"julius has abdicated, and augustus reigns in his stead," remarked prue, as she tore off the leaf of her calendar, which marked the first day of the eighth month. prue was fond of making what she considered neatly erudite allusions.

matters had not been going well in the little grey house. mrs. grey found herself looking forward to the winter with dread, a dread she tried to stifle, for it was contrary to this brave woman's temperament and principles to look apprehensively toward the future.

mr. grey was working feverishly on his bricquette machine, more than ever absorbed in it; it seemed to his anxious wife as if he were putting into it his own vitality, that it was consuming something far more precious than its inventor had ever dreamed would feed it. but, since she could not prevent the harm—if harm[81] were being done—mrs. grey strove to drive the thought of it from her, and bear her immediate burden, which was not too light.

it was a humid, sultry day, and many trying household tasks loomed ahead threateningly on the morning when prue made her classic allusion as she tore off her calendar-leaf. oswyth looked pale and tired. she was an expert little needle-woman and had been sewing hard through the heat to make old as good as new—which it never was and never will be—for prue's return to school. prue was very particular as to her raiment; poor child, it was hard to be the prettiest girl, and at the same time the poorest one, in the school. wythie sympathetically thought and wrought to make her gowns as pretty and becoming as possible to offset their many reappearances, and the hardship of wearing the clothes one's elders had outgrown. even rob, though she scoffed at prue's little vanities, in her heart was sorry for the child who alone of the three was forced out among her contemporaries, and could not hide her deficiencies within the friendly walls of the little grey house.

mrs. grey had been waiting an opportunity to cover the two big arm-chairs in the parlor. there was nothing that this energetic woman[82] could not do with her hands, and rob said: "give mardy a package of dyes, a paper of tacks, and a hammer, and you may look for anything, from a wedding-gown to a coach-and-four."

a certain faded poplin gown, in many pieces, and an old silk with brocaded stripes had long haunted mrs. grey as a hopeful source of new chair-covers. all the previous afternoon she had spent dipping the poplin into a big iron pot bubbling over the fire and bringing it up on the end of her "witch stick," as the girls called it, dripping and dark, to be hung out to dry.

here appeared mrs. grey's generalship, for though the poplin had turned out a fine, uniform green, the pieces were much too narrow for upholstery. so she had cut out the brocade stripes from the old silk; the ancient sewing-machine, which made such a dreadful clatter and was one of the greys' grievances, yet which was still capable of good service, rattled and hummed under mrs. grey's feet, as she stitched the brocade bands at regular intervals on the dyed poplin, covering its many joinings. and behold, the result was a fine upholsterer's tapestry of wool, with a silken stripe, and not a piecing to be seen!

"there's glory for you!" cried rob. "any[83]one would believe that we paid any amount a yard for that beautiful stuff."

"put up your sewing, wythie, and you and rob stretch it and hold it in place for me while i tack," said mrs. grey. "i flatter myself these chairs are going to radiate splendor over the entire room."

"come, then, mardy; we'll help it radiate," said rob. "mercy, how dreadful it is to-day—worse than hot—so sticky and horrid! cat days are nicer than dog days, aren't they, kiku-san? now look at that catlet!" she added. kiku-san had sprung from the table to the top of the door, on the narrow space of which he sat, head on one side, in his usual bird-like attitude, his white fur all streaks of dust. he was quite unable to get down as he had got up, and rob said with a sigh: "oh, dear; this means going to fetch a kitchen-chair to take him down! i wonder how many times a day we do this? and a grasshopper's a burden to-day, not to mention a heavy wooden chair. i never saw such a mischievous cat! and only look at him! regular stained-glass expression; doesn't look as if he ever thought of anything but watts's hymns! he does this just to keep us trotting, the demure villain!" and rob shook a forefinger at kiku, who only tipped[84] his head a little more to one side, and puckered his mouth a little tighter, knowing perfectly that he was about to be rescued.

rob came back dragging the chair disconsolately on its rear legs, and placing it under the doorway, mounted it, seized kiku-san by his forepaws, and pulled him down, giving him an admonitory and chastising pat as she set him free.

"you've got to take the chair back, prue; i'm going to help mardy, and i can't do all the fetching and carrying," said rob, as she descended.

"indeed, i won't," said prue, promptly. "you feel as much like it as i do."

rob tossed her head and went toward the parlor without another word, and prue departed upstairs, leaving the object of dissension where it stood. wythie patiently picked it up and bore it away, and followed rob to the parlor, where she and her mother were already fitting the beautiful new covering on the chair.

