Margaret wrote to Belle and to Laura about the new light and life that had come to her, though it cost her a great effort to do it. In reply, she received four or five pages from each; Belle wrote in great delight and earnestness, saying, she had never doubted for a moment that she was as safely in the ark as herself.

"Isn't it strange, darling," she went on, "that you did not see what I saw so plainly, that your love to me was really love to Christ? There is nothing in me to call forth such passionate devotion, and I knew it, all along; and how I have prayed that you might have the bliss of knowing that your Beloved was yours, and you His."

"'Bliss!'" re-echoed Margaret, "bliss is no word. It's heaven!"

Laura wrote one of her lively, domestic letters, full of "Pug" and "Trot;" and Margaret, while enjoying it, wished she could, for once, get a glimpse into her soul. She was just returning the letter to its envelope, a little chilled, when she perceived a scrap upon the floor that had fallen from it. It contained these words:

"And thou maun speak o' me to thy God.
And I will speak o' thee."

"Ah, she's all right!" was Margaret's joyful thought. "I begin to think she's as good as Belle, only different."

A few days later, as she sat at her easel, she suddenly felt herself seized from behind, and squeezed by somebody's arms.

"Take care, or you'll get covered with paint," she said, as soon as she could speak, and in a moment more, saw Laura's bright face, and Pug and Trot in the rear.

"Where's mamma, you naughty child, you, and what do I care for paint?"

"Aunty has gone to the city to see a lady, or on the whole, two ladies, in some hospital."

"I'll warrant it. Well, the doctor said the children must have change of air, and so I've brought them home. Pug, put your arms round aunty Mag, and squeeze her till she can't breathe; and Trot, do you do the same!"

Margaret held out her arms, and the children sprang in.

"How good it is to feel your little arms," she said.

"I've just been hungry to see you. And I'm ever so glad to see you, too, Oney."

"Of course you are. Where's that good, old soul, Mary? Oh, here she comes! Well, Mary, how are you? We've come to make you lots of trouble. Haven't the children grown?"

"Why, yes, Miss, only Miss Laura is small for her age."

"So are you, Molly," cried Laura, laughing.

Mary laughed, too, and tried, furtively, to slip a bit of cake into the children's hands.

"Ah, at your old tricks, I see. Very well, if you undertake to make them ill you'll have to nurse them, that's all, for I am worn out."

"You do look completely used up," said Margaret, beginning to scrape her pallette.

"What are you doing, child?"

"Why, you don't suppose I am going to paint when my pets are here?"

"Nonsense! Their nurse is here. Now, I tell you, once for all, you shall go on exactly as if we were miles away. You say you are going to give each a picture at Christmas; and how are you going to do it if you let everybody hinder you?"

"I don't call Pug and Trot, 'everybody;' I can't do any more work to-day, anyhow."

"Well, you can to-morrow, for I am going to the Astor Library."

"To the Astor Library? What for?"

"I have a sudden thirst for information before I begin my book."

"Your book for mothers? Oh, Laura, the idea of going to the Astor Library about that!"

"Oh, that scheme fell through."

"What a pity! It was such an original one."

"So is sin. But one has to get rid of it."

"Did you write nothing at all?"

"I wrote a little bit. I'll show it to you when my trunk comes. I thought it was a capital idea, and was going to make mamma write a preface for it. How is she, anyhow?"

"Very well, if one may judge by her actions."

"I suppose that means being at everybody's beck and call."

"Yes; first, she had me to nurse, and then she went on a pilgrimage to a family of strangers."

"People she knew nothing about?"

"She knew they were in great trouble, and judged, by the letter they sent her, that they were respectable, more or less educated people."

"Here comes the dear old thing, skipping like a young roe!" cried Laura, who had been to the window half a dozen times. "Now Pug and Trot—goodness! what have they been about while we were talking?"

Sure enough, what had they been about. Each, armed with a brush, had been daubing away at Margaret's canvas—their hands, faces, and dresses all colors.

"Oh, Margaret! they've ruined your picture!" cried Laura, in dismay.

"Oh, Laura! they've ruined their dresses!" cried Margaret; at the same time her enthusiasm about the children cooled down not a little. Here was a week's work destroyed.

