cried Roberta, darting at the lawn-mower as if she were no further removed from Samson than his great-granddaughter at most. "I have meant to cut this grass for ages—it shows that," she added, laughing. "Besides, it always matters a lot to me to be beaten. 'Men o' Harlech, in the hollow!'"

Rob began singing the splendid Welsh battle-song as she in turn laid hold of the handle, as if she should not only succeed, but have breath to spare for a war-cry.

Roberta was slender, taller that Oswyth, but her young muscles were strong and well-poised, and to whatever task she essayed she brought an excess of nerve-power that rarely failed to bear her to victory on the very crest of the wave. She attacked the tough grass now with such enthusiasm that the balking lawn-mower yielded to her as most things did, and ran along quite meekly for a little while. But then it stopped, and when it did stop not Cleopatra's galley, buried under centuries of Nile mud, was more motionless than was Aunt Azraella's lawn-mower.

Rob pushed and pulled as both her sisters had pushed and pulled, losing her patience as she did so.

"No good, Bobs," said Prue, laconically and a trifle maliciously, for the family only nicknamed Rob "Bobs," after Lord Roberts, Kipling's "Bobs Bahadur," in allusion to her indomitable pluck and generalship, and used the name in moments of triumph, of which this was scarcely one.

Roberta pushed away her rebellious locks with the back of a slightly grimy hand.

"If I only had a scythe!" she murmured. "No machine can get through this jungle—I feared as much. I'd mow it if I had a scythe, though!"

"Now, Rob, you mustn't so much as think of one!" said Wythie, decidedly. "You know Mardy would be frantic if you were to swing one just once—you're so reckless! Promise you won't get one."

"I solemnly pledge myself to abstain from all intoxicating and entirely inaccessible scythes," said Rob, holding up both hands. "Where in the world should I get one, Wythie?"

"You always get anything you set your heart on," said Wythie, somewhat loosely, yet speaking from her knowledge of her sister.

"Do I? Then it must be that I set my heart on very little," interjected Rob.

"Would Mr. Flinders cut it?" suggested Prue.

"Even an infant must realize how very sharey Mr. Flinders is in carrying on the place on shares, Prudence, my child," said Rob, gravely. "He may be honest in giving us our third of the vegetables for the use of the land, but I always suspect him of opening the lettuce-heads and rolling them up again to make sure ours haven't more leaves than his."

"Oh, you know Mr. Flinders won't do one thing extra, Prue," said Oswyth, hastily, fearing Prue might resent being called an infant.

"He could have the grass for his horse," said Prue.

"'A merciful man regardeth the life of his beast,' Prudy," said Rob. "Our grass is half daisy-stalks, half chicory, half dandelions, half some other things—pigweed, probably—and the other half may be grass."

Both her sisters laughed. "You always were strong in fractions, Rob," said Oswyth.

"Had to practise the most fractional fractions ever since I was born—why shouldn't I be? There come those new Rutherford boys down the street," said Rob, as three tall figures, arms locked, marching abreast at a good pace, swung into sight at the head of the street. "They seemed nice when we met them the other day; I wish they'd say they'd cut our grass."

"I thought you scorned to admit boys' superiority in anything, Rob," said Wythie, slyly.

"I don't admit it; I only act on it—if I have to," said Rob.

"Why don't you wish we could afford to hire a man to keep the place decent, like other people, while you're wishing?" asked Prue, rather bitterly.

"Because I don't see the use of wishing for what you can never have," said Rob, quickly.

"We can't be rich—not till Patergrey gets the bricquette machine done—and since it's impossible, why, it's impossible. But it would be perfectly possible for those big creatures to swing scythes and get this grass mown in short order—it would be rather a lark for them. And if it ever does get cut, and I don't keep it short with Aunt Azraella's mower, then it will be because I've forgotten the art of wheedling that beloved lady into lending it."

"How did you get it this time?" asked Oswyth.

"Talked Mayflower and Pilgrim Rock—it never fails," said Rob. "She thinks now there was a Brewster in her family, and that probably through him she goes back to glory. And you know what Mardy let slip one day about the parental Brown and his remarkably good cobbling! Poor Aunt Azraella! It must be painful to miss the dead in the way she does! Miss having had ancestors to die. Though I don't know why good honest cobbling isn't as good as lots of things they did in colonial days—better than the spelling, for instance. Mercy, those boys are almost here! Is my hair too crazy, and have I grass stains on my nose, Wythie?"

"I don't think it's right to run down our posterity," said Prue, pulling her ribbons and spreading her hair rapidly. "I'm very proud of my descent." And before Oswyth could suggest that she did not mean posterity, three straw hats arose in the air, revealing three flushed, handsome, boyish faces, and three cheery voices called: "Good-afternoon, Miss Oswyth, Miss Rob, Miss Prue."

And the oldest Rutherford boy—he looked nearly eighteen—added: "Are you farming?"

"We're harming—our tempers," cried Rob. "Also a borrowed lawn-mower."

"Won't you come in and rest?" added Oswyth. "You look warm."

"We've been up to the river swimming; it's pretty warm in the sun, walking fast. What's wrong with your tempers? Maybe we'd better keep out." But as he spoke the eldest boy opened the low gate, and they all came in.

Oswyth led the way to the house, and Prue and the youngest Rutherford were dispatched for chairs to set on the lawn, for the little grey house had been built before the day of piazzas. Before the six young people were fairly settled a figure in white appeared in the doorway, smiling invitingly over a big tray laden with glasses, some plain cookies, and the beautiful old glass pitcher, of which the Greys were so proud, full of lemonade and tinkling with ice.

"Oh, that's Mardy all over—always thinking of something for us!" cried Oswyth, as she and Rob sprang forward to relieve their mother of her burden.

CHAPTER TWO
ITS NEIGHBORS

"Won't you come and see the new Rutherford boys, Mardy? We met them at Frances Silsby's the other night," said Roberta, as she took the tray from her mother, while Oswyth took the pitcher.

The three tall lads arose as Mrs. Grey came toward them. "Dear me!" she smiled. "I never would dream you were new Rutherford boys if I espied you at a distance, but quite old ones. I am glad to see you."

"We are glad to be here," said the oldest boy, shaking heartily the motherly hand held out to him, and smiling back into the kindly eyes which always won young things, quadruped or biped, and were especially attractive to a motherless lad. "I am Basil Rutherford, this is my second mate, Bruce, and this my little baby brother Bartlemy. Stand up straight, Tom Thumb, and ask Mrs. Grey if she doesn't think you ought to be put in an incubator. We're so afraid we won't be able to raise him," added Basil, with a tragic glance at the girls.

Fifteen-year-old Bartlemy stood erect to his full six feet one of height, and grinned with the helpless good-nature of