"For mercy's sakes," exclaimed Delia, in a momentary pause of the clatter, "be them youngsters holler clear through, or hain't they eat nothing for a week so's to hold the more now! As sure as I live an' breathe I've give one boy, about ten or eleven years old, two big helpin's of turkey, a thick slice o' beef, four quarters o' pie, three doughnuts, a big slice o' loaf-cake and two cookies; he's got it down by the aid of two mugs of milk and a great dish o'coffee, and I make no doubt he'll want a peck to the very least, of nuts and apples!"

"Never mind, Mrs. Packard!" laughed Ruth. "It is only for once, and I suppose they are chronically hungry. Do you think any one of them ever had enough of such food before?"

"No, I don't suppose they did. I don't blame 'em none as I know of, but it's musical to see 'em do it. I should think some of them little fellers would bu'st, certain."

But no such catastrophe justified Delia's wisdom; after all was disposed of that the children could eat, they had what remained divided among them to carry home. And so abundant was the provision that every one had something to take away as evidence of the quality of the feast; and there was no reason to think, from their hearty enjoyment of the games and the singing afterward, that any one of the guests had been over-laden with the goods

provided for them.

Aunt Vinny was still up,

though dozing in her chair when Happy got home, and listened gladly to the story of the evening, making characteristic comment.

"Well! it'll fill up the school mightily, that kind o' thing. Some folks would say 'twan't good to hire 'em to come, they'd oughter come from better motives; but supposin' they haven't got the motives? Sow beside all waters,' Scripter says, and furthermore thou knowest not which shall prosper, this or that.' Yes; St. Paul wanted to save somebody, by any means, and you've got to bait your hook accordin' to your fish. When they're saved they'll know better; but savin' on 'em is our business, secondary to the Lord I mean. Now I guess I'll go to bed, Happilony; I'm beat out with tiredness, but it's the best Thanksgivin' I ever see.”

CHAPTER XXXII.

AT Christmas Ruth was married. Her sewing had been sent home long before, done with such delicacy and neatness that Ruth and her grandmother were both delighted; and with the piles of linen came a little silk and leather needle-book, so exquisitely made, and so daintily devised, that it excited everybody's wonder. Happy had sewed a piece of her heart into it, for the pale lavender lining was a bit of her mother's wedding bonnet which she had preserved safely to this day, as a relic of that mother's youth and transient happiness. And the tiny red strawberry that hung at one end and did duty as an emery-bag, had been her mother's work, and her own childish admiration; nothing was too good for Ruth that she had; and she had worked on the little toy till every stitch was set with distinct precision, and the soft flannel leaves were embroidered with as much elaborate care as ever a young mother put on her first

vaby's blanket. It lived always after among Ruth's treasures.

Happy, too, decorated the house for the wedding; a profusion of trailing pine had been stored away in the barn cellar, before frost came, for this purpose; and with this, and graceful branches of hemlock, glittering clusters of Kalmia leaves, and feathery bits of odorous pine, she adorned all the rooms, grouping the hot-house flowers that were sent from the city against soft backgrounds and in little frames of dark rich green, more beautiful than any succession of pictures; for who can paint the translucence of petals, the evanescent tints, the airy grace of.flowers in their delicate life? or what scent of manufacture reproduce the floating fragrance that makes a halo about them?

At the appointed hour she waited for Ruth's coming into the long parlor, half hidden behind a great orange-tree in a tub. She had gladly promised to witness the ceremony, and having first done all she could in the dressing-room, and given the last grace of arrangement to the supper table, she had come in by a side-door, and stolen into shelter. Very few people saw her, and nobody noticed her, but she neither knew or cared; her whole attention was fixed on the beautiful figure draped in satin so rich and white it looked like folds of solid moonlight, while a veil of the simplest and lightest sort

clung to it like a mist. Ruth wore no ornament but a white rose Happy had nursed and coaxed all winter that it might bloom now, but no other ornament was needed for the bright veiled head, the tender shining eyes, the peach-bloom that came and went on her face like flying clouds of dawn, and the scarlet lips parted with the breathlessness of her emotion.

She was the loveliest of brides, and for the moment Mr. Thorne's illuminated face swept away the habitual look that had troubled Happy. Madam Holden was serene and splendid as never before; she meant to do all honor to the occasion, and act as if the wedding were a sunrise instead of a sunset to her, deeply as she felt the coming vacancy in her household. Tears stood unbidden in Happy's eyes as she listened to the ceremony; it meant a great deal to her that Ruth was passing out of her orbit forever, as she thought; she did not know yet how small the world is, or how our lives touch at points that seem impossible, and which we cannot at all foresee.

But when all was over, and matters came back to the quiet level that follows excitement and change, Happy was diverted from thoughts of Ruth by Miss Lavinia's increasing feebleness. The old lady felt it herself, being too sensible and too experienced not to know that her symptoms indi