he habit of getting favours granted in the dark?" he
inquired.

"Papa says I usually bag my game!"

Now old Mr. Crosby had been a sportsman in his day, and he was
mightily pleased with the little jest. But he only asked:

"And what's your game in this instance, if you please?"

"You!"

"Oh, I! And you want to bag me? Bag me for what?"

"For dinner!"

"Oh, for dinner!"

"Yes! We are all by ourselves to-day, and you'll just make the table
even. There's only Papa and Mamma, and Louise, and Beth, and Alice,
and the baby." Somehow the succession of sweet, soft names sounded
very attractive to the crabbed old man.

"The baby is six years old," Di continued, unconsciously adding
another touch to the attractiveness of the picture.

"And what is her name?"

"_His_ name is Horatio. I never liked it very well; it seemed too long
for a baby. But, do you know?--I think I shall like it better now."

She was still kneeling before him, with her small gloved hands clasped
on his knee. It was clear that she had not the faintest idea of being
refused. Yet even had she been somewhat less confident, she might well
have taken heart of hope, for, at this point, he gently laid his
wrinkled hand upon hers.

"You _will_ come to dinner?" she begged, apparently quite unconscious
of the little caress. "We dine at five on Thanksgiving day, and you
and I can walk over together. They will all be so surprised,--and so
happy!"

"Then they are not expecting me?" and the old man gave her a very
piercing look, which did not seem to pierce at all.

"No; they didn't know who it was to be. I only said it was a very
important personage."

"Coming in a bag!" he suggested.

"Oh, that's only a sportsman's expression!"

"Indeed! And is it customary nowadays to go a-hunting for your
Thanksgiving dinner?"

Di's eyes danced. This was indeed a grandfather worth waiting for! But
she only answered demurely:

"That depends upon your quarry!"

Lucky Di, to have hit upon that pretty, old-fashioned word! She had,
indeed, read her Sir Walter to good purpose.

Now, Mr. Horatio Crosby had held out stoutly against every appeal of
natural affection, of reason, of conscience. He was not a
quick-tempered man like his son; he was not, like his daughter-in-law,
easily rebuffed; but there was about him a toughness of fibre which
yielded neither to blows nor to pressure, and which, for many years,
neither friend nor foe had penetrated. And here was this