course, but we've been afraid you needed a change. You've seemed sort of tired and different this Fall. Perhaps it will do you good."
"Perhaps," Mrs. Harvey replied brightly. "Well, I'll write Julia to-night, then. Dear me, Linda, see if you can thread this needle."
Linda stopped at Junior's on her way home from the house that night. She found Mary and Phil had been there for supper, and that father had "gone around" after prayer-meeting, to continue a business discussion with his oldest son. Linda made her announcement in regard to mother's plans for Thanksgiving as soon as she entered the big living-room where they were all assembled. A silence followed her news, a silence of amazement, bordering on fear. Sally dropped her sewing in her lap and stared. Junior got up from his chair abruptly, and shoved his hands into his pockets. Mary reached over and pushed her fist into Phil's. Phil gave a long, low, subdued whistle.
"No Thanksgiving dinner at the house!" finally exclaimed Sally.
"Oh, dear, is mother going to be sick?" cried out Mary.
"It doesn't seem as if I could bear it—mother losing all her enthusiasm, this way," almost sobbed Linda.
