Oscar's grandmother looked at him with astonishment, as he uttered
these words. He felt the silent rebuke, and turned his head from her.

"Well," added Mrs. Preston, "if Alfred is not a bad boy himself, I do
not believe that the kind of people you spend so much of your time
with, around the hotel-stable, will do either you or him any good. The
lessons a boy learns among tavern loungers do not generally make him
any better, to say the least. I wish you would keep away from such
places--I should feel a good deal easier if you would."

The subject was dropped, and dinner,--the event of Thanksgiving-day, in
every New England home,--soon began to engross the attention of the
household. It was a pleasant feast, to old and young. The children
forgot all their little, fanciful troubles, and the traces of care were
chased from their parents' brows for the hour.

The afternoon was stormy, and the children amused themselves with
in-door sports. After tea, however, Oscar asked his father for some
money, to buy a ticket to an entertainment that was to take place in
the evening. But both his parents thought he had better stay at home,
with the rest of the family, and he reluctantly yielded to their
wishes, coupled with the promise of a story or two from his
grandmother, about old times.

A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, when the family returned to
the parlor, from the tea-table. The lamps were not yet lit, although
the gray twilight was fast settling down, and the ruddy coals began to
reflect themselves from the polished furniture. Mrs. Preston was about
to light the lamps, when Ella exclaimed: