Through the open window came the sound of children's voices,
"Here comes an old woman from New Foundland.
With all of her children in her hand,"
shrill and clamoring, but powerless to disturb Ivy who, seated beside the window with her blue goblet beside her and a pad of writing paper on her lap, was busy writing.
After a series of brow puckerings and erasures, she gave a sigh of contentment.
"There it's finished! I'll read it over and put it in the Sunset Book to-morrow!"
The old woman from New Foundland had gone home to bed, and Claude, one of her shrill-voiced children, had rushed in sleepily and thrown himself upon the rug, where he lay oblivious to all things, when the absent-minded Ivy came out of her trance; the first thing she saw was his chubby, outstretched form with both arms flung above the touzled head from which his cap had partly fallen.
The smile of sisterly love and pride with which she enveloped him, must have pierced the vale of unconsciousness, for the lad stirred and smiled in his sleep.
Ivy took the goblet and poured the pebbles into her lap. They fell against one another with a velvety sound, and gave forth a rainbow of color, like precious stones in the light of the lamp.
She mused happily over them, the children's treasures, gathered so carefully and given so generously.