sunshine in their hearts, was wreathed across the altar. The delicate stone pillars were outlined with vivid crimson woodbine climbing from base to capital, and the design of the cornice was followed by a garland of ripe ears of corn twisted together, with here and there a branch heavy with apples or pears. At the altar foot lay a shining ploughshare, a rake, and a sickle. All these decorations had been planned by Margaret, who had worked with loving willingness to make the temple fair and fitting for that festival, older than Christianity, older than Greece itself, as old as man's gratitude to his Creator for the garnered harvest. Other preparations were making, and from every kitchen of every farm-house in all the country round came the fragrant odors of pumpkin-pies, of pound-cake, of jellies and sweetmeats, of doughnuts, of smoked bacon and sugared hams, of baking beans and roasting meats, for the festival was to be one of good cheer.
The day of the Harvest Home dawned bright and clear, one of those electric autumn days when every breath of the pure bracing air stimulates like a draught of sparkling wine. The sky was one flawless crystal, pale blue at the horizon, and deepening to sapphire at the zenith. There was not a cloud in sight, but about the sun hung a light veil of mist which changed his
