Once more the house flung open its doors, and the scattered family came trooping in. They were a clannish set, wonderfully fond of each other, and willing to take any amount of trouble in order to accomplish this yearly meeting. Everybody found Frank's three elder children marvelously improved in health and behavior, and he and Lily could hardly believe that these three well-bred, gentle, and obedient young creatures were those who went forth from them like so many unruly colts. Belle's twins were now ten months old--a lovely age--and she was positive they could say "papa," a point on which the rest of the family were doubtful. Mabel was as devoted a lover as ever; there was no room for her in her mother's lap nowadays, but she still stood always close at her side, except when Margaret beguiled her away. "How long did it take you to paint all these pictures, Margaret?" Laura one day asked. "A long, long time, small as they are," she replied. "I can tell you, painting means _work_." "It is a great comfort to us common mortals to see genius plodding along the highway like the rest of us," said Laura. "By the bye, that reminds me that my book, such as it is, is done, and I am going to read it aloud for your delectation the first stormy day." "Whose? Mine?" asked Margaret. "Not yours in particular; all you girls in general." "And leave us boys out?" cried Frank. "You boys won't be left out with my consent," said Harry. "_I_ think it's a capital story." "Of course _you'd_ think it capital if it was 'Mother Goose,'" said Laura. "Don't any of you believe a word he says. It isn't half so good as it ought to be." The stormy day was close at hand, and the whole family met in the library, amused at the idea of "Oney's" writing a book, and secretly afraid they might have to quiz it. The ladies had their work, and were, therefore, out of mischief during the reading. But the gentlemen kept Mrs. Grey in a constant state of scandal the whole time. One unscrewed her inkstand and looked in; another took up and laid down her paper-weights, and always in the wrong place; another upset a bottle of mucilage, hoped she didn't know it, and furtively wiped it up with his handkerchief; another bent a leaf-cutter Margaret had painted for her, and every moment she expected to see it snap in two. Now and then, to Laura's vexation, they whispered to each other, and now and then a mamma was called out, and the reading had to be suspended. But she kept at it manfully, and by degrees, as the "boys" became interested, they let the library-table and its contents alone. And this is Laura's story: ERIC. "It is of no use, I cannot stand; you see the ankle is fractured." "But the Signor will perish if he lies here on the ice." "Is there, then, no hope that one of the other sledges will come to our rescue?"