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“Mother, this is Mr. Stanhope, a classmate of mine. I wish you would help me persuade him to stay.”

“Why, certainly, I supposed you expected to stay with us, of course,” said Mrs. Alford, heartily.

Mr. Stanhope looked ready to sink through the floor, his face crimson with vexation.

“I do assure you, madam,” he urged, “it is all a mistake. I am not an invited guest. I was merely calling on a little matter of business, when–” and there he stopped. George exploded into a hearty, uncontrollable laugh; while Elsie, in the darkness, shook her little fist at the stranger, who hastened to add, “Please let me bid you good-evening, I have not the slightest claim on your hospitality.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Mrs. Alford, a little mystified. “We would like you to spend at least part of the time with us.”

“I do not expect to be here very long. I have a room at the hotel.”

“Now, look here, Stanhope,” cried George, barring all egress by planting his back against the door, “do you take me, a half- fledged theologue, for a heathen? Do you suppose that I could be such a churl as to let a classmate stay at our dingy, forlorn little tavern and eat hash on Thanksgiving Day? I could never look you in the face at recitation again. Have some consideration for my peace of mind, and I am sure you will find our home quite as endurable as anything Mr. Starks can provide.”

“Oh! as to that, from even the slight glimpse that I have had, this seems more like a home than anything I have known for many years; but I cannot feel it right that I, an unexpected stranger–“

“Come, come! No more of that! You know what is written about ‘entertaining strangers;’ so that is your strongest claim. Moreover, that text works both ways sometimes, and the stranger angel finds himself among angels. My old mother here, if she does weigh well on toward two hundred, is more like one than anything I have yet seen, and Elsie, if not an angel, is at least part witch and part fairy. But you need not fear ghostly entertainment from mother’s larder. As you are a Christian, and not a Pagan, no more of this reluctance. Indeed, nolens volens, I shall not permit you to go out into this November storm to-night;” and Elsie, to her dismay, saw the new-comer led up to the “spare room” with a sort of hospitable violence.

With flaming cheeks and eyes half full of indignant tears, she now made onslaught on her mother, who had returned to the kitchen, where she was making preparations for a supper that might almost answer for the dinner the next day.

“Mother, mother,” she exclaimed, “how could you keep that disagreeable stranger! He will spoil our Thanksgiving.”

“Why, child, what is the matter?” said Mrs. Alford, raising her eyes in surprise to her daughter’s face, that looked like a red moon through the mist of savory vapors rising from the ample cooking-stove. “I don’t understand you. Why should not your brother’s classmate add to the pleasure of our Thanksgiving?”

“Well, perhaps if we had expected him, if he had come in some other way, and we knew more about him–“

“Bless you, child, what a formalist you have become. You stand on a fine point of etiquette, as if it were the broad foundation of hospitality; while only last week you wanted a ragged tramp, who had every appearance of being a thief, to stay all night. Your brother thinks it a special providence that his friend should have turned up so unexpectedly.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Elsie. “If that is what the doctrine of special providence means, I shall need a new confession of faith.” Then, a sudden thought occurring to her, she vanished, while her mother smiled, saying:

“What a queer child she is, to be sure!”

A moment later Elsie gave a sharp knock at the spare room door, and in a second was in the further end of the dark hall. George put his head out.