“You know who that is, don’t you, little woman?” said Aunt Emma, taking her up on her knee.

“Yes,” said Milly, nodding, “it’s great-grandmamma.  I wish we could have seen her.”

“I wish you could, Milly.  She would have smiled at you as she is smiling in the picture and you would have been sure to have loved her; all little children did.  I can remember seeing your mother, Milly, when she was about as old as you, cuddled up in a corner of that sofa over there, in ‘grandmamma’s pocket,’ as she used to call it, listening with all her ears to great-grandmamma’s stories.  There was one story called ‘Leonora’ that went on for years and years, till all the little children in it—­and the little children who listened to it—­were almost grown up; and then great-grandmamma always carried about with her a wonderful blue-silk bag full of treasures, which we used to be allowed to turn out whenever any of us had been quite good at our lessons for a whole week.”

“Mother has a bag like that,” said Milly; “it has lots of little toys in it that father had when he was a little boy.  She lets us look at it on our birthdays.  Can you tell stories, Aunt Emma?”

“Tell us about old Mother Quiverquake,” cried Olly, running up and climbing on his aunt’s knee.

“Oh dear, no!” said Aunt Emma; “it’s much too fine to-day for stories—­indoors, at any rate.  Wait till we get a real wet day, and then we’ll see.  After dinner to-day, what do you think we’re going to do?  Suppose we have a row on the lake to get water-lilies, and suppose we take a kettle and make ourselves some tea on the other side of the lake.  What would you say to that, Master Olly?”

The children began to dance about with delight at the idea of a row and a picnic both together, when suddenly there was a knock at the door, and when Aunt Emma said, “Come in!” what do you think appeared?  Why, a great green cage, carried by a servant, and in it a gray parrot, swinging about from side to side, and cocking his head wickedly, first over one shoulder and then over the other.

“Now, children,” said Aunt Emma, while the children stood quite still with surprise, “let me introduce you to my old friend, Mr. Poll Parrot.  Perhaps you thought I lived all alone in this big house.  Not at all.  Here is somebody who talks to me when I talk to him, who sings and chatters and whistles and cheers me up wonderfully in the winter evenings, when the rains come and make me feel dull.  Put him down here, Margaret,” said Aunt Emma to the maid, clearing a small table for the cage.  “Now, Olly, what do you think of my parrot?”

“Can it talk?” asked Olly, looking at it with very wide open eyes.

“It can talk; whether it will talk is quite another thing.  Parrots are contradictious birds.  I feel very often as if I should like to beat Polly, he’s so provoking.  Now, Polly, how are you to-day?”

“Polly’s got a bad cold; fetch the doc—­” said the bird at once, in such a funny cracked voice, that it made Olly jump as if he had heard one of the witches in Grimm’s “Fairy Tales” talking.