"But children are born totally depraved," said one of the daughters-in-law. "We have to take them as they come." "That depends; my dear, if you and that boy of mine there are living self-controlled lives, are at peace with God and at peace with each other, your children will enter the world at great advantage. They will be different, at their very birth, from the children of undisciplined parents, who pamper their bodies, indulge in unholy passions, and reproduce offspring like unto themselves. You may depend upon it that your duty to your child begins before it sees the light. But lunch is ready, so I'll stop preaching in order to feed you." Lunch was a lively meal, because so many children were there. Margaret came in with her face fairly shining. A score of little feet came pattering in with her. Their quaint ways of eating their dinner amused her so that her own plate remained untouched. She watched, with great amusement, the tiny, infantine hands that held spoons they had not skill to manage; how they picked up their food with their fingers, placed it in the spoons, and then manfully and laboriously conveyed it to their mouths. But not one who could wield a spoon would allow itself to be fed. "After we get through with lunch," Mrs. Grey said to her, "I want the children to see some of your pictures." "Do you suppose they would care for them, auntie?" asked Margaret, in some surprise. "I should think they would enjoy 'Old Mother Hubbard' more." Consternation, then laughter. "Mother means us," explained Frank. "To her we are as much boys and girls as ever." "Oh! But I have done nothing fit to show," said Margaret. "And I don't see how any one who can look at these lovely little children, can even want to look at anything else. Just see these tiny, dimpled hands!" The young mother who had most interest in the dimpled hands, left her seat, and came to Margaret's side of the table on hearing this, and said: "Before I came home I wondered what I should call you. But I know now. I shall call you Mag., and you must call me Oney." "Well, Oney, I will," said Margaret, and then both laughed a gleeful, girlish laugh of good-fellowship. "If you were a boy, you would be a wag," said Laura. "And if you were a horse, you would be a nag," retorted Margaret; upon which the girl-mother took her into her confidence; told her how she felt the first time baby cried, after the nurse left; how many dresses she made for it, and how many things mother knit; and how she nearly died with laughing when it began to walk. She also communicated that she kept four servants, was fond of housekeeping, and "oh, what do you think of mamma? Isn't she splendid? So straight and tall, such white, wavy hair, such bright eyes, and _so_ full of talent!" Margaret would call her Oney, and listen to her; but whether she should ever confide in her she wasn't sure; still, she was very nice, and her baby's hands were so pretty! CHAPTER IV.