"it's splendid, mardy; what a genius you are!" cried wythie, dropping on her knees at her side of the chair. for a while they pulled and cut, and mrs. grey tacked in silence, except for the necessary directions. no one felt quite[85] cheerful, nor had superfluous energy to spend in speech.

just as one chair was nearly finished a shadow fell across its arm, and mrs. grey and the girls looked up to see aunt azraella, who had entered unheard, watching them with her sternest look of disapproval. "ah, good-morning, azraella," said mrs. grey, noting this and trying to speak brightly enough to avert its expression. "we are trying to forget the heat in the interest of hard labor."

"so i see. aren't you forgetting something besides the heat, mary?" said this inflexible lady.

"why, no; are we?" asked mrs. grey, surprised into a hasty mental inventory of possible duties unfulfilled or engagements broken.

"aren't you forgetting that there are more necessary things than chair-covers?" demanded aunt azraella. "aren't you forgetting the state of your finances, and that you can't afford the least extravagance? how much did you pay a yard for that material?"

rob, foreseeing this question, had been engaged in a hasty mental estimate of the original cost of the poplin and the silk. "dollar and a quarter for the woollen stuff—one seventy-five,[86] surely, for the brocade, when mardy married, just—it cost precisely three dollars a yard, aunt azraella," she said aloud, before her mother could reply.

mrs. winslow held up her hands in horror, and mrs. grey said, reproachfully: "rob, how can you?"

"i've no doubt the child speaks the truth," said aunt azraella, quickly.

"thanks, aunt; i do try to," said rob. "mardy, you know it must have cost at least three dollars—both of it."

"and you don't think that disgraceful, as you are situated?" began mrs. winslow, but her sister-in-law interrupted her. "azraella," she cried—it was indicative of aunt azraella's character that on the hottest day, and under the stress of physical weariness, no one ever thought of abbreviating her name—"azraella, aren't you used to rob's pranks yet? this is my old grey poplin, dyed, and run together with the stripes of a handsome brocade i had when i was married. this scamp of a girl is giving you the original cost of both materials; i am very glad it looks well enough to deceive even your keen eyes."

but aunt azraella was not to be diverted from expressing the wrath which had been gath[87]ering on her brow since mrs. grey had begun explaining.

"roberta is distinctly a trial," she said, severely. "an unmannerly, impertinent girl. she may consider it funny to give me such a misleading answer, but i consider it most disrespectful."

"i was only trying to be cheerful, aunt," said rob, her face crimson, and struggling not only to speak quietly, but to speak at all. "i didn't intend to deceive you, but only to—well, to have a little fun before you found out the truth."

"i know perfectly that you always object to my interest in your affairs, but i consider your good more important than your likings. i shall always tell all of you—from your indolent father and your indulgent mother down—precisely what i think. it is my duty to be perfectly candid and truthful," said mrs. winslow with the air of a martyr.

"perfect candor is rather dangerous, azraella," said mrs. grey, and rob saw that she was having as much difficulty in speaking calmly as her inflammable self. "one should wait until it is sought, and then not indulge in its full expression, especially when one's opinions are offensive—such as an allusion to the head of a house as in[88]dolent, for instance. mr. grey has been working so hard of late that i am anxious about him. and you see that you judged rashly in pronouncing us extravagant. we were rather priding ourselves on our clever thrift. it is such a very humid, trying day, that it is not favorable to too great zeal for others."

when her gentle sister-in-law spoke with a certain calm deliberation, and a slight lowering of lids and lifting of eyebrows, mrs. winslow was apt to read it as a danger-signal and retreat. at heart she stood in awe of her better-bred, better-born sister-in-law, and dared not press her too far. aunt azraella had a habit of seeking the little grey house as a lecture-field when affairs in her larger house went wrong.

"well, mary," she now began more mildly, "you know who it was that asked if he were his brother's keeper. i think it is our duty to exert ourselves for our neighbors, especially for our misguided kindred, and never to shrink from the utterance of a truth, however unwelcome. but you hold yourself entirely aloof from the affairs of others, and i suppose we shall never see the question alike. i want to tell you about elvira—she is such a trial! and in this case you must advise me."

