e this himself, one dark night, when we were leaning
together over the rail, as if listening to the splash of the water. He
began his sea-life by running away. He said but little, and that in a
mournful way that made me pity him, and wonder he could be so lively. I
didn't know then that sometimes people have to laugh to keep from
crying. "I was all she had," said he; "and I left her. I never thought
how much she cared for me until I got among all strangers; then I wanted
my mother." At another time he told me about his return home and finding
no mother. And I told him of my own home and my great flock of sisters.

After this he rather clung to me. And thus it happened, from my liking
Jamie's handsome face, and from Jamie's telling me his trouble, that we
became fast friends.

When the ship arrived in Boston, I took him home with me. Father had
left off going to sea; but some of the girls were married, and mother
called her family small. I knew she would take the homeless boy into her
great motherly heart, along with the rest of us.

We couldn't have arrived at a better time. Thanksgiving was just at
hand, work was plenty, and Jamie soon in the thickest of it. 'Twas so
good to him, being in a home, though none of his. The girls were glad
enough of his help and his company; for he was full of his fun, and
never at a loss for a word. We never had so much light talk in the house
before. Mother was rather serious, and father did his laughing at the
stores.

When Thanksgiving-Day came, however, and the married ones began to flock
in with their families, he spoke of going,--of not belonging. But we
persuaded him, and the girls did all they could to take up his mind,
knowing what his feelings must be.

The Thanksgiving dinner was a beautiful sight to see. I mean, of course,
the people round it. Father talked away, and could eat. But mother sat
in her frilled cap, looking mildly about, with the tears in her eyes,
making believe eat, helping everybody, giving the children two pieces of
pie, and letting them talk at table. This last, when we were little, was
forbidden. Mother never scolded. She had a placid, saintly face,
something like Mary's. But if we ever giggled at table, she used to say,
"Sho! girls! Don't laugh over your victuals."

At sunset we missed Jamie. I found him in the hay-mow, crying as if his
heart would break. "Oh, Joseph," said he, "she was just as pleasant as
your mother!" It was sunset when he first ran