"This is the first Thanksgiving since my senior year in high school that I've been given the chance to sit between Father and Mother and count my blessings," Grace continued, looking fondly from one to the other of her parents. She was occupying a low stool between them, her favorite seat at home when the day was done, and the devoted little family gathered in the living room to talk over its events. "We are counting our blessings, too," smiled Mr. Harlowe. "One of them is very lively, and runs away almost as soon as it arrives." He pinched Grace's soft cheek. "But it always runs back again," reminded Grace, "and it's always yours for the asking. I'd leave my work, everything, and come home on wings if you needed me." "I used to hate Thanksgiving when I was a youngster," broke in J. Elfreda. "We always had a lot of company and I always behaved like a savage and spent Thanksgiving evening in solitary confinement. I'd wail like a disappointed coyote and make night generally hideous for the company. I've improved a lot since those days," she grinned boyishly at her friends. "I can see now that it was a pretty good thing the Pilgrim Fathers set aside a day for counting their blessings. If they thought they were lucky, I wonder what we are." Elfreda had unconsciously gone from the comic to the serious. "We are favored beyond understanding," Mrs. Harlowe said solemnly. "When one thinks of the poor and unfortunate, to whom Thanksgiving can bring nothing but sorrow and bitterness, it seems little short of marvelous that we should be so happy." "I don't wish to be selfish and forget life's unfortunates, but I'd rather not think about them now," was Miriam's candid comment. "We mustn't be sad to-night. Grace must sparkle, and Elfreda be funny, and Anne must recite for us, and I'll play and David must sing. I've discovered that he has a really good tenor voice. We've been practising songs together this fall." "Really?" asked Grace, with interest. "And all these years we never knew it. David, you can surely keep a secret." "Oh, I can't sing," protested David, coloring. "Miriam only thinks I can. Our real singers are among the missing to-night." "You mean Hippy and Nora?" "Yes," nodded David. "Isn't it strange we didn't hear from them. I wrote Tom, Hippy and Reddy to come on here for Thanksgiving if they could. Reddy and Jessica couldn't make it. They are coming home for Christmas, though. Tom Gray is away up in the Michigan woods. Still he sent a telegram that he couldn't come. But Hippy didn't answer. This morning I sent him a telegram, and so far there's no answer to that, either." "I hope neither of them is ill." Mrs. Gray's face took on a look of concern. "It is not like Hippy to neglect his friends." "Nora is usually the soul of promptness, too," reminded Anne. "If I don't hear anything to-night, I'll telegraph Hippy again to-morrow," announced David.