“No picture in a book, Winifred—­no artist could paint a picture that would have the charm of this one for me,” I replied, leaning my elbow on the end of the mantel-piece, and looking fondly down on the little group.  My wife’s face looked girlish in the ruddy light.  Mousie gazed into the fire with unspeakable content, and declared she was “too happy to think of taking cold.”  Winnie and Bobsey were sitting, Turk-fashion, on the floor, their eyelids drooping.  The long cold ride had quenched even their spirit, for after running around for a few moments they began to yield to drowsiness.  Merton, with a boy’s appetite, was casting wistful glances at the lunch on the table, the chief feature of which was a roast chicken.

There seemed to be no occasion for haste.  I wished to let the picture sink deep into my heart.  At last my wife sprang up and said:—­

“I’ve been sentimental long enough.  You’re not of much account in the house, Robert”—­with one of her saucy looks—­“and I must see to things, or Winnie and Bobsey will be asleep on the floor.  I feel as if I could sit here till morning, but I’ll come back after the children are in bed.  Come, show me my home, or at least enough of it to let me see where we are to sleep.”

“We shall have to camp again to-night.  Mrs. Jones has made up the one bed left in the house, and you and Mousie shall have that.  We’ll fix Winnie and Bobsey on the lounge; and, youngsters, you can sleep in your clothes, just as soldiers do on the ground.  Merton and I will doze in these chairs before the fire.  To-morrow night we can all be very comfortable.”

I took the lamp and led the way—­my wife, Mousie, and Merton following—­first across a little hall, from which one stairway led to the upper chambers and another to the cellar.  Opening a door opposite the living-room, I showed Winifred her parlor.  Cosey and comfortable it looked, even now, through Mr. and Mrs. Jones’s kind offices.  A Morning Glory stove gave out abundant warmth and a rich light which blended genially with the red colors of the carpet.

“Oh, how pretty I can make this room look!” exclaimed my wife.

“Of course you can:  you’ve only to enter it.”

“You hurt your head when you fell out of the wagon, Robert, and are a little daft.  There’s no place to sleep here.”

“Come to the room over this, warmed by a pipe from this stove.”

“Ah, this is capital,” she cried, looking around an apartment which Mrs. Jones had made comfortable.  “Wasn’t I wise when I decided to come home?  It’s just as warm as toast.  Now let the wind blow—­Why, I don’t hear it any more.”