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.
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