"Why, you don't mean to say that it isn't enough to be an artist!" cried Laura, a little dubious as to what the dry tone meant. "If by being an artist I have got to kill off my heart, and live for fame, then an artist I won't be," returned Margaret. "I am in no hurry to be married; and if I decide to be an old maid, it won't be without children, I can tell you." "And where do you expect to get them?" "By begging, borrowing, buying, or stealing them," said Margaret, her good humor returning at the thought. "What, and bring them here to live?" asked Gabrielle. "No, indeed. I must earn a home of my own first." "Papa says you will make a great name for yourself," pursued Gabrielle. "What do I want of a great name?" cried Margaret. "It is the very last thing in the world a woman ought to seek." "So I think," said Belle. "But suppose she gets it without seeking?" asked Laura. "Look here, Laura," said Margaret, springing up, "let me feel if you have a pair of wings sprouting. It is my private opinion that you have, and that it is you, not I, who is to be famous. And how stupid I was, the first time I saw you, to fancy you just--just--" "A goosey-gander? Yes, I was perfectly delighted to see how you measured me after the first ridiculous talk we had together." "I don't think it's nice to belie one's self as you do, Laura," said Belle. "Even your own mother never knew you till this story of yours opened her eyes." Laura shrugged her shoulders. "I shouldn't care to be so shallow that people could read me at a glance," she said. "One is not necessarily shallow because transparent," said Belle. "Margaret, how nearly done is mamma's book?" asked Laura. "So nearly that I think I hear it ringing the doorbell now. I saw an expressman just drive up. Yes, here comes the parcel. Might we open it, think?" Laura replied by cutting the cord and throwing it upon the floor, whence Belle picked it up and wound it around her fingers, and put it away in her mother's string-box. "How beautifully it is got up," said Laura. "But why wasn't it out at Christmas?" "Aunty thought it would be," said Margaret, "but there was unexpected delay. Oh, are you each going to read it to yourselves?" she added, in a disappointed tone, as she saw each take possession of a volume. "I thought we should read it aloud. Aunty, your books have come," she cried, as Mrs. Grey here entered the room. "Indeed? Just in time for me to take one to Mrs. Grosgrain." "Pooh! Always Grosgrain!" thought Margaret; but took one of the volumes and folded it carefully in a fresh sheet of paper, and placed it on the library-table, and the next morning reminded Mrs. Grey to take it with her. CHAPTER XXIII.