Oswyth's pretty, too, though not as pretty, and she's a lady, but Rob's a dandy! She's got go and pluck, and did you ever see such a face for crinkling up? I had to watch it; you couldn't tell what it would do next—pretty, she is too—splendid eyes and hair."

The girls echoed the boys' favorable opinion of them, and it was re-echoed that night at bedtime between the large room which Oswyth and Roberta shared and the small one Prue occupied in solitary dignity.

The Greys were early astir on the following morning, for "the mowing-bee of the B's," as Rob called it, entailed extra labor, well worth it though it was.

Supper, when one does not consider expense, is a simple enough problem, but supper when there is little to spend means expenditure of strength instead of money.

Mrs. Grey cut the thinnest slices of her own famous bread, buttered it perfectly, and set it away in the ice-chest while she made egg sandwiches and chopped crispy lettuce out of the garden—lettuce which did not look—in spite of Rob's suspicion—as though the farmer who carried on the Grey garden on shares had "unrolled it to count its leaves."

"Jenny Lind cake," quite good enough for anyone—provided it is eaten very fresh—may be made with one egg. Oswyth beat up two of these cakes, and into one stirred juicy blueberries, while the other she baked in jelly-tins, and iced and filled with caramel filling.

Rob and Prue carried out the table and set it on the lawn. The little grey house was well filled with old blue and white china, odds and ends of pink and white also, queer, dainty sprigged cups and saucers, and rare old pewter which it was Oswyth's joy to keep bright. So the table when decked looked really beautiful, and the girls surveyed it with pride, knowing that more sumptuous suppers than theirs there might be, but few more attractive, and they trusted to their own gayety to secure it one of the jolliest. Frances Silsby came down early. She was Oswyth's and Rob's—more particularly Rob's—one intimate friend; the Grey girls were too sufficient to themselves to need outsiders. She found them hurrying over their dressing, having scrambled the dinner dishes away, for the laborers were sure to arrive early.

The gowns the girls wore were not only simple in themselves, but had done good service and showed in many places their mother's artistic darning. But they were becoming lawns, and when the laughing young faces came up through their fresh ruffles, and the soft, gathered waists settled around the young figures, Oswyth was as sweet in her pale blue, Roberta as brilliant in her rose pink, and Prue as pretty in her snowy white as new gowns could have made them—and, fortunately, were quite as happy.

The strains of the anvil-chorus floated down the street before Rob and Prue were ready—Oswyth managed always to be ready—and the clash of anvils was marked by the click of scythes. Looking out, the girls saw the Rutherfords, three abreast, as usual, implements over shoulders and flashing in the sunshine, bearing down on the little grey house.

"Oh, hurry, Rob; give me my stick-pin, Wythie—they're coming!" cried Prue.

"Don't wear your stick-pin, Prue; you're sure to lose it out of that thin stuff. Take my bow-knot-pin," said Wythie, proffering it.

"Oh, that old-fashioned thing! Well, I suppose boys won't know—I'll take it, Wythie. Ready, Rob?" cried Prue.

"Would be if my shoe-lacing hadn't come untied, and I stepped on it and broke it. I wouldn't dare tell anyone what I thought of shoe-lacings!" cried Rob, trying to tie the broken string with fingers that quivered with impatience.

"Let me, Rob; you're too crazy," said Frances, kneeling before her friend.

Rob resigned herself with a sigh. "Blessings on thee, little Fan," she said. "Please go down, Wythie and Prue. Tell the boys we'll be there just as soon as we finish singing 'Blest be the tie that binds.'"

Wythie and Prue departed laughing, and Rob and Frances followed very soon.

"Where shall we begin?" asked Bruce, after greetings were over.

"At the beginning," said Rob, but Wythie, with a glance at her irrepressible sister, said:

"Wherever you like; it really doesn't matter. And we girls are going to rake after you."

sang Rob, with one of her sudden inspirations.

"Is this going to be a comic-opera, and are we taking part as stage peasants, or really working?" demanded Basil, sternly, though he looked surprised, and his eyes danced.

Bruce threw up his hat in applause, and Bart stared open-mouthed.

"Rob is demented, but not dangerous," said Frances, who had known the boys some time.

"You know I warned you."

"Well, now at it," said Bruce.

"Be sure you don't kill any young ground sparrows," said Wythie, anxiously.

"Oh, let me go ahead and scare up the mothers if there are any nests, then we'll see where they fly up," cried Prue.

"Go ahead, Paula Revere; rouse the inhabitants," said Bartlemy.

So the mowing began, Prue preceding, her cloud of yellow hair floating over her white gown as she scuffed her feet through the long grass, the boys in their white-flannel shirts, turned away at the necks, swinging their long scythes in their strong, long arms, and Oswyth, Frances, and Rob fluttering after them in their floating summer gowns, raking industriously. It was as pretty a picture as any figure in the cotillon and quite as much fun.

Presently they all began to sing, Prue and Frances in their high sopranos, Oswyth in her sweet, low soprano, Rob in her soft alto, Basil a high tenor, Bruce, a barytone, and Bart something he sincerely believed was a heavy bass. People driving by stopped to look and listen, and Mr. Grey sat over his models in a happy dream, as the sound wafted in to him, while Mrs. Grey could hardly keep her mind on the cold meat she was slicing and the biscuits she was making for tea.

"Bless their dear, happy hearts!" she thought. "How little it takes to rejoice them. They won't know if I go without some little things to make up the trifling cost of their bee."

The work was only too short, it seemed to the girls, though perhaps the boys were glad to stop when Mrs. Grey came out on the steps at five and struck the brass-bowl, which was the Greys' Japanese way of summoning the family.

They had not attempted to mow the orchard, nor the land running down toward the back road, out of sight, but all that showed from the street was gloriously shaven, and Rob had run the lawn-mower over it, enjoying its speed.

The supper was not merely pretty. "It was distinguished," Frances told her friends later; she had a feminine instinct for old china.

"But it was not merely distinguished—it was extinguished—they ate every crumb," Rob retorted. "And so it must have been good."

It was good; even in a community of skilful housewives, Mrs. Grey's cooking was famous. The dishes were tucked away in a big wash-tub till morning—an indulgence the Greys sometimes allowed