There had been company at the brick house to the bountiful Thanksgiving dinner which had been provided at one o’clock, the Burnham sisters, who lived between North Riverboro and Shaker Village, and who for more than a quarter of a century had come to pass the holiday with the Sawyers every year. Rebecca sat silent with a book after the dinner dishes were washed, and when it was nearly five asked if she might go to the Simpsons’.

“What do you want to run after those Simpson children for on a Thanksgiving Day?” queried Miss Miranda. “Can’t you set still for once and listen to the improvin’ conversation of your elders? You never can let well enough alone, but want to be forever on the move.”

“The Simpsons have a new lamp, and Emma Jane and I promised to go up and see it lighted, and make it a kind of a party.”

“What under the canopy did they want of a lamp, and where did they get the money to pay for it? If Abner was at home, I should think he’d been swappin’ again,” said Miss Miranda.

“The children got it as a prize for selling soap,” replied Rebecca; “they’ve been working for a year, and you know I told you that Emma Jane and I helped them the Saturday afternoon you were in Portland.”

“I didn’t take notice, I s’pose, for it’s the first time I ever heard the lamp mentioned. Well, you can go for an hour, and no more. Remember it’s as dark at six as it is at midnight. Would you like to take along some Baldwin apples? What have you got in the pocket of that new dress that makes it sag down so?”

“It’s my nuts and raisins from dinner,” replied Rebecca, who never succeeded in keeping the most innocent action a secret from her aunt Miranda; “they’re just what you gave me on my plate.”

“Why didn’t you eat them?”

“Because I’d had enough dinner, and I thought if I saved these, it would make the Simpsons’ party better,” stammered Rebecca, who hated to be scolded and examined before company.

“They were your own, Rebecca,” interposed aunt Jane, “and if you chose to save them to give away, it is all right. We ought never to let this day pass without giving our neighbors something to be thankful for, instead of taking all the time to think of our own mercies.”

The Burnham sisters nodded approvingly as Rebecca went out, and remarked that they had never seen a child grow and improve so fast in so short a time.

“There’s plenty of room left for more improvement, as you’d know if she lived in the same house with you,” answered Miranda. “She’s into every namable thing in the neighborhood, an’ not only into it, but generally at the head an’ front of it, especially when it’s mischief. Of all the foolishness I ever heard of, that lamp beats everything; it’s just like those Simpsons, but I didn’t suppose the children had brains enough to sell anything.”

“One of them must have,” said Miss Ellen Burnham, “for the girl that was selling soap at the Ladds’ in North Riverboro was described by Adam Ladd as the most remarkable and winning child he ever saw.”

“It must have been Clara Belle, and I should never call her remarkable,” answered Miss Miranda. “Has Adam been home again?”

“Yes, he’s been staying a few days with his aunt. There’s no limit to the money he’s making, they say; and he always brings presents for all the neighbors. This time it was a full set of furs for Mrs. Ladd; and to think we can remember the time he was a barefoot boy without two shirts to his back! It is strange he hasn’t married, with all his money, and him so fond of children that he always has a pack of them at his heels.”

“There’s hope for him still, though,” said Miss Jane smilingly; “for I don’t s’pose he’s more than thirty.”

“He could get a wife in Riverboro if he was a hundred and thirty,” remarked Miss Miranda.

“Adam’s aunt says he was so taken with the little girl that sold the soap (Clara Belle, did you say her name was?), that he declared he was going to bring her a Christmas present,” continued Miss Ellen.

“Well, there’s no accountin’ for tastes,” exclaimed Miss Miranda. “Clara Belle’s got cross-eyes and red hair, but I’d be the last one to grudge her a Christmas present; the more Adam Ladd gives to her the less the town’ll have to.”

“Isn’t there another Simpson girl?” asked Miss Lydia Burnham; “for this one couldn’t have been cross-eyed; I remember Mrs. Ladd saying Adam remarked about this child’s handsome eyes. He said it was her eyes that made him buy the three hundred cakes. Mrs. Ladd has it stacked up in the shed chamber.”

“Three hundred cakes!” ejaculated Miranda. “Well, there’s one crop that never fails in Riverboro!”

“What’s that?” asked Miss Lydia politely.

“The fool crop,” responded Miranda tersely, and changed the subject, much to Jane’s gratitude, for she had been nervous and ill at ease for the last fifteen minutes. What child in Riverboro could be described as remarkable and winning, save Rebecca? What child had wonderful eyes, except the same Rebecca? and finally, was there ever a child in the world who could make a man buy soap by the hundred cakes, save Rebecca?

Meantime the “remarkable” child had flown up the road in the deepening dusk, but she had not gone far before she heard the sound of hurrying footsteps, and saw a well-known figure coming in her direction. In a moment she and Emma Jane met and exchanged a breathless embrace.

“Something awful has happened,” panted Emma Jane.

“Don’t tell me it’s broken,” exclaimed Rebecca.

“No! oh, no! not that! It was packed in straw, and every piece came out all right; and I was there, and I never said a single thing about your selling the three hundred cakes that got the lamp, so that we could be together when you told.”

“Our selling the three hundred cakes,” corrected Rebecca; “you did as much as I.”

“No, I didn’t, Rebecca Randall. I just sat at the gate and held the horse.”

“Yes, but whose horse was it that took us to North Riverboro? And besides, it just happened to be my turn. If you had gone in and found Mr. Aladdin you would have had the wonderful lamp given to you; but what’s the trouble?”

