“‘I’ll make you some pies—if I can get anything to make them of,’ said Mrs. Penly.
“‘Ah but you can’t,’ said Mark, his countenance falling again: ‘there aren’t even any potatoes in the house. You used to make potato pies, didn’t you, mother, when father forgot to bring home the pumpkin?’
“‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Penly, but as if she scarce heard him; for other Thanksgiving-days were sweeping across the stage, where Memory’s troupe was just then performing.
“‘So what will you do, mother?’ repeated little Mark, when he had watched her again for a few minutes.
“‘Do?’ said the widow, rousing herself. ‘Why my dear if we cannot make any pies we will keep Thanksgiving without them.’
“‘I don’t think one can keep Thanksgiving without anything,’ said Mark, a little fretfully.
“‘Oh no,’ said his mother, ‘neither do I; but we will think about it, dear, and do the best we can. And now you may read to me while I mend this hole in your stocking. Read the hundred and third Psalm.’
“So Mark got his little Bible and began to read,—
“‘Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies——’