y country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing!"

All the time that Joyce sang, she was moving around the table, setting
out the plates and rattling cups and saucers. She could not keep a
little quaver out of her voice, for, as she went on, all the scenes of
all the times that she had sung that song before came crowding up in her
memory. There were the Thanksgiving days in the church at home, and the
Washington's birthdays at school, and two Decoration days, when, as a
granddaughter of a veteran, she had helped scatter flowers over the
soldiers' graves.

Somehow it made her feel so hopelessly far away from all that made life
dear to be singing of that "sweet land of liberty" in a foreign country,
with only poor little alien Jules for company.

Maybe that is why the boy's first lesson in patriotism was given so
earnestly by his homesick little teacher. Something that could not be
put into words stirred within him, as, looking up at the soft silken
flutterings of the old flag, he listened for the first time to the story
of the Pilgrim Fathers.

The rabbit cooked slowly, so slowly that there was time for Jules to
learn how to play mumble-peg while they waited. At last it was done, and
Joyce proudly plumped it into the platter that had been waiting for it.
Marie had already brought out a bountiful lunch, cold meats and salad
and a dainty pudding. By the time that Joyce had added her contribution
to the feast, there was scarcely an inch of the table left uncovered.
Jules did not know the names of half the dishes.

Not many miles away from that old garden, scattered up and down the
Loire throughout all the region of fair Tourraine, rise the turrets of
many an old chateau. Great banquet halls, where kings and queens once
feasted, still stand as silent witnesses of a gay bygone court life; but
never in any chateau or palace among them all was feast more thoroughly
enjoyed than this impromptu dinner in the garden, where a little
goatherd was the only guest.

It was an enchanted spot to Jules, made so by the magic of Joyce's
wonderful gift of story-telling. For the first time in his life that he
could remember, he heard of Santa Claus and Christmas trees, of
Bluebeard and Aladdin's lamp, and all the dear old fairy tales that were
so entrancing he almost forgot to eat.

Then they played that he was the prince, Prince Ethelried, and that the
goats in the carriage-house were his royal steeds, and t