“The Simpsons have no kerosene and no wicks. I guess they thought a banquet lamp was something that lighted itself, and burned without any help. Seesaw has gone to the doctor’s to try if he can borrow a wick, and mother let me have a pint of oil, but she says she won’t give me any more. We never thought of the expense of keeping up the lamp, Rebecca.”

“No, we didn’t, but let’s not worry about that till after the party. I have a handful of nuts and raisins and some apples.”

“I have peppermints and maple sugar,” said Emma Jane. “They had a real Thanksgiving dinner; the doctor gave them sweet potatoes and cranberries and turnips; father sent a sparerib, and Mrs. Cobb a chicken and a jar of mincemeat.”

At half past five one might have looked in at the Simpsons’ windows, and seen the party at its height. Mrs. Simpson had let the kitchen fire die out, and had brought the baby to grace the festal scene. The lamp seemed to be having the party, and receiving the guests. The children had taken the one small table in the house, and it was placed in the far corner of the room to serve as a pedestal. On it stood the sacred, the adored, the long-desired object; almost as beautiful, and nearly half as large as the advertisement. The brass glistened like gold, and the crimson paper shade glowed like a giant ruby. In the wide splash of light that it flung upon the floor sat the Simpsons, in reverent and solemn silence, Emma Jane standing behind them, hand in hand with Rebecca. There seemed to be no desire for conversation; the occasion was too thrilling and serious for that. The lamp, it was tacitly felt by everybody, was dignifying the party, and providing sufficient entertainment simply by its presence; being fully as satisfactory in its way as a pianola or a string band.

“I wish father could see it,” said Clara Belle loyally.

“If he onth thaw it he’d want to thwap it,” murmured Susan sagaciously.

At the appointed hour Rebecca dragged herself reluctantly away from the enchanting scene.

“I’ll turn out the lamp the minute I think you and Emma Jane are home,” said Clara Belle. “And, oh! I’m so glad you both live where you can see it shine from our windows. I wonder how long it will burn without bein’ filled if I only keep it lit one hour every night?”

“You needn’t put it out for want o’ karosene,” said Seesaw, coming in from the shed, “for there’s a great kag of it settin’ out there. Mr. Tubbs brought it over from North Riverboro and said somebody sent an order by mail for it.”

Rebecca squeezed Emma Jane’s arm, and Emma Jane gave a rapturous return squeeze. “It was Mr. Aladdin,” whispered Rebecca, as they ran down the path to the gate. Seesaw followed them and handsomely offered to see them “apiece” down the road, but Rebecca declined his escort with such decision that he did not press the matter, but went to bed to dream of her instead. In his dreams flashes of lightning proceeded from both her eyes, and she held a flaming sword in either hand.

Rebecca entered the home dining room joyously. The Burnham sisters had gone and the two aunts were knitting.

“It was a heavenly party,” she cried, taking off her hat and cape.

“Go back and see if you have shut the door tight, and then lock it,” said Miss Miranda, in her usual austere manner.

“It was a heavenly party,” reiterated Rebecca, coming in again, much too excited to be easily crushed, “and oh! aunt Jane, aunt Miranda, if you’ll only come into the kitchen and look out of the sink window, you can see the banquet lamp shining all red, just as if the Simpsons’ house was on fire.”

“And probably it will be before long,” observed Miranda. “I’ve got no patience with such foolish goin’s-on.”

Jane accompanied Rebecca into the kitchen. Although the feeble glimmer which she was able to see from that distance did not seem to her a dazzling exhibition, she tried to be as enthusiastic as possible.

“Rebecca, who was it that sold the three hundred cakes of soap to Mr. Ladd in North Riverboro?”

“Mr. who?” exclaimed Rebecca.

“Mr. Ladd, in North Riverboro.”

“Is that his real name?” queried Rebecca in astonishment. “I didn’t make a bad guess;” and she laughed softly to herself.

“I asked you who sold the soap to Adam Ladd?” resumed Miss Jane.

“Adam Ladd! then he’s A. Ladd, too; what fun!”

“Answer me, Rebecca.”

“Oh! excuse me, aunt Jane, I was so busy thinking. Emma Jane and I sold the soap to Mr. Ladd.”

“Did you tease him, or make him buy it?”

“Now, aunt Jane, how could I make a big grown-up man buy anything if he didn’t want to? He needed the soap dreadfully as a present for his aunt.”

Miss Jane still looked a little unconvinced, though she only said, “I hope your aunt Miranda won’t mind, but you know how particular she is, Rebecca, and I really wish you wouldn’t do anything out of the ordinary without asking her first, for your actions are very queer.”

“There can’t be anything wrong this time,” Rebecca answered confidently. “Emma Jane sold her cakes to her own relations and to uncle Jerry Cobb, and I went first to those new tenements near the lumber mill, and then to the Ladds’. Mr. Ladd bought all we had and made us promise to keep the secret until the premium came, and I’ve been going about ever since as if the banquet lamp was inside of me all lighted up and burning, for everybody to see.”

Rebecca’s hair was loosened and falling over her forehead in ruffled waves; her eyes were brilliant, her cheeks crimson; there was a hint of everything in the girl’s face,—of sensitiveness and delicacy as well as of ardor; there was the sweetness of the mayflower and the strength of the young oak, but one could easily divine that she was one of



“The souls by nature pitched too high,

By suffering plunged too low.”



“That’s just the way you look, for all the world as if you did have a lamp burning inside of you,” sighed aunt Jane. “Rebecca! Rebecca! I wish you could take things easier, child; I am fearful for you sometimes.”