As for the rain, there was not much difference.  Perhaps there were a few breaks in the clouds, and it might be beating a little less heavily on the glass conservatory outside the dining-room, still, on the whole, the weather was much the same as it had been.  It was wonderful to see how little notice the children had taken of it since Aunt Emma came, and when they escorted her upstairs after dinner, they quite forgot to rush to the window and look out, as they had been doing the last three days at every possible opportunity.

The children got her safe into a chair, and then Olly brought a stool to one side of her, and Milly brought a stool to the other.

“Now, can you remember about old Mother Quiverquake?” said Olly, resting his little sunburnt chin on Aunt Emma’s knee, and looking up to her with eager eyes.

[Illustration:  “‘Suppose we have a story-telling game’”]

“Well, I daresay I shall begin to remember about her presently; but suppose, children, we have a story-telling game.  We’ll tell stories—­you and Olly, father, mother, and everybody.  That’s much fairer than that one person should do all the telling.”

“We couldn’t,” said Milly, shaking her head gravely, “we are only little children.  Little children can’t make up stories.”

“Suppose little children try,” said mother.  “I think Aunt Emma’s is an excellent plan.  Now, father, you’ll have to tell one too.”

“Father’s lazy,” said Mr. Norton, coming out from behind his newspaper.  “But, perhaps, if you all of you tell very exciting stories you may stir him up.”

“Oh, father!” cried Olly, who had a vivid remembrance of his father’s stories, though they only came very seldom, “tell us about the rat with three tails, and the dog that walked on its nose.”

“Oh dear, no!” said Mr. Norton, “those won’t do for such a grand story-telling as this.  I must think of some story which is all long words and good children.”

“Don’t father,” said Milly, imploringly, “it’s ever so much nicer when they get into scrapes, you know, and tumble down, and all that.”

“Who’s to begin?” said Aunt Emma.  “I think mother had better begin.  Afterwards it will be your turn, Olly; then father, then Milly, and then me.”

“I don’t believe I’ve got a scrap of a story in my head,” said Mrs. Norton.  “It’s weeks since I caught one last.”

“Then look here, Olly,” said Aunt Emma, “I’ll tell you what to do.  Go up gently behind mother, and kiss her three times on the top of the head.  That’s the way to send the stories in.  Mother will soon begin to feel one fidgeting inside her head after that.”

So Olly went gently up behind his mother, climbed on a stool at the back of her chair, and kissed her softly three times at the back of her head.  Mrs. Norton lay still for a few moments after the kisses, with closed eyes.

“Ah!” she said at last.  “Now I think I’ve caught one.  But it’s a very little one, poor little thing.  And yet, strange to say, though it’s very little, it’s very old.  Now, children, you must be kind to my story.  I caught him first a great many years ago in an old book, but I am afraid you will hardly care for him as much as I did.  Well, once upon a time there was a great king.”