ooster had mounted, and
with his head on one side observed with a knowing eye all that went
forward; showing perhaps most interest in the turning of the spit, the
impalement of the turkey thereon having been with him an object of
special consideration.

The highly colored picture of Warren at Bunker-Hill, writhing in his
death-agony on one wall of the kitchen, and General Marion feasting from
a potato, in his tent, on the other, did not in the least attract the
attention of Mopsey. She saw nothing on the whole horizon of the glowing
apartment but the pies and the turkey, and even for the moment neglected
to puzzle herself, as she was accustomed to in the pauses of her daily
labors, with the wonders and mysteries of an ancient dog-eared
spelling-book which lay upon the smoky mantel.

Meanwhile, in obedience to the spirit of the day, the widow Margaret and
Miriam, having each diligently disposed of their separate charge in the
preparations, making a church of the homestead, conducted a worship in
their own simple way. Opposite to each other in the little sitting-room,
Miriam opened the old Family Bible, and at the widow Margaret's request
read from that chapter which gives the story of the prodigal son. It was
with a clear and pensive voice that she read, but not without a struggle
with herself. Where the story told that the young man had gone into a
far country; that he had wasted his substance in riotous living; that he
was abased to the feeding of swine; that he craved in his hunger the
very husks; that he lamented the plenty of his father's house--a cloud
came upon her countenance, and the simplest eye could have interpreted
the thoughts that troubled her. And how the fair young face brightened,
when she read that the young man resolved to arise and return to the
house of his father; the dear encounter; the rejoicing over his return,
and the glad proclamation, "This, my son, was dead and is alive again;
he was lost and is found."

"If he would come back even so," said the widow when the book was
closed, "in sorrow, in poverty, in crime even, I would thank God and be
grateful."

"He is not guilty, mother," Miriam pleaded, casting her head upon the
widow's bosom and clinging close about her neck.

"I will not think that he is," Margaret answered, lifting up her head.
"Guilty or innocent, he is my son--my son." Clasping the young orphan's
hand, after a pause of tender silence, she gave utterance to her
feelings in