ll into the room, lifted up both her arms and
addressed the assembled company.

"One ting I know," said Mopsey, "dere's a big pie baking in dat ere
oven, and if Mas'r Elbridge don't eat that pie it'll haf to sour, dat I
know."

"What is it, Mopsey," asked Margaret, "that gives you such a faith in my
son?"

"I tell you what it is, Missus," Mopsey answered promptly, "dast
tanksgivin when I tumbled down on dis ere sef-same floor bringin' in de
turkey, every body laugh but Mas'r Elbridge, and he come from his place
and pick me up. He murder any body! I'll eat de whole tanksgivin dinner
myself if he touch a hair of de old preacher's head to hurt it."
Suddenly changing her tone, she added, "Dey're comin' from meetin', I
hear de old wagon."

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

THE DINNER.

As the Peabodys approached the homestead, the smoke of the kitchen
chimney was visible, circling upward and winding about in the sunshine
as though it had been a delicate corkscrew uncorking a great bottle or
square old flask of a delicious vintage. The Captain averred a quarter
of a mile away, the moment they had come upon the brow of the hill, that
he had a distinct savor of the fragrance of the turkey, and that it was
quite as refreshing as the first odor of the land breeze coming in from
sea, and he snuffed it up with a zeal and relish which gave the gig an
eager appetite for dinner. The Captain's conjecture was strongly
confirmed in the appearance of Mopsey, darting, with a dark face of dewy
radiance at the wood-pile and shuffling back with bustling speed to the
kitchen with a handful of delicate splinters. "She's giving him the last
turn," said the Captain.

The shadow of the little meeting-house was still over the Captain, even
so far away, for he conducted the procession homeward at a pace much
less furious than that with which he had advanced in the morning; and
Mrs. Carrack too, observed now, with a strange pleasure, what she had
given no heed to before when the fine coach was rolling in triumph along
the road,--birds twittering in the sunny air by the wayside, and cattle
roving like figures in a beautiful picture, upon the slopes of the
distant hills. Oliver, the politician, more than once had out the great
cotton pocket-handkerchief, and holding it spread before him
contemplating the fatherly signers, was evidently acquiring some new
lights on the subject of independence.

A change, in fine, of some sort or other, had passed over