"Mother's story must wait till some other time," said Mrs. Maynard. "This is the time for everybody of fourteen years or less to skip-hop up to bed."
So away trooped the children, glad to have learned a new game, and carefully putting away for future use the spool with the ribbons through it.
"But the ribbons don't really make any difference," said Molly, as they went upstairs. "You could just as well say whose turn comes next."
"But it's so much prettier," argued Marjorie; "and it makes it seem so much more like a game."
"What's the name of the game?"
"I don't know; let's make up one."
"All right; Spool Stories,—no, Spool Yarn."
"A Spool of Yarns!" cried Marjorie, clapping her hands. "That's the very thing!"
And so "A Spool of Yarns" became one of their favorite games, and was often played in the evenings or on stormy days.
The rest of Molly's visit passed all too quickly, and Marjorie was sad indeed the day her friend returned home.