And then Hazel Ripwinkley came over, like a little spirit from another blessed society, to tell that “the picture-book things were all ready, and that it would take everybody to help.”

That was Rosamond’s first glimpse of Witch Hazel, who found her out instantly,—­the real, Holabirdy part of her,—­and set her down at once among her “folks.”

It was bright and cheery in Mrs. Ripwinkley’s parlor; you could hardly tell whence the cheeriness radiated, either.

The bright German lamp was cheery, in the middle of the round table; the table was cheery, covered with glossy linen cut into large, square book-sheets 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.”