Marian was standing at the farther end of the parlor facing the doorway, with two of the Selwyn cousins beside her, as the fresh arrivals appeared. She was laughing joyously as they entered; but at her very first glimpse of the approaching group, the laugh ceased, and a look of sudden resolve flashed into her face,--a look that the Selwyn cousins, who had been told the whole story of the fraudulent invitation, understood at once to mean, "Here is my opportunity and I'll make the most of it!" But to the others--to the four who were approaching--this sudden change in their hostess's face was thus variously interpreted: "She has seen Angela," thought the Ryder girls, triumphantly. "She has seen the Ryder girls, and she is going to punish them," thought Mary, nervously. "She is looking at my dreadful old gown," thought Angela, miserably.

And moved thus differently by such different antic.i.p.ations, the little group came down the room, Mary's nervousness increasing at every step,--for her shyness and the Quaker love of peace rose up within her at the sight of Marian's face, that seemed to her to betoken a plan of punishment for the approaching offenders more in accordance with the fiery Selwyn spirit than any spirit of peace.

Just what Mary feared she could not have told; but she knew something of this Selwyn spirit, and had often heard it said that the Selwyn tongue could cut like a lash when once started. That the Ryders deserved the sharpest cut of this lash she fully believed; but, "Oh, I _do_ hope Marian won't say anything sharp _now_," she thought to herself. And it was then, just then, at that very moment, that she saw Marian's face change again, as the softest, sweetest, kindest of smiles beamed from lips and eyes, and the softest, sweetest, kindest of voices said,--

"How do you do, Mary? I'm very glad to see you,--you know my cousins, Bertie and Laura;" and in the next breath, "How do you do, Miss Jocelyn?

It's very nice to see you here.--Bertie, Laura, this is my friend Angela Jocelyn, who is going to make one of our charade party next month if I can persuade her."

One of that May-day charade party! Mary opened her eyes very wide at this, and Angela wondered if she were awake. But the charming voice was now speaking to some one else,--was saying very politely without a touch of sharpness, but with a world of meaning to those who had the clew, and those only,--

"How do you do, Lizzy? How do you do, Nelly? And, Nelly, I want to thank you for a real service in connection with my birthday invitations. But for you I should have missed a very welcome guest. I shall never forget this, you may be sure."

"I--I--" But for once Nelly Ryder's ready speech failed her. Her cousin tried to take up her words, tried to say something about April fun, tried to smile, to laugh; but the laugh died upon her lips, and she was only too glad to move on with Nelly into the room beyond, and there, out of the range of observation for a moment, the two expressed their astonishment and dismay at Marian's knowledge, and wondered how she came by it.

"But to think of her taking an April joke so seriously as to make much of Angela Jocelyn just to come up with _me_!" burst out Nelly.

"And to think," burst out Lizzy, with a sly laugh, "that it is _you_ who have introduced Angela to Marian's good graces, and that it is _you_, after all, who have been made the April fool, and not Angela!"

THE THANKSGIVING GUEST.

CHAPTER I.

"It is such a lovely idea, such a truly Christian idea, Mrs. Lambert.

How did you ever happen to think of it?"

"Oh, _I_ did not think of it; it wasn't _my_ idea. Didn't you ever hear how it came about?"

"No; do tell me!"

"Well, my husband, you know, was always looking out for ways of doing good,--lending a helping hand,--and he used to talk with the children a great deal of such things. One day he came across a beautiful little story that he read to them. It was the story of a child who made the acquaintance of a poor, half-starved student and brought him home with her to share her Thanksgiving dinner. It made a deep impression on the children. They talked about it continually, and acted it out in their play. But they were in the habit of doing that with any fresh story that pleased them, so it was nothing new to us, and we hadn't a thought of their carrying it further. But the next week was Thanksgiving week; and when Thanksgiving Day came, what do you think those little things did,--for they were quite little things then,--what do you think they did but bring in just before dinner the half-blind old apple-pedler who had a stand on the corner of the street?

"They were so happy about it, and they thought we should be so happy too, that we couldn't say a word of discouragement in the way of advice then; but later, when we had given the old fellow his dinner, and he had gone, we had a talk with the dear little souls, when we tried to show them that it would be better to let us know when they wanted to invite any one to dinner or to tea,--that that was the way other girls and boys always did. They were rather crestfallen at our suggestions; for, with the keen, sensitive instinct of children, they felt that their beautiful plan, as they thought it, had somewhere failed, and, though they promised readily enough to consult us 'next time,' we could see that they were puzzled and depressed over all this _regulation_, when we had seemed to have nothing but admiring appreciation for the similar act of the child in the story. My husband, seeing this, was very much troubled to know just what to say or do; for he thought, as I did, that it might be a serious injury to them to say or do anything to chill or check their first independent attempt to lend a helping hand to others.

Then all at once out of his perplexity came this idea of allowing the children from that time forward to have the privilege of inviting a guest of their own choosing every Thanksgiving Day, and that this guest should be some one who needed, in some way or other, home-cherishing and kindness. They should have the privilege of choosing, but they must tell us the one they had chosen, that we might send the invitation for them.

