offee spoons, Kitty? I thought you had a couple of
dozen when you went to housekeeping."

Marcia, with her sleeves rolled up from her round white arms, was
rummaging in the sideboard, as she knelt beside it on the floor, her
brown eyes peering into the corners.

"Yes, of course I have coffee spoons. Aren't they there? I'm sure I
don't know _what_ becomes of things."

Young Mrs. Fosdyke, stout and matronly, held a fat and placid year-old
baby on her lap with one arm, while with the other hand she lunged out
intermittently to pick up a much-chewed rubber dog cast upon the floor
by the infant. "Oh, now I remember; they're at the bank, with the rest
of the silver--we sent them there the summer we went to the seashore,
and forgot to take them out again. I know it's dreadful to get in the
habit of living in this picnic fashion; I'm ashamed sometimes to have
any one come here. Not that I mind your having asked Mrs. Devereaux for
Thanksgiving, Marcia; I don't want you to feel that way for a minute. I
think it was nice of you to want to. If _you_ don't mind having her
here, I'm sure I don't. You know I've had such a time changing servants;
and when you have three babies--"

Mrs. Fosdyke was accustomed to anticipate possible astonishment at the
size of her young family by stating tersely to begin with that the three
were all of the same age; if this were not literally true, it was true
enough to account for the disposal of most of her time. In a small
house, on a small income, with one maid, all departments can not receive
attention; under such circumstances something has to go. Mrs. Fosdyke's
attention went, rightly enough, to the children; there were no graces of
management left for the household--there couldn't be; that was one
reason why she never invited company any more. She felt apologetic even
before her sister.

"I wish things were a little nicer here--but I know just how you
feel about Mrs. Devereaux. No matter how rich a person is, it seems
sort of desolate to be alone at a hotel in a small town on a
holiday--Thanksgiving Day especially. And she was so good to you in
Paris. I shall never forget it."

"I'm sure I never shall," said Marcia.

She saw with retrospective vision the scene of two years ago, when she,
a terrified girl of twenty, just recovering from an illness, had missed
connections with her party at a railway station, and had been blessedly
taken in charge by a stranger whose spoken name carried reco