IT was a bracing¹ morning. Of course it was a November morning, for to-morrow would be Thanksgiving, and Mr. Vale stood looking out of his study window. It was a beautiful window in the spring and summer time, when the afternoon sun came streaming in through the Virginia creeper trained across it. Mr. Vale, who had the happiest way of looking at things, thought it a beautiful window, even in November. It might have opened on a blank wall, or a dull row of houses, as so many city windows do. Instead of that, it overlooked an old-fashioned garden, with little box-bordered flower-beds of every conceivable shape, and narrow gravel² paths running between them. In some of the sunniest beds a few hardy³ chrysanthemums⁴ were still blooming, in brilliant reds and yellows. A fine western breeze was whistling through the leafless branches of the vine, and Mr. Vale drew in a long breath of the invigorating air. No doubt he would have drawn⁵ a still longer breath of the salt air he revelled⁶ in if he had been where his thoughts were, for they were down by the sea, where at this very moment a little party was crowding into a village cart, about to start out on a long-talked-of expedition. If he could have looked into their earnest, rosy⁷ faces, and into their eyes brimming over with delight and expectation, I think he would have felt assured of the success of their undertaking⁸. How could anyone resist such a winning troop of little beggars?
 
At last he closed the windows went back to his study table, and wrote out his Thanksgiving sermon, which he had been turning over in his mind for many a day,—a glorious, invigorating sermon, as any member of the large congregation who heard it next day would have told you; but they could not have told you that it had won much of its inspiration from a little maiden⁹ who a few days before had looked up to him and said, with loving admiration¹⁰, “I like your preaching; I like it very much indeed.” Well, the children were off at last, and they bowled along the hard boulevard road in the highest spirits. They crossed the Sea Bright Bridge, and Pet, who had not been over it since that September morning when they went for the peaches, started to take the road that led to Burchard's orchard¹¹.
 
“No, sir-reel” cried Regie, jerking him back, “we won't go there any more,” and then the children laughed heartily¹² over that eventful day's adventures, when the little red skirt had done such good service. Before long they found themselves in front of Mr. Allan's place, and his name came first on the list. It had been agreed between them that Regie should be spokesman for the party.
 
“You see, Harry¹³,” Nan had said, when they were discussing the matter in Regie's absence, “Regie has a kind of city way with him that is more taking, you know.”
 
“I don't know anything of the kind,” Harry had answered. “You're just gone over Regie. It's a pity you could not have had him for a brother instead of me.”
 
“Now, Harry Murray,” Nan replied, earnestly, “you know I would not exchange you for any brother in the world,” which was pretty good of Nan, considering how large a share of teasing she had to undergo from this same Harry. The discussion had occurred several days previous to the expedition, and now that they had actually set out Harry was only too thankful that he did not have to play the principal part on the programme.
 
They drove up to the big house and tied Pet to a tree. No one was to be seen, and for a moment their hearts misgave¹⁴ them but it was too late to retrace¹⁵ their steps, and, with the air of a major domo, Harry marched proudly on to the piazza¹⁶ and pulled the bell, which was the special duty allotted¹⁷ to him. A coloured man in unpretentious livery opened the door.
 
“Does Mr. Allan live here?” asked Rex.
 
He hoped that the man did not notice that his voice trembled a little.
 
“Yes; would you like to see him?”
 
Before Rex could answer, “Yes, if you please,” someone called from the back part of the house, “Is it three little children, Jackson?”
 
“Yes, sah, it is.”
 
“Show them right in here, then,” called the voice, and closing the door after them Jackson ushered¹⁸ them into a spacious¹⁹ diningroom, where an old gentleman sat toasting his feet and reading his morning paper before a crackling wood fire.
 
“Well, my little friends, I'm right glad to see you,” he said, cordially. “You'll excuse my not getting up to meet you, I am such an old fellow, you know. Here, Jackson, put that little rocking-chair here near the fire for the young lady.”
 
 
Nan looked about the room to see who the young lady might be.
 
“Oh! if you mean me,” she said, laughing, taking her seat on a sofa, “I'm too warm to go near the fire, thank you.”
 
“Pray be seated, gentlemen, and tell me what I can do for you,” said Mr. Allan, turning to the boys.
 
“I guess you knew we were coming,” Regie answered, sitting down in the nearest chair.
 
“What makes you think that?”
 
“Because you called to your man there as we came in to ask if it was not three little children, as though you were sort of expecting us.”
 
“Oh, to be sure! but couldn't I have seen you as you drove up!”
 
“Not if you were sitting where you are now, sir,” said honest Harry.
 
“Well, I guess I shall have to own up, then, that I did know you were coming. This is how I received my information,” and Mr. Allan drew a little case from his pocket and began looking through the papers it contained. Nan gazed at the case in silent admiration. It was made of alligator²⁰ skin, and had Mr. Allan's initials, R. T. A., in silver letters on the back.
 
“I wonder,” she thought, “if two dollars would buy one like that for Regie when he goes home at Christmas time?”
 
And then she remembered with satisfaction that Regie had only two initials, which would probably make it come a little cheaper. Mr. Allan finally found a postal²¹ card, and handed it to Regie, who read aloud:—
 
“'New York, November 21st, 18——.
 
“'Dear Mr. Allan,—Three little friends of mine will call on you to-morrow. I hope they will be none the less welcome when they have told you their errand.
 
“'Yours in haste,
 
“'F. F. Vale.'”
 
“Then you do not know what we have come for,” and Regie produced his collecting book with a most business like air. Mr. Allan put on his spectacles and examined it carefully. “Oh, I see,” he said at last, “you are collecting for the poor sailors who were saved from the wreck²². I hear you turned the church into a hospital. You could not have done a better thing.”
 
“Yes, we did,” said Nan, proudly, “and the sailors are all very nice men indeed, and if it had not been for Sister Julia's care, two of them would have died.”
 
“And who is Sister Julia?”
 
“Don't you know who Sister Julia is?” she asked, incredulously; “why, I thought everyone in New York knew about her. She's——”
 
“Let Regie tell,” Harry interrupted. “You see he has a kind of city way with him that is more taking, you know,” he added, with a sly wink²³ and in tones too low for Mr. Allan's ear.
 
Nan immediately relapsed into silence, and Regie came to the front.
 
“Sister Julia is a nurse, but she's a lady too, and she came to Moorlow to take care of me when I broke my leg last June. She lives in a great hospital in New York, and takes care of sick people, mostly children.”
 
“But how does she happen to be here now?” asked Mr. Allan. “Those two legs of yours seem to be as strong as anybody's.”
 
“Oh, yes, it's all right now,” and Regie regarded his right leg rather affectionately; “but Sister Julia stayed on to look after me, because Papa and Mamma Fairfax have gone to Europe.”
 
“Then you are Curtis Fairfax's adopted boy?'' Mr. Allan exclaimed with some surprise; and readjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles he looked Regie over rather critically.
 
“Yes, sir, I am,” Rex replied, for almost the first time in his life hearing that word “adopted” without wincing²⁴.
 
“You'll do well then if you make as good a man as your father. He's one of the whitest men in the trade.”
 
Regie did not quite know what he meant by that, but hesitated to ask.
 
“Just how are you going to use this money?&rdqu............