the way
back." He pointed to the peaked gables, adorned by the scissors of his
crazy old ancestor.

"Brossard isn't your father," cried Joyce, indignantly, "nor your uncle,
nor your cousin, nor anything else that has a right to shut you up that
way. Isn't there a field with a fence all around it, that you could
drive the goats into for a few hours?"

Jules shook his head.

"Well, I can't have my Thanksgiving spoiled for just a couple of old
goats," exclaimed Joyce. "You'll have to bring them along, and we'll
shut them up in the carriage-house. You come over in about an hour, and
I'll be at the side gate waiting for you."

Joyce had always been a general in her small way. She made her plans and
issued her orders both at home and at school, and the children accepted
her leadership as a matter of course. Even if Jules had not been willing
and anxious to go, it is doubtful if he could have mustered courage to
oppose the arrangements that she made in such a masterful way; but Jules
had not the slightest wish to object to anything whatsoever that Joyce
might propose.

It is safe to say that the old garden had never before even dreamed of
such a celebration as the one that took place that afternoon behind its
moss-coated walls. The time-stained statue of Eve, which stood on one
side of the fountain, looked across at the weather-beaten figure of
Adam, on the other side, in stony-eyed surprise. The little marble satyr
in the middle of the fountain, which had been grinning ever since its
endless shower-bath began, seemed to grin wider than ever, as it watched
the children's strange sport.

Jules dug the little trench according to Joyce's directions, and laid
the iron grating which she had borrowed from the cook across it, and
built the fire underneath. "We ought to have something especially
patriotic and Thanksgivingey," said Joyce, standing on one foot to
consider. "Oh, now I know," she cried, after a moment's thought. "Cousin
Kate has a lovely big silk flag in the top of her trunk. I'll run and
get that, and then I'll recite the 'Landing of the Pilgrims' to you
while the rabbit cooks."

Presently a savory odor began to steal along the winding paths of the
garden, between the laurel-bushes,--a smell of barbecued meat sputtering
over the fire. Above the door of the little kiosk, with many a soft
swish of silken stirrings, hung the beautiful old flag. Then a clear
little voice floated up through the pine-trees:

"M