This plan delighted them; and from this start, five years ago, the thing has gone on until it has grown into the present 'guest day,' where _each one_ of the children may invite his or her particular guest. It has got to be a very pleasant thing now, though at first we had some queer times. But as the children grew older, they learned better how to regulate matters, and to make necessary discriminations, and a year ago we found we could trust them to invite their guests without any older supervision, and they are very proud of this liberty, and very happy in the whole thing; and such an education as it has been. You've no idea how they have learned to think of others, to look about them to find those who are in need not merely of food or clothing but of loving attention and kindness."

"Well, it is beautiful, Mrs. Lambert, and what a Thanksgiving ought to be,--what it was in the old pilgrim days at Plymouth, when those who had more than others invited the less fortunate to share with them. It's beautiful, and I wish everybody who could afford it would go and do likewise."

"Speaking of affording it, I thought, when my husband died last spring, I should have to give up our guest day with most other things, for you know that railroad business that my husband entered into with his half-brother John nearly ruined him. I think the worry and fret of it killed him, anyway, and I told John so, and he has never forgiven me.

But I have never forgiven him, and never shall; for if it hadn't been for John's representations, his continual urging, Charles would never have gone into the business. Oh, I shall always hold John responsible for his death, and I told him so."

"You told him so? How did he take that? What did he say?"

"Oh, you know John. He flew into a rage, and said he loved his brother as well as _I_ did. As well as _I_ did! Think of that; and that he had urged him into that business, thinking that it was for his benefit,--that no one could have foreseen what happened, and that if Charles lost, he also had lost, and much more heavily. But, as I was saying, I thought at first I should have to give up our guest day; but when matters came to be settled, I found there were other things I would rather economize on."

"Where _is_ John now, Mrs. Lambert?"

"He is in--" But just at that moment a tall pretty girl of fourteen entered the room. It was Elsie, the eldest of the Lambert children.

"Why, Elsie, how you have grown!" cried Mrs. Mason, who hadn't seen Elsie for some months, "and you've quite lost the look of your mother."

"Yes, Elsie is getting to look like the Lamberts," remarked the mother.

"Everybody says I look just like Uncle John," spoke up Elsie.

"Oh, you were asking me where John was now," said Mrs. Lambert, turning to Mrs. Mason. "He is in New York, dabbling in railroads, as usual, and getting poorer and poorer by this obstinate folly, I heard last week.

_We_ don't see him, of course; for, as I told you, we don't forgive each other. Oh!" as her visitor cast a questioning glance toward Elsie, who had suddenly given a little start here, "Elsie knows all about it. Elsie is my big girl now. But what is it, my dear?--you came in to ask me something,--what is it?"

"It's about Tommy. He has told me who he is going to invite for next week,"--next week was Thanksgiving week,--"and I knew you would not like it, and I felt that I ought to tell you; it is that horrid Marchant boy."

"Like it,--I should think not! Why, what in the world has put Tommy up to that?"

"He says that Joe Marchant hasn't any home of his own this Thanksgiving, because his father has gone out West on business, and left Joe all alone with those people that his father and he boarded with just after his mother died; and Tommy pities Joe so, he says he is going to invite him here for next Thursday, and I knew you wouldn't want him."

"Of course not; the boy is ill-mannered and disagreeable, and he is always quarrelling with Tommy."

"I told Tommy that," laughed Elsie, "and he said he guessed he'd done _his_ share of the quarrelling, and that, anyway, Joe Marchant was the under dog now, and he was going to forgive and forget."

"Dear little Tommy!" exclaimed Mrs. Lambert, admiringly.

"And he said, too, mother, that he knew you wouldn't object; that you always told him that Thanksgiving Day was the very day to make up with folks and be good to 'em, but I knew you _would_ object to Joe Marchant, and so--"

"I--I don't know about it, Elsie. If Tommy feels like that, I--I don't believe it would be wise for me to check him. No, I don't believe I can.

Tommy is nearer right than I am. He is doing a fine, generous thing, and it _is_ the right thing, and I think we must put up with Joe Marchant, Elsie, after all."

"Oh, _I_ don't mind, if _you_ don't, mamma; but I thought you wouldn't like it, and it would spoil the day."

"No, nothing done in that spirit _could_ spoil the day; and, Elsie, I hope the rest of you will make your choice of guests with as good reason as Tommy has."

Elsie looked at her mother with an odd, eager expression, as if she were about to speak. Then she suddenly lifted up her head with a little air of resolution, and starting forward hurriedly left the room.

Mrs. Lambert laughed as the door closed.

"I think I know what Elsie is going to do," she said smilingly to Mrs.

Mason. "There is a young teacher in her school, Miss Matthews, who is seldom invited anywhere, she is so unpopular. I've often asked Elsie to bring her home, and she has always put it off; but I believe that this act of Tommy's and what I've said about it has made such an impression upon her that she has gone now to invite Miss Matthews to be her guest next week. She was going to tell me about it at first, then she thought better of it. They've all had this liberty for the last year--not to tell--it's so much more fun for them; and I can always trust Elsie to look out for things, she has such good sense with her good heart."

"Yes, and you _all_ seem to have such good sense and such good hearts, Mrs. Lambert," said Mrs. Mason, as she rose to go; but as she walked down the street she said to herself, "Such good sense and such good hearts, overflowing with charity and forgiveness for everybody but John Lambert!"