now in her comfortable dining room, where she sat cleaning her old silver, her thin, veined hands as fragile as her grandmother's spoons. "Of course, you don't know," she said, when Calliope had unfolded her plans, "how useless it all seems to me. What's the use--I keep sayin' to myself now'-days; what's the use? You put so much pains on somethin', an' then it goes off an' leaves you. Mebbe it dies, an' everything's all wasted. There ain't anything to tie to. It's like lookin' in a glass all the while. It's seemin', it ain't bein'. We ain't certain o' nothin' but our breath, an' when that goes, what hev you got? What's the use o' plannin' Thanksgivin' for anybody?" "Well, if you're hungry, it's kind o' nice to get fed up," said Calliope, crisply. "Don't you know a soul that's hungry, Mame Bliss?" She shook her head. "No," she said, "I don't. Nor nobody sick in body." "Nobody sick in body," Calliope repeated absently. "Soul-sick an' soul-hungry you can't feed up," Mis' Holcomb added. "I donno," said Calliope, thoughtfully, "I donno but you can." "No," Mis' Holcomb went on; "your soul's like yourself in the glass: they ain't anything there." "I donno," Calliope said again; "some mornin's when I wake up with the sun shinin' in, I can feel my soul in me just as plain as plain." Mis' Holcomb sighed. "Life looks dreadful footless to me," she said. "Well," said Calliope, "sometimes life _is_ some like hearin' firecrackers go off when you don't feel up to shootin' 'em yourself. When I'm like that, I always think if I'd go out an' buy a bunch or two, an' get somebody to give me a match, I could see more sense to things. Look here, Mame Bliss; if I get hold o' any folks to give the dinner for, will you help me some?"