“Now that peace is restored, my children,” said Mrs. Gray, looking fondly upon each one of the little flock that gathered round her, “I will tell you a story of one from whom we are all descended.”
“Was her name Gray?” asked Ann, eagerly.
“Not at the period to which our story refers; though afterwards it became so.”
“We are in haste for you to begin,” said Henry, hurrying books, maps, and pictures, without any order, into a table drawer.
“Don’t be impatient, child—old folks never like to be hurried,” said Mrs. Gray; “and I’ve a good will not to tell you any story at all, just for huddling up your things in such a slovenly manner.”
“Forgive poor Henry once again,” said the good-natured Ann, “and I will put them all nice;” and she took the things all out of the drawer, and placed the books neatly in the book-case, and laid the maps and pictures into a portfolio; and when she had done she said, “Now, grandmother, are you not ready?”
“Not quite yet,” said Mrs. Gray, with an affectionate smile; “you, my dear Ann, are such a neat little girl, I’m sure you will be willing to wait till Sally has swept the hearth and replenished the fire.”
“Replenished is among my definitions,” said little Helen; “but I didn’t know that it had any thing to do with making a fire.”
“Making a fire!” repeated George; “didn’t I tell you only yesterday, that we cannot make fire, but only kindle it?”
“Yes, you did tell me so, to be sure; but I didn’t believe you. I guess if you had been here the other night when the Universalist Chapel was burnt, you would think somebody could make a fire—and a pretty large one, too.”