splendid?--just like a picture in a book."

"No picture in a book, Winifred--no artist could paint a picture
that would have the charm of this one for me," I replied, leaning my
elbow on the end of the mantel-piece, and looking fondly down on the
little group. My wife's face looked girlish in the ruddy light.
Mousie gazed into the fire with unspeakable content, and declared
she was "too happy to think of taking cold." Winnie and Bobsey were
sitting, Turk-fashion, on the floor, their eyelids drooping. The
long cold ride had quenched even their spirit, for after running
around for a few moments they began to yield to drowsiness. Merton,
with a boy's appetite, was casting wistful glances at the lunch on
the table, the chief feature of which was a roast chicken.

There seemed to be no occasion for haste. I wished to let the
picture sink deep into my heart. At last my wife sprang up and
said:--

"I've been sentimental long enough. You're not of much account in
the house, Robert"--with one of her saucy looks--"and I must see to
things, or Winnie and Bobsey will be asleep on the floor. I feel as
if I could sit here till morning, but I'll come back after the
children are in bed. Come, show me my home, or at least enough of it
to let me see where we are to sleep."

"We shall have to camp again to-night. Mrs. Jones has made up the
one bed left in the house, and you and Mousie shall have that. We'll
fix Winnie and Bobsey on the lounge; and, youngsters, you can sleep
in your clothes, just as soldiers do on the ground. Merton and I
will doze in these chairs before the fire. To-morrow night we can