on and
Aunt Emma talked. Father and mother had been almost as much cheered up
by Aunt Emma's coming as the children themselves, and now the
dinner-table was lively with pleasant talk; talk about books, and talk
about pictures, and talk about foreign places, and talk about the
mountains and the people living near Ravensnest, many of whom mother had
known when she was a little girl. Milly, who was old enough to listen,
could only understand a little bit here and there; but there was always
Aunt Emma's friendly gentle face to look at, and her soft old hand in
its black mitten, to slip her own little fingers into; while Olly was so
taken up with the prospects of the black-currant pudding which he had
seen cook making in the morning, and the delight of it when it came,
that it seemed no trouble to him to sit still.

As for the rain, there was not much difference. Perhaps there were a few
breaks in the clouds, and it might be beating a little less heavily on
the glass conservatory outside the dining-room, still, on the whole, the
weather was much the same as it had been. It was wonderful to see how
little notice the children had taken of it since Aunt Emma came, and
when they escorted her upstairs after dinner, they quite forgot to rush
to the window and look out, as they had been doing the last three days
at every possible opportunity.

The children got her safe into a chair, and then Olly brought a stool to
one side of her, and Milly brought a stool to the other.

"_Now,_ can you remember about old Mother Quiverquake?" said Olly,
resting his little sunburnt chin on Aunt Emma's knee, and looking up to
her with eager eyes.

[Illustration: "'Suppose we have a story-telling game'"]

"Well, I daresay I shall begin to remember about her presently; but
suppose, children, we have a _story-telling game_. We'll tell
stories--you and Olly, father, mother, and everybody. That's much fairer
than that one person should do all the telling."

"We couldn't," said Milly, shaking her head gravely, "we are only little
children. Little children can't make up stories."

"Suppose little children try," said mother. "I think Aunt Emma's is an
excellent plan. Now, father, you'll have to tell one too."

"Father's lazy," said Mr. Norton, coming out from behind his newspaper.
"But, perhaps, if you all of you tell very exciting stories you may stir
him up."

"Oh, father!" cried Olly, who had a vivid remembrance of his father's
stories, though