Then, the bell on the main building warning them, they hurried in to dress for dinner, which The Hermitage girls and those of Hathaway together with their friends were to have at Hathaway. Each year one cottage was hostess to another. This year Hathaway had bidden The Hermitage, Overlook was entertaining West, and King and Willow were celebrating together. It was a merry, happy family that assembled in Hathaway half an hour later. The tables, arranged in the form of a hollow square, were gay with centerpieces of yellow chrysanthemums, and strewn with yellow leaves, gathered weeks before and pressed for the occasion. There were dainty place-cards upon which the Hathaway girls with skillful fingers had drawn and painted pumpkins, log-houses, turkeys, and miniature Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers; and as each found her place at the table, she discovered also a slip of paper with an appropriate Thanksgiving verse. This form of Thanksgiving grace Miss King had originated. “Each one must give thanks for the day,” she always said; and before the table was seated, each read aloud her verse or bit of prose. Miss King, who, year by year, dined with each cottage in turn, was this year the guest of the proud Hathaway girls. It was she who gave first the grace she had given on each Thanksgiving for many years: “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. “Serve the Lord with gladness: come before His presence with singing. “Know ye that the Lord He is God: it is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people and the sheep of His pasture. “Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise: be thankful unto Him, and bless His name. “For the Lord is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His truth endureth to all generations. Praise ye the Lord.” The others followed. Virginia’s was her favorite stanza from a new poem, which Miss Wallace had read to her only the night before. Miss Wallace must have selected it for her. She looked toward her gratefully, as she read in her clear voice: “A haze on the far horizon, The infinite, tender sky, The ripe, rich tint of the corn-fields, And the wild geese sailing high; “And all over upland and lowland The charm of the goldenrod; Some of us call it Autumn, And others call it God.” Each having read her selection, they sang all together, as on every Thanksgiving Day for thirty years the St. Helen’s girls had done, that old, universal song of praise, which the world will never outgrow: “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him all creatures here below, Praise Him above ye heavenly host, Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”