CHAPTER V.

A THANKSGIVING BARBECUE.


"This doesn't seem a bit like Thanksgiving Day, Marie," said Joyce,
plaintively, as she sat up in bed to take the early breakfast that her
maid brought in,--a cup of chocolate and a roll.

"In our country the very minute you wake up you can _feel_ that it is a
holiday. Outdoors it's nearly always cold and gray, with everything
covered with snow. Inside you can smell turkey and pies and all sorts of
good spicy things. Here it is so warm that the windows are open and
flowers blooming in the garden, and there isn't a thing to make it seem
different from any other old day."

Here her grumbling was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Madame
Gréville's maid, Berthé, came in with a message.

"Madame and monsieur intend spending the day in Tours, and since
Mademoiselle Ware has written that Mademoiselle Joyce is to have no
lessons on this American holiday, they will be pleased to have her
accompany them in the carriage. She can spend the morning with them
there or return immediately with Gabriel."

"Of course I want to go," cried Joyce. "I love to drive. But I'd rather
come back here to lunch and have it by myself in the garden. Berthé, ask
madame if I can't have it served in the little kiosk at the end of