degree. It would have been quite a relish if one could have detected a
stray thread even upon her well swept carpet, but such was never the
case.

On this particular day--this Thanksgiving day of which we are
speaking--Miss Hetty had completed her culinary preparations, that is,
she had stuffed her turkey, and put it in the oven, and kneaded her
pudding, for, though but one would be present at the dinner, and that
herself, her conscience would not have acquitted her, if she had not
made all the preparations to which she had been accustomed on such
occasions.

This done, she sat down to her knitting, casting a glance every now and
then at the oven to make sure that all was going on well. It was a quiet
morning, and Miss Hetty began to think to the clicking of her knitting
needles.

"After all," thought she, "it's rather solitary taking dinner alone, and
that on Thanksgiving day. I remember a long time ago, when my father was
living, and my brothers and sisters, what a merry time we used to have
round eth table. But they are all dead, and I--I alone am left!"

Miss Hetty sighed, but after a while the recollections of those old
times returned. She tried to shake them off, but they had a fascination
about them after all, and would not go at her bidding.

"There used to be another there," thought she, "Nick Anderson. He, too,
I fear, is dead."

Hetty heaved a thoughtful sigh, and a faint color came into her cheeks.