“We are favored beyond understanding,” Mrs. Harlowe said solemnly. “When one thinks of the poor and unfortunate, to whom Thanksgiving can bring nothing but sorrow and bitterness, it seems little short of marvelous that we should be so happy.”
“I don’t wish to be selfish and forget life’s unfortunates, but I’d rather not think about them now,” was Miriam’s candid comment. “We mustn’t be sad to-night. Grace must sparkle, and Elfreda be funny, and Anne must recite for us, and I’ll play and David must sing. I’ve discovered that he has a really good tenor voice. We’ve been practising songs together this fall.”
“Really?” asked Grace, with interest. “And all these years we never knew it. David, you can surely keep a secret.”
“Oh, I can’t sing,” protested David, coloring. “Miriam only thinks I can. Our real singers are among the missing to-night.”
“You mean Hippy and Nora?”
“Yes,” nodded David. “Isn’t it strange we didn’t hear from them. I wrote Tom, Hippy and Reddy to come on here for Thanksgiving if they could. Reddy and Jessica couldn’t make it. They are coming home for Christmas, though. Tom Gray is away up in the Michigan woods. Still he sent a telegram that he couldn’t come. But Hippy didn’t answer. This morning I sent him a telegram, and so far there’s no answer to that, either.”
“I hope neither of them is ill.” Mrs. Gray’s face took on a look of concern. “It is not like Hippy to neglect his friends.”
“Nora is usually the soul of promptness, too,” reminded Anne.
“If I don’t hear anything to-night, I’ll telegraph Hippy again to-morrow,” announced David.
There was a pleasant silence in the room. Every one’s thoughts were on the piquant-faced Irish girl, whose sprightly manner and charming personality made her a favorite, and her plump, loquacious husband, whose ready flow of funny sayings never seemed to diminish.