laid in piles, and with gay pictures of all
kinds, brightly colored; and the scissors,--or scissorses,--there
were ever so many shining pairs of them,--and the little mucilage
bottles, and the very scrap-baskets,--all looked cozy and
comfortable, and as if people were going to have a real good time
among them, somehow.

And the somehow was in making great beautiful, everlasting
picture-books for the little orphans in Miss Craydocke's Home,--the
Home, that is, out of several blessed and similar ones that she was
especially interested in, and where Hazel and Diana had been with
her until they knew all the little waifs by sight and name and
heart, and had their especial chosen property among them, as they
used to have among the chickens and the little yellow ducks at
Homesworth Farm.

Mrs. Ripwinkley was cheery; it might be a question whether all the
light did not come from her first, in some way, and perhaps it did;
but then Hazel was luminous, and she fluttered about with quick,
happy motions, till like a little glancing taper she had shone upon
and lit up everybody and everything; and Dorris was sunny with clear
content, and Kenneth was blithe, and Desire was scintillant, as she
always was either with snaps or smiles; and here came in beaming
Miss Craydocke, and gay Asenath and her handsome husband; and our
Rosa Mundi; there,--how can you tell? It was all round; and it was
more every minute.

There were cutters and pasters and stitchers and binders and every
part was beautiful work, and nobody could tell which was
pleasantest. Cutting out was nice, of course; who doesn't like
cutting out pictures? Some were done beforehand, but there were as
many left as there would be time for. And pasting, on the fine,
smooth linen, making it glow out with charming groups and tints of
flowers and birds and children in gay clothes,--that was
delightful; and the stitchers had the pleasure of combining and
arranging it all; and the binders,--Mrs. Ripwinkley and Miss
Craydocke,--finished all off with the pretty ribbons and the gray
covers, and theirs being the completing touch, thought _they_ had
the best of it.

"But I don't think finishing is best, mother," said Hazel, who was
diligently snipping in and out around rose leaves or baby faces, as
it happened. "I think beginning is always beautiful. I never want to
end off,--anything nice, I mean."

"Well, we don't end off this," said Diana. "There's the giving,
next."

"And the