"Goodness me!" exclaimed Patsy, laughing gleefully. "This seems to be
our little Myrtle's especial spread. Who is the host, Uncle John?"

"Mr. Jones, of course," announced Beth, promptly.

Myrtle blushed and glanced shyly at Mr. Jones. His face was fairly
illumined with pleasure. He placed her in the seat of honor and said
gravely:

"This is indeed Myrtle's entertainment, for she has found something.
It is also partly my own thanksgiving banquet, my friends; for I, too,
have found something."

His tone was so serious that all remained silent as they took their
seats, and during the many courses served the conversation was less
lively than on former occasions when there had been no ceremony.
Myrtle tried hard to eat, but there was a question in her eyes--a
question that occupied her all through the meal. When, finally, the
dessert was served and the servants had withdrawn and left them to
themselves, the girl could restrain her curiosity no longer.

"Tell me, Mr. Jones," she said, turning to him as he sat beside her;
"what have you found?"

He was deliberate as ever in answering.

"You must not call me 'Mr. Jones,' hereafter," said he.

"Why not? Then, what _shall_ I call you?" she returned, greatly
perplexed.