Meantime, Mrs. Grey entered on this scene of dismay, and she and Laura were too glad to see each other to pay much heed to the children. Margaret rushed off after a bottle of turpentine, and old Mary, and Laura's nurse; and between them all, and a bowl of soap-suds, decency was restored, and the little ones made presentable, though not fragrant. The unexpected scrubbing, and a faint sense that they had been in mischief, gave them a somewhat awe-stricken look, which gave way, when grandma kissed them, to relieved smiles.

"It's all my fault," said Laura. "I ought to have warned you that these creatures are always up to something. How much harm have they done to the picture?"

"Oh, never mind the picture," said Margaret, who was herself minding it a good deal, but was trying to wrench her heart back to the little culprits.

"I am delighted to have you come home, Laura," said her mother. "You look worn out."

"I dare say. But it's only want of sleep. I shall be all right in a few days. Pug and Trot are two little plagues, but somehow I didn't want them to die. Did I, poppets?" she said, pulling the children to her knee.

"Here's your trunk," said Margaret; and Laura flew off to pay the expressman, and to unpack it.

"You poor child," said Mrs. Grey to Margaret, as soon as Laura had gone, "your picture is ruined! And I must say you have borne it beautifully."

"It may have looked beautiful on the outside," replied Margaret, "but it wasn't at all so inside. I could have slapped the children, I was so provoked."

"Jean Paul says, that an angel, incapable of feeling anger, may well envy one who can feel, yet control it."

"I would run the risk of being an angel if I could," said Margaret.

Laura now returned with her arms full. "This shawl, mamma, I knit for you; also this afghan, which is to keep your dear old feet warm. And, Margaret, this Madonna is for you, chicken!"

"For me!" cried Margaret, flushing with delight. "Oh, it is worth a thousand of the daub the children spoiled. How came you to get it for me?"

"I couldn't help it. I can't love people and never give them anything. Dear me, what fun it would be to go through the streets and chuck something into everybody's hand!"

While this was going on, Pug, who had escaped from the nursery, was busy fumbling in his mother's pockets, and soon possessed himself of her purse, the contents of which, with a magnificent air, he went and poured into Margaret's lap. On perceiving this, Laura, with a peal of laughter, caught up the child and kissed him.

"Oh, Laura, how can you encourage Harry's mischief?" cried Mrs. Grey.

"He means no harm," said Laura. "He is a chip of the old block. He does nothing on the sly, but it is his instinct to give. This isn't the first time he has picked my pocket, is it, Pug, you young scamp? Oh, you needn't undertake to give it back," she ran on, as Margaret offered her the money. "I always regard it as providential when Pug robs me and never touches the trash he has given away."

Margaret looked embarrassed. Mrs. Grey shook her head.

"You needn't shake your head, mamma," said Laura. "You let me do this very thing when I was a child, and it did me good. You think my ways with the children all harum-scarum, but they are not. They are founded on philosophical principles. If there is anything I hate it's prig fathers, prig mothers, and prig children."

"I suppose there is no medium," said Mrs. Grey.

"There's no nice one," said Laura. "Well, now, about my book. It fell through—or, rather, it died of scarlet-fever."

"You promised to let me see what you had written," said Margaret.

"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:

"'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."

"'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.

"I could have saved you all this trouble," said Mrs. Grey, "if you had told me what you wanted;" and going to the nearest book-case she took down several books which exactly met Laura's wishes. The result will be seen by and by. Margaret, meanwhile, had begun a new picture in place of the one defaced by the children, and as the three sat together reading, painting, chatting, they formed a trio almost any one would have enjoyed watching. Laura feeling the relief of her children's convalescence, was particularly happy.

"How nice it is to be at home," she cried. "I shouldn't mind living a hundred years if I could always have things just as they are now."

"Nor I," said Margaret.

"Nor I," said Mrs. Grey, smiling; "but things won't go on a hundred years just so, nor should we live a hundred years if they did. It is better to leave our destiny in wiser hands than our own."

And then a pleasant silence settled down upon the group, each busy in her own way, and each, in her own way, very happy.