“Dora was very careless, wasn’t she?” asked Lucy, coming back from the shed and helping gather up the plates and silver. “It was an accident,” said Mother with a sigh. “It might have happened to you.” All the same, Lucy had _not_ spilled the apple-sauce, and she felt virtuous. “Put that cat out,” said Mrs. Merrill. “I can’t have him under foot a minute longer.” Lucy put the beloved pussy into the shed and when she came back she no longer felt proud because she had not spilled things. “Mother,” she said when the table was cleared, “I think I will put on my pink gingham.” Mrs. Merrill looked at her. “Because,” said Lucy, “Dora hasn’t another white dress to wear.” “That is a good plan,” said Mother, and she smiled at Lucy. Dora came back, rather wet about the eyelashes. Lucy buttoned the blue dress and Dora settled the Chinese kitten in place. After all, Vega was enchanting against blue. The stained table-cloth went into the tub with Dora’s dress. There was no time to attend to them. Mother put on another cloth, not so fine nor so pretty, but just as white. The children set the table again and this time neither was fussy about the way the other did things. Only at intervals Dora’s lip quivered. “Is there any more cranberry sauce?” she asked Mother. Mrs. Merrill shook her head. “I bought only a quart of berries,” she said. “There won’t be any for Father and Uncle Dan,” said Dora. “They never knew there was any,” said Mrs. Merrill. “They won’t miss it at all.” “Oh, Mother!” said Lucy, “something is wrong with the gas stove.” Mrs. Merrill hurried to the stove. Yes, the flame was turned too high and the macaroni was scorching. “This dinner seems possessed,” she sighed as she turned down the gas and took out the macaroni. Just then Olive came running in with a gay greeting. She kissed the little girls and Mother, too, because it was Thanksgiving. She ran up-stairs and left her coat and hat in the children’s room. Then she flew down. “What shall I do?” she asked. “Mash these potatoes?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Merrill. “Unless you’d rather make the gravy.” “Your gravy is better than mine,” said Olive and she stuck a fork into the potatoes. They were done and she whisked them off the stove. With Olive’s coming, ill-luck went away. Nobody upset anything more, and nothing burned. Father, Uncle Dan, and Mr. Gates came in together and Mother sent them directly into the parlor. She said it was bad enough to have a cat getting underfoot; she could not stand three men. When they sat down to dinner, nobody could have guessed that the table had twice been completely set. If Olive noticed that this was not the best table-cloth, she didn’t say anything, but of course, nobody _would_ be so rude as to speak of a thing like that. The roast pork was done to a turn. Everybody enjoyed it and was glad that it wasn’t chicken. Forty-nine cents apiece, in two mite-boxes, would be quite an addition to the Christmas manger.