“Thank you,” murmured Billy, demurely. “I'll remember that--when Pete and I disagree about the table decorations, and Dong Ling doesn't like the way I want my soup seasoned.” An anxious frown showed on Bertram's face. “Billy,” he said in a low voice, as the others laughed at her sally, “you needn't have Pete nor Dong Ling here if you don't want them.” “Don't want them!” echoed Billy, indignantly. “Of course I want them!” “But--Pete _is_ old, and--” “Yes; and where's he grown old? For whom has he worked the last fifty years, while he's been growing old? I wonder if you think I'd let Pete leave this house as long as he _wants_ to stay! As for Dong Ling--” A sudden movement of Bertram's hand arrested her words. She looked up to find Pete in the doorway. “Dinner is served, sir,” announced the old butler, his eyes on his master's face. William rose with alacrity, and gave his arm to Aunt Hannah. “Well, I'm sure we're ready for dinner,” he declared. It was a good dinner, and it was well served. It could scarcely have been otherwise with Dong Ling in the kitchen and Pete in the dining-room doing their utmost to please. But even had the turkey been tough instead of tender, and even had the pies been filled with sawdust instead of with delicious mincemeat, it is doubtful if four at the table would have known the difference: Cyril and Marie at one end were discussing where to put their new sideboard in their dining-room, and Bertram and Billy at the other were talking of the next Thanksgiving, when, according to Bertram, the Strata would have the “dearest little mistress that ever was born.” As if, under these circumstances, the tenderness of the turkey or the toothsomeness of the mince pie mattered! To Aunt Hannah and William, in the centre of the table, however, it did matter; so it was well, of course, that the dinner was a good one. “And now,” said Cyril, when dinner was over, “suppose you come up and see the rug.” In compliance with this suggestion, the six trailed up the long flights of stairs then, Billy carrying an extra shawl for Aunt Hannah--Cyril's rooms were always cool. “Oh, yes, I knew we should need it,” she nodded to Bertram, as she picked up the shawl from the hall stand where she had left it when she came in. “That's why I brought it.” “Oh, my grief and conscience, Cyril, how _can_ you stand it?--to climb stairs like this,” panted Aunt Hannah, as she reached the top of the last flight and dropped breathlessly into the nearest chair--from which Marie had rescued a curtain just in time. “Well, I'm not sure I could--if I were always to eat a Thanksgiving dinner just before,” laughed Cyril. “Maybe I ought to have waited and let you rest an hour or two.” “But 'twould have been too dark, then, to see the rug,” objected Marie. “It's a genuine Persian--a Kirman, you know; and I'm so proud of it,” she added, turning to the others. “I wanted you to see the colors by daylight. Cyril likes it better, anyhow, in the daytime.”