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And Ann Mary, standing before her grandmother with head meekly bent and watery eyes, decided that she would have to tell Loretta that she mustn’t touch the braids, if she proposed it again.

That morning, while Mrs. Little was making the pies, and the cake, and the pudding, Ann Mary was sitting idle, for her part of the Thanksgiving cooking was done. She had worked so fast the day before and early that morning that she had the raisins all picked over and seeded, and the apples pared and sliced; and that was about all that her grandmother thought she could do. Ann Mary herself was of a different opinion; she was twelve years old, if she was small for her age, and she considered herself quite capable of making pies and cup-cake.

However, it was something to sit there at the table and have that covert sense of superintending her grandmother, and to be reasonably sure that some of the food would have a strange flavor were it not for her vigilance.

Mrs. Little’s mince-pies had all been baked the day before; to-day, as she said, she was “making apple and squash.” While the apple-pies were in progress, Ann Mary watched her narrowly. Her small folded hands twitched and her little neck seemed to elongate above her apron; but she waited until her grandmother took up an upper crust, and was just about to lay it over a pie. Then she spoke up suddenly. Her voice had a timid yet assertive chirp like a bird’s.

“Grandma!”

“Well, what is it, child?”

“You goin’ to put that crust on that pie now, grandma?”

Mrs. Little stood uneasily reflective. She eyed the pie sharply. “Yes, I be. Why?” she returned, in a doubtful yet defiant manner.

“You haven’t put one bit of sugar in.”

“For the land sakes!” Mrs. Little did not take correction of this kind happily, but when she was made to fairly acknowledge the need of it, she showed no resentment. She laid the upper crust back on the board and sweetened the pie. Ann Mary watched her gravely, but she was inwardly complacent. After she had rescued the pudding from being baked without the plums, and it was nearly dinner-time, her grandfather came home. He had been over to the village to buy the Thanksgiving turkey. Ann Mary looked out with delight when he drove past the windows on his way to the barn.

“Grandpa’s got home,” said she.

It was snowing quite hard, and she saw the old man and the steadily tramping white horse and the tilting wagon through a thick mist of falling snow-flakes.

Before Mr. Little came into the kitchen, his wife warned him to be sure to wipe all the snow from his feet, and not to track in any, so he stamped vigorously out in the shed. Then he entered with an air of pride. “There!” said he, “what do ye think of that for a turkey?” Mr. Little was generally slow and gentle in his ways, but to-day he was quite excited over the turkey. He held it up with considerable difficulty. He was a small old man, and the cords on his lean hands knotted. “It weighs a good fifteen pound’,” said he, “an’ there wasn’t a better one in the store. Adkins didn’t have a very big lot on hand.”

“I should think that was queer, the day before Thanksgivin’,” said Mrs. Little. She was examining the turkey critically. “I guess it’ll do,” she declared finally. That was her highest expression of approbation. “Well, I rayther thought you’d think so,” rejoined the old man, beaming. “I guess it’s about as good a one as can be got–they said ’twas, down there. Sam White he was in there, and he said ’twas; he said I was goin’ to get it in pretty good season for Thanksgivin’, he thought.”

“I don’t think it’s such very extra season, the day before Thanksgivin’,” said Mrs. Little.