"And uncle Jack too," said Ralph.
"Yes, but much longer after. Uncle Carlo was only a boy when he died," said Molly, as if the fact infinitely aggravated the sorrow in his case.
Their whispering did not interrupt their grandmother this time. She had already paused.
"I think, dears," she said, "I had better read the rest to-morrow evening. There is a good deal more of it, and my voice gets tired after a while."
"Couldn't I read it for you, mother dear?" said aunty.
Grandmother smiled a little roguishly. "No, my dear, thank you," she said. "I think I like best to read myself what I have written myself. And you, according to that, will have your turn soon, Laura."
"Mother! how did you find out what I was doing?" exclaimed aunty.
"A little bird told me, of course," said grandmother, smiling. "You know how clever my little birds are."
During this mysterious conversation the children had sat with wide open eyes and puzzled faces. Suddenly a light broke upon Sylvia.
"I know, I know," she cried. "Aunty's writing a story for us too. Oh, you delightful aunty!"