The examiner., 1881-12-03
The Welcome Guest.

It was Thanksgiving eve, dull and raw and cold. The day had been gray with cloud, sodden with the chill No vember rain and wind, and night, thick with mist, was closing over the little Connecticut shore village, as Hannah Place opened the door of the low, brown farmhouse on it's Soundward limits. The wind stirred the branches of the great barberry, and lifted her brown hair, in which the threads of gray were so thickly shining it swayed, too, the unfastened gate to and fro on it's hinges as she stepped down the narrow flag ged walk to latch it, between the faded borders of hollyhock, larkspur and ma rigolds. The high tide was bearing it's heavy swell on the long stretch of sandy beach, but only an edge of white, toss ing foam was visible, and out of the pale, gray mist folded over the wide sweep of water sounded the dreary, warning toll of the Forkness fog-bell. Mrs. Place fastened the gate, ard then paused with her arms resting on it, ehivering as the doleful sound stirred the deepening twilight, not so much from the keen air as some inward chill. On one side the village lights were gleaming, tokens of warmth and cheer; on the other was the troubled sea, the gathering storm, and her face was to the night and cloud. But a sudden gust of rain blinded her. Sho brushed her cheeks with her blue and white checked apron, and retraced her steps. AS she opened the door flood of yellow light streamed out into the darkness, reveal ing wide, low room, with whitely secured floor and polished woodwork, dark with age; blazing fire of drift wood on the hearth, before which great gray cat dozed; tawny house-dog lay with his black muzzle resting on his paws, and gray haired man, his face scanned with the lines of years and toil, sat in an arm chair. Through the open door of the pantry came savory odor. From the row of deep, juicy pumpkin pies, the raised cake, and the sage-ha- vored stufing for the turkey that lay plump, white and toothsome. For amoment gleam of housewifely pride touched her face, but it quickly faded, and taking the half-fnished gray woolen sock that lay in her basket, she seated herself in the low, splint bottomed rocker that creaked softly, as if in faint remembrance of weary little feet it had swayed, and sleepy little eyes it had lulled to rest. For few moments there was silence, save for the clicking of the busy needles, till her husband sud- denly spoke:
 "And so tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day again. Who have you invited to be our guest ?"
 Hannah Place laid her knitting work in her lap, and turned to her husband, all her set frmness of her face breaking in- to quivering grief.
 "Ah, Ansel," she cried, with sharp bitterness. "What is Thanksgiving Day to you and me that we should celebrate it? Here we sit, lonely and desolate in our old age. Janev, our lit tie yellow-haired Janey, lies with her baby beside her in the old battle-ground, and wonder tonight, as I do every night, if Willy be out in the danger and darkness, or if he has found the rest of an unknown grave. Thanks giving dinner is but mockery to us. It is for the gathering of the family, and there is not one of our own blood to be our guest. do not want to be un- grateful, Ansel. but it does seem that the Lord has dealt hardly with us, and she paused, her vo,ce breaking in a choking sob.
 Ansel Place looked at his wife in sur prise. A strong, self contained woman, tears were with her rare even in life's darkest hours, and for them, as for all, life had held many such. Upright, faithful Christians, yet with 8 tinge of stern old Puritan blood in their veins, they from honest conviction chose the thorniest paths of eelf-repression as the heavenward way. They ad feared to partake of life's good, but it's ills they might not avoid. There had been long days of watching and suspense under the shadow of death, and still longer days of hushed silence and ach- ing loneliness cofined face, and open grave. And darker, sadder was the still burden of an unspoken grief, the harder perhaps to bear for