“Yes; when it’s stories,” said Kristy.
“Kristy’ll soon have to write stories for herself, I think,” said her mother, smiling, “when she has exhausted the stock of all her friends.”
Kristy blushed, but did not confess that that was her pet ambition.
“Now, mamma,” said Kristy that evening after supper was over, “some more rainy day stories, please!”
“Will you have them all at once?” asked mamma, taking up some fancy knitting she kept for evenings, “or one at a time?”
“One at a time, please,” answered Kristy.
“Well; get your work. How much did you do this afternoon?”
Kristy looked guilty. “You know I just can’t remember to knit when I’m listening to a story. I—I—believe I did not knit once across.”
Her mother laughed. “The poor Barton baby’ll go cold, I’m afraid, if he waits for his carriage robe till you finish it. How would you like to knit him a pair of stockings? Shall I set them up and give you a daily stint?”
“Ugh!” said Kristy. “Please don’t talk of anything so dreadful! You told me yourself how you hated it.”