On the Thanksgiving of this year, a family-party was collected at Mr. Fayerweather’s, with the addition of the Episcopal clergyman, Mr. McGregor, the family physician, Dr. Holly, and one or two other friends. In the evening, the accustomed game of Blind Man’s Buff was called for, in which no one was privileged to refuse joining. George’s absence was now loudly lamented, but he was not expected until Christmas. Much merriment and noise, however, succeeded. The good clergyman, an Oxford scholar, and a deep and sound divine, who always went into company ready prepared with a particular subject to debate upon, with all his weapons sharpened for the contest; and who had at length succeeded in engaging Mr. Wendell in a grave discussion on some knotty point in divinity, was obliged to break off, just as he had established the premises to an important conclusion. He joined in the “mad game” with a very bad grace, but by degrees, warming with the sport, he enjoyed it the most of the party, and shouted the loudest when Mr. Fayerweather, on being caught by Lizzy Brinley, left his wig in her hand, and escaped with his bare poll. Dr. Holly, who loved sport better than his life, on being caught and blindfolded, managed, by a little cheating, to catch Madam Fayerweather, to her unfeigned astonishment. At this juncture, Flora tripped lightly into the room, and whispered to her master, who immediately followed her out, when Vi’let, in a flaming red gown, popped in her head for a moment with a most remarkable expression of countenance. As she closed the door softly, she gave a significant nod to the company, to let them know she was in possession of a great secret. Mr. Fayerweather a moment after returned, bringing in with him a tall stranger, and made signs to the company to take no notice of the interruption. All passed so silently that Madam did not perceive either the going out or the returning, but continued to sail round the room in her green damask, without being able to catch any one. At length her husband thrust the tall stranger in her way, whom she caught amidst shouts of laughter, succeeded by deep silence, while she was naming him. All eyes were fixed on the stranger with different expressions, which we will not attempt to describe. Madam cried out, “Well, I’ve caught somebody at last!—who upon earth is it! John, it’s you, I know; you are standing on something to deceive me, you saucy boy.” Here she felt the clustering curls of the stranger’s head—John’s hair was straight, and all the other masculine heads in company wore peruques—when reminiscences of earlier days seemed suddenly to strike her, and she threw off her blinder, bringing with it fly-cap and lappets, and exclaiming with a shriek—“Can it be George!”