"I'll read it to you and mamma. You could make nothing out of my scrawls. My idea, if you remember, was to write a receipt-book for young mothers, and you thought it a capital idea, mamma. But such things are easier said than done. I meant to classify everything under different heads, like a medical-book; and then when a mother wanted to know how to act, in an emergency, she could look at the index and find directions instanter. Now listen: "'ILL MANNERS. "'_Diagnosis._ Patient objects to saying please, and forgets to say thank you; slams doors; slides down the banisters; interrupts conversation, etc., etc. "'_Remedy_. _Rx._ Of maternal politeness, 1 lb. "'Of parental ditto, ¾ lb. "'Of firmness, ½ lb. "'Of line upon line, 8 oz. "'Mix intimately, and form into thirty pills, which are to be given according to symptoms.'" "What a girl you are!" said Mrs. Grey, laughing. "Who, do you suppose, would buy such a book?" "I would, for one, if I were not already running over with wisdom. Shall I read any more?" "Yes, go on." "'SELFISHNESS. "'_Diagnosis._ An acute disease, that, if neglected, will become chronic and incurable; patient begins to show disinclination to wait upon papa and mamma; wants the best seat by the fire; steers for the biggest apple. "'_Rx._ Of parental benevolence, 1 lb. "'Of essence of Bible, 1 gall. "'Bottle, but do not cork, that the delightful aroma of this liquid may fill the house.'" "There! I shall not read any more of this nonsense. I have a scheme for another book, which I am quite eager to begin immediately." "I shall put my veto on all brain-work," said Mrs. Grey, "until I see you looking like yourself. The best thing you can do now is to lie down and take a nap till dinner-time. I believe I shall have to do the same, for I am very tired." "Why _will_ you go about waiting on other people, and wearing yourself out, mamma?" "Dear Laura, long before you reach my age you will understand. You will see that 'this world's a room of sickness,' and must have its nurses as well as its doctors, and I can truly say, "'I have often blessed my sorrows, That bring others' griefs so near.'" "You are the nicest old thing in the world," cried Laura, with a tremendous hug, and several admiring pats on her mother's back. "I mean to have ten children exactly like you. But I am not going to bed in the day-time; you may depend on that. There, lie down on the sofa and let me cover you with the afghan." Laura looked so refreshed the next day that her mother could not find it in her heart to make an invalid of her, or forbid her visit to the Astor Library. Armed with pencil and paper, therefore, she set gaily forth, and was soon seated at a table with eight or ten volumes before her, out of which she got some amusement, but nothing serviceable. She went back to her mother rather crestfallen.