neighbors' trees or their own, the
English apples had proved worthless. Whether it were some favoring
quality in that spot of soil or in the sturdy old native tree itself,
the rich golden apples had grown there, year after year, in
perfection, but nowhere else.

"There ain't no such apples as these, to my mind," said Mrs. Martin,
as she polished a large one with her apron and held it up to the
light, and Mrs. Jake murmured assent, having already taken a
sufficient first bite.

"There's only one little bough that bears any great," said Mrs.
Thacher, "but it's come to that once before, and another branch has
shot up and been likely as if it was a young tree."

The good souls sat comfortably in their splint-bottomed,
straight-backed chairs, and enjoyed this mild attempt at a festival.
Mrs. Thacher even grew cheerful and responsive, for her guests seemed
so light-hearted and free from care that the sunshine of their
presence warmed her own chilled and fearful heart. They embarked upon
a wide sea of neighborhood gossip and parish opinions, and at last
some one happened to speak again of Thanksgiving, which at once turned
the tide of conversation, and it seemed to ebb suddenly, while the
gray, dreary look once more overspread Mrs. Thacher's face.

"I don't see why you won't keep with our folks this year; you and
John," once more suggested Mrs. Martin. "'T ain't wuth while to be
making yourselves dismal here to home; the day'll be lonesome for you
at best, and you shall have whatever we've got and welcome."

"'T won't be lonesomer this year than it was last, nor the year
before that, and we've stood it somehow or 'nother," answered Mrs.
Thacher for the second time, while she rose to put more wood in the
stove. "Seems to me 't is growing cold; I felt a draught acrost my
shoulders. These nights is dreadful chill; you feel the damp right
through your bones. I never saw it darker than 't was last evenin'. I
thought it seemed kind o' stived up here in the kitchen, and I opened
the door and looked out, and I declare I couldn't see my hand before
me."

"It always kind of scares me these black nights," said Mrs. Jake Dyer.
"I expect something to clutch at me every minute, and I feel as if
some sort of a creatur' was travelin' right behind me when I am out
door in the dark. It makes it bad havin' a wanin' moon just now when
the fogs hangs so low. It al'ays seems to me as if 't was darker when
she rises late towards mornin' than