The house that the Beechers were obliged to live in when they first came to Cincinnati was, Harriet said in a letter to Hartford, the most inconvenient, ill-arranged, good-for-nothing and altogether execrable affair that ever was put together. The kitchen was so arranged that their mother could not go into it without putting on a bonnet and cloak; the parlor had one window, and that opened upon a porch and had its lower half painted to keep out what little light there was. It was built, she averred, by a bachelor who of course acted up to whatever light he had, though that left little enough for his tenants. In this merry way Harriet made the best of everything and turned their difficulties and inconveniences into pleasantry. Nevertheless, it is to be feared that Harriet had some slight touch of homesickness. Not a day passed that she did not engineer the sending of somebody to the post office, and when the reply repeatedly came, “No letters,” her heart sank within her. Therefore, when the first letter did come to the circle at Cincinnati, Harriet was so overjoyed that she cut up all manner of capers expressive of thankfulness, went up three stairs at a time to get to the study to begin an answer, wishing devoutly that the path of duty led in the direction of writing a long letter instead of in the direction of darning the heels of George’s stockings! The possession of this letter was a secret from all but Catherine and herself, and they decided to keep it till supper time and then spring it as a surprise. This method had its disadvantages; it seemed too bad to keep it from mother and Aunt Esther for a whole afternoon, but the girls had the satisfaction of thinking that they were planning for their greatest happiness on the whole, which, Harriet considered, was true metaphysical benevolence. Supper time came. There was a suppressed excitement in the air. At last Catherine held up her hand and said, “We have a dessert that we have been saving all the afternoon. See here! This is from Hartford!” she cried, and then Harriet held up the Hartford letter. How all the people stared! Mrs. Beecher’s pale face was all one smile, Aunt Esther’s eyes were very bright and the father’s were almost tearful as he looked at the familiar and beloved handwriting. Harriet read the letter to an enraptured audience and every allusion was appreciated to the full. “Mrs. Parsons stopped in the midst of her pumpkins pies to think of us!” cried Harriet. “Seems to me I can see her now--that bright, cheerful face! She is making the pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving.” This turned the conversation to the subject of Thanksgiving. And amid smiles and sighs they talked over the plan of keeping that sacred New England festival here in the far west. “But how can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” quoted Harriet amid a hush all around the table.