_Elise_. No, you don't, you goose. _Ethel_. I do know. _Elise_. Silly child. Listen, a large basket-- _Ethel_. With our Thanksgiving dinner in it--a turkey and cranberry jelly. Oh, how pretty Red Cranberry was in her bright dress--and Nuts and Raisins--and Beets, Carrots, and Turnips--what a funny boy he was. _Elise_. Ethel! are you ill? _Ethel_. No, dear. And Miss Mince Pie was late, but she got there, and Golden Pumpkin was to make a pumpkin pie-- _Elise_. You are out of your head! Oh, my poor sister! you are coming down with a fever on Thanksgiving day--[_Begins to cry._] _Ethel_. Nonsense, darling. It was my dream. But I will wait and tell you about it later. Go on with your story. I am not ill. _Elise_. Are you sure? You talk so strangely. _Ethel_. I'll prove it soon by helping to eat the best dinner in all the land. Oh, Elise, we will have as good a dinner as the queen! [_They hug each other._] _Elise_. Well, there's everything nice in that basket. I was so impatient, I put my hand in and felt to the bottom. _Ethel_. Are the grapes and celery there? _Elise_. There are black grapes and white, dear--mamma will like those--and two lovely bunches of celery. _Ethel_ (_laughs_). Excuse me, but Miss Celery was late because she was combing her hair and taking a nap. _Elise_. Sister! _Ethel_. That's in the dream too. But it was funny. What is that note? _Elise_. A letter lay upon the top of the basket, addressed to you. I have not opened it. Do hurry and read it. _Ethel_ (_opens and reads_). "MY DEAR ETHEL,--For some time I have had my eye upon you. I see in you a brave little girl struggling under burdens too heavy to be borne; your little sister is scarcely less brave and sweet in the care she gives her sick mother. She wins my love also. Children, will you come and live with me for a while? I will send your mother to a private room in the hospital, where she shall have everything to make her better. God grant she may recover! Meanwhile, and for as long thereafter as you and mamma are willing, you shall stay with me and be my little girls. When mamma is well, why, we have a house big enough for her too. My coachman will place at your door, during the night, your Thanksgiving dinner. I hope it will taste good. I will call in the course of to-morrow afternoon, and learn if you are coming to me. Remember, children, I need you. My heart is a mother's although I am an old maid, supposed not to have any heart. Will you come to "Your loving friend, "PHEBE WILSON. "P.S.--I have spoken to madame, and Elise is not to return to her work there. She may call the morning after Thanksgiving and receive what wages are owing her." _Elise_. How wonderful! It is all like a fairy story!