“I guess we can mend it, maybe,” interposed Meg cheerfully.  “I’m going out and get some bread and peanut butter.  Who wants some?”

They all did, it seemed, even Dot and Twaddles, who were too young to go to school, but who managed to have famous appetites as regularly as the older children.  Mother Blossom allowed them to have what Norah called a “snack” every afternoon after school, and Meg was always careful to see that they ate only the things permitted and that no one dipped into the cake box.

“Look how white!” cried Dot, finishing her bread and butter first, and kneeling on a kitchen chair to see out of the window.  “The ground is all covered already and you can see feetsteps.”

“Footsteps,” corrected Bobby, taking a last large bite of his lunch.

“Shoesteps,” insisted Meg, closing the pantry door and putting away the bread.

“That isn’t a shoestep,” argued Bobby, pointing to a particularly clear and distinct print in the snow just outside the window.

“’Tis, too,” scolded Meg.  “That’s where Sam went out to the garage.”

“’Tisn’t a shoestep, ’tisn’t a shoestep!” chanted Bobby, bent on teasing.

Meg’s fair face flushed.  She was exasperated.

“What is it, then?” she snapped.

Bobby measured the distance to the hall door.

“A rubberstep!” he shouted triumphantly.  “Sam wore his rubbers!  Yah!”

“You think you’re smart!” said Meg, half laughing and half frowning.  “Just you wait, Bobby Blossom!”

She darted for him, but Bobby was too quick.  He dashed out into the hall, Meg following, and Dot and Twaddles trailing after them.  Shrieking and shouting, the four raced into the dining-room, tore twice around the table, then into the long living-room, where Meg managed to corner Bobby under the old-fashioned square piano.

They had forgotten to be angry by this time, and after she had tickled him till he begged for mercy—­Bobby was extremely ticklish—­they crawled out again, disheveled and panting, and were ready for something new.

“I’m going to get some snow,” declared Dot, beginning to raise one of the windows.

“Don’t!  You’ll freeze Mother’s plants,” warned Meg.  “Dot Blossom, don’t you dare open that window!”

For answer Dot gave a final push and the sash shot up and locked half way.

“Oh, it’s love-ly!” cried Dot, leaning out and scooping up a handful of the beautiful, soft, white stuff.  “Just like feathers, Meg.”

“You’ll be a feather if you don’t come in,” growled Bobby sternly.  “Look out!”

Dot, leaning out further to sweep the sill clean, had slipped and was going headlong when Bobby grasped her skirts.  He pulled her back, unhurt, except for a scratch on her nose from a bit of the vine clinging to the house wall and a ruffled disposition.

“You leave me alone!” she blazed.  “You’ve hurt my knee.”