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“I am only too glad to submit to them,” he eagerly replied, and then added, so ardently as to deepen the roses already in her cheeks, “If such are your punishments, Miss Alford, how delicious must be your favors!”

By common consent the subject was dropped; and with tongues released from awkward restraint, they chatted freely together, till in the early twilight they reached her home. The moment they entered George exultingly saw that the skies were serene.

But Elsie would never be the frolicsome child of the past again. As she surprised the family at dinner, so now at supper they could scarcely believe that the elegant, graceful young lady was the witch of yesterday. She had resolved with all her soul to try to win some place in Mr. Stanhope’s respect before he departed, and never did a little maiden succeed better.

In the evening they had music; and Mr. Stanhope pleased them all with his fine tenor, while Elsie delighted him by her clear, birdlike voice. So the hours fled away.

“You think better of the ‘horrid man,’ little Sis,” said George, as he kissed her good-night.

“I was the horrid one,” said Elsie, penitently. “I can never forgive myself my absurd conduct. But he has promised to come again next Thanksgiving, and give me a chance to do better; so don’t you fail to bring him.”

George gave a long, low whistle, and then said: “Oh! ah! Seems to me you are coming on, for an innocent. Are we to get mixed up again in the twilight?”

“Nonsense!” said Elsie, with a peony face, and she slammed her door upon him.

The next morning the young man took his leave, and Elsie’s last words were:

“Mr. Stanhope, remember your promise.”

And he did remember more than that, for this brief visit had enshrined a sweet, girlish face within his heart of hearts, and he no longer felt lonely and orphaned. He and George became the closest friends, and messages from the New England home came to him with increasing frequency, which he returned with prodigal interest. It also transpired that he occasionally wrote for the papers, and Elsie insisted that these should be sent to her; while he of course wrote much better with the certainty that she would be his critic. Thus, though separated, they daily became better acquainted, and during the year George found it not very difficult to induce his friend to make several visits.

But it was with joy that seemed almost too rich for earthly experience that he found himself walking up the village street with George the ensuing Thanksgiving Eve. Elsie was at the door; and he pretended to be disconsolate that his reception was not the same as on the previous year. Indeed she had to endure not a little chaffing, for her mistake was a family joke now.

It was a peerless Thanksgiving eve and day–one of the sun-lighted heights of human happiness.

After dinner they all again took a walk up the brawling stream, and Stanhope and Elsie became separated from the rest, though not so innocently as on the former occasion.

“See!” cried Elsie, pointing to the well-remembered sapling, which she had often visited. “There fluttered our flag of truce last year.”

Stanhope seized her hand and said eagerly: “And here I again break the truce, and renew the theme we dropped at this place. Oh, Elsie, I have felt that kiss in the depths of my heart every hour since; and in that it led to my knowing and loving you, it has made every day from that time one of thanksgiving. If you could return my love, as I have dared to hope, it would be a happiness beyond words. If I could venture to take one more kiss, as a token that it is returned, I could keep Thanksgiving forever.”

Her hand trembled in his, but was not withdrawn. Her blushing face was turned away toward the brawling stream; but she saw not its foam, she heard not its hoarse murmurs. A sweeter music was in her ears. She seemed under a delicious spell, but soon became conscious that a pair of dark eyes were looking down eagerly, anxiously for her answer. Shyly raising hers, that now were like dewy violets, she said, with a little of her old witchery:

“I suppose you will have to kiss me this Thanksgiving, to make things even.”

Stanhope needed no broader hint.

“I owe you a heavy grudge,” said Mr. Alford, in the evening. “A year ago you robbed me of my child, for little, kittenish Elsie became a thoughtful woman from the day you were here; and now you are going to take away the daughter of my old age.”

“Yes, indeed, husband. Now you know how my father felt,” said Mrs. Alford, at the same time wiping something from the corner of her eye.

“Bless me, are you here?” said the old gentleman, wheeling round to his wife. “Mr. Stanhope, I have nothing more to say.”

“I declare,” exulted George, “that ‘horrid man’ will devour Elsie yet.”

“Haw! haw! haw!” laughed big-voiced, big-hearted James. “The idea of our little witch of an Elsie being a minister’s wife!”

* * * * * * *

It is again Thanksgiving Eve. The trees are gaunt, the fields bare and brown, with dead leaves whirling across them; but a sweeter than June sunshine seems filling the cosey parlor where Elsie, a radiant bride, is receiving her husband’s first kiss almost on the moment that she with her lips so unexpectedly kindled the sacred fire, three years before.