shall it be?" asked Helma. She and Ivra were sewing briskly, one in each
corner of the settle. Eric was stretched on the floor, looking now into
the blaze, and now up at the windows where the snow tapped and swirled;
for to-day,--Helma had said,--was to be a rest day for him. It was the
first rest day he could remember, and how _good_ it was! To know he
could lie there with no cans to sort or label for hours, and no Mrs.
Freg to boss him about when work was over! There were to be no more cans
for him forever, and no more Mrs. Freg. Helma had said that quite
firmly. He believed her and was so happy that he trembled. And so, it
being true that never again should he go back to that unchildlike life
that had frightened him so, and tired him so, all the breaths he drew
felt like sighs of relief, and he turned his shaggy little head on his
arm, crooked under it, and watched Helma's flying brown fingers with
glad eyes.

"What shall it be?" asked Helma.

"Oh, World Stories, please," said Ivra, drawing her feet up under her as
she bent over her sewing.

"Eric probably knows very few of the World Stories," said Helma. "So
sometime I shall have to go back to the beginning and tell them all over
for him."

"And I'll stay and hear them over again too!" cried Ivra, dropping her
work to clasp her hands. "I love to hear stories over."

"Why, better than that, you might tell them yourself. Would you like
that?"