of the next Thanksgiving, when, according to
Bertram, the Strata would have the ``dearest
little mistress that ever was born.'' As if, under
these circumstances, the tenderness of the turkey
or the toothsomeness of the mince pie mattered!
To Aunt Hannah and William, in the centre of
the table, however, it did matter; so it was well,
of course, that the dinner was a good one.

``And now,'' said Cyril, when dinner was over,
``suppose you come up and see the rug.''

In compliance with this suggestion, the six
trailed up the long flights of stairs then, Billy
carrying an extra shawl for Aunt Hannah--
Cyril's rooms were always cool.

``Oh, yes, I knew we should need it,'' she nodded
to Bertram, as she picked up the shawl from the
hall stand where she had left it when she came
in. ``That's why I brought it.''

``Oh, my grief and conscience, Cyril, how _can_
you stand it?--to climb stairs like this,'' panted
Aunt Hannah, as she reached the top of the last
flight and dropped breathlessly into the nearest
chair--from which Marie had rescued a curtain
just in time.

``Well, I'm not sure I could--if I were always