sed me. Though a little stooped, he was
still alert and graceful, and his voice rang like a trumpet as he
entered upon an account of his pioneer experiences.

"I've always lived on the Border," he explained, "and I don't know much
about the ways of city folks, so you must excuse me when I do the wrong
thing. My will is the best in the world, and I'll do anything I can to
please you."

That breakfast was the exact opposite of a "Continental Breakfast."
Steak, doughnuts, buckwheat cakes, cookies, apple sauce made me groan
but Zulime smiled. She understood the care which had gone into its
making.

When at last she and I were alone in my study I began, "Well, how do you
like West Salem and the Garlands?"

"Your mother is a dear!" she replied, and her voice was convincing--"and
I like your father. He's very good looking. And the breakfast was--well
it was like one of your stories--Do you _always_ have steak and
doughnuts for breakfast?"

"No," I replied, "not always, but breakfast is a real meal with us."

The sky darkened and a sleety rain set in during the forenoon, but
mother did not mind the gloom outside, for within she had her daughter.
Upon our return to the sitting room, she led Zulime out into the kitchen
to take account of all that was going on for dinner, and while the
maids, with excited faces stood about waiting for orders from their new
boss, Zulime laughingly protested that she had no wish to interfere. "Go
on in your own way," she said.

To me, on her return to the sitting room, she exclaimed: "You should see
the food in preparation out there! Enough to feed all the Eagle's Nest
campers.--How many are coming to dinner?"

"No one but the McClintocks--and only a few of them," I soberly
replied. "Uncle William and Aunt Maria, Frank and Lorette--and Deborah,
all old people now. I don't know of any one else." In fact, we had less
than this number, for Maria was not well enough to come out in the rain.

Our circle was small, but the spirit of Thanksgiving was over it, and
when I saw my stately city wife sitting among my rough-hewn relations,
listening to the quaint stories of Uncle Frank, or laughing at the
humorous sallies of Aunt Lorette, I wondered what they thought of her.
She made a lovely picture, and all--even caustic Deborah--capitulated to
her kindliness and charm. If she had failed of complete comprehension
and sympathy I could not have blamed her, but to have her perfectly at
home among these