[89]

"very well," said mrs. grey, with a sigh, seeing that rob's tears of nervous wrath were falling, as she pretended to busy herself with the lining under the chair-seat, and resigning herself to listen for the unnumbered time to a recital of the wrong-doings of faithful elvira, mrs. winslow's long-suffering "help," in the old-fashioned sense. it would all end as it always did; elvira only failed in the small ways incident to humanity, and aunt azraella was wholly dependent upon her.

for a long time mrs. winslow recounted her woes, while mrs. grey and wythie and rob pulled and tacked. how elvira had insisted on placing the glasses on the second shelf of the cupboard when mrs. winslow had always kept them on the third; how she had resolutely clung to a cheesecloth duster where her mistress preferred silk, and a cloth-covered broom for cornices, where mrs. winslow, and her mother before her, had used a feather-duster, etc., etc., through the whole long list of pettiness which meant only that the august day was sultry and aunt azraella out of sorts.

at last she paused, and mrs. grey saw that she had talked herself into a better frame of mind, her troubles remedied in their recital. "i[90] wonder what would become of poor elvira if mrs. winslow hadn't the little grey house as a safety-valve?" thought mrs. grey, but what she said aloud was what she always said under these circumstances: "after all, elvira is a good, devoted creature, azraella."

"yes; i suppose i can't do better in fayre than to keep her," said aunt azraella, responding in the set form to this liturgical remark. "i must go back, or she will have a chicken broiled for my supper. i told her i didn't want it, but she always does something of that sort when i have been annoyed. send prue up for some blackberries to-morrow, mary. i have enough to let you have some for jam—possibly for cordial, too."

"thank you; good-by, azraella," said mrs. grey, and rob arose to say good-by a trifle grimly, as wythie escorted their relative to the door.

"oh, dear," said wythie, coming back and sitting flat on the floor beside the chair, now nearly done, in an attitude eloquent of exhaustion, if not despair. "i really think, mardy, if we could emigrate, we ought to; it's enough to turn a saint into a tiger to have such visits so often."

[91]

"they used to turn saints into tigers in the colosseum very frequently in the early christian era," said rob, whose spirits always rose a few points when wythie's went down.

"i think i'll leave the gimp till another day," said mrs. grey, straightening herself with difficulty, and drawing a long breath as she put her hand to her aching back. "as to emigrating, wythie, you will have to emigrate to heaven to escape annoyances. we have often agreed, you know, that aunt azraella is not wholly a trial; we shall enjoy her blackberries, for instance. i wish rob could remember that she is utterly devoid of a sense of humor, and that people of that unfortunate sort usually resent nonsense as a personal affront. mercy! what's that?"

a crash of crockery and a scream echoed through the quiet house, bringing its master to his door to inquire what was wrong, and sending rob upstairs in a rush, ejaculating but the one word: "prue!"

mrs. grey and wythie followed as fast as they could, and a mournful sight met their eyes. in the middle of wythie and rob's room stood prue, dripping, and on the floor, in an absolutely unmendable wreck, lay the water-pitcher, with[92] an ugly scar on the front of the wash-stand to mark the course of its fall, while the matting was soaked in water.

"quick! it will go through to the dining-room ceiling," cried rob, snatching a towel and dropping on her knees to mop as though her life depended upon it, an example wythie instantly followed.

"what were you doing, prudence?" asked her mother.

prue's tears were fast adding themselves to the general dampness. "kiku was so black i thought i'd wash him," she sighed. "he struggled, and i really don't know what happened, but i knocked the pitcher off with my elbow, and—well, you see!"

"rather!" said rob, from her humble attitude. "feel, too. my dress is getting as wet as the towel. there's one comfort: between them the dining-room ceiling will be safe; but oh, i did love that toilet-set!"

"and so did i," said mrs. grey, sadly, as she picked up one of the largest fragments and regarded it mournfully. "i bought it when i was married. i remember how proud i was of my new dignity when i made the purchase. ah, well, prue; accidents must befall; but i can't[93] help wishing that you had left kiku to his dusty little self."

"so do i, mardy," said prue.

"and now wythie and i have no pitcher," observed rob, too tired and warm to find forgiveness easy.

"you needn't complain if mardy doesn't," said prue, sharply.

"go change your dress, prue; no one has complained nor blamed you," said her mother.

prue retreated with bad grace, but in a moment called pleasantly from her room: "here comes mr. flinders, mardy. he looks glummer than usual."

"go down, one of you girls; i'm really too tired to encounter him now," said mrs. grey, wearily. she had had many sore experiences of the farmer who carried on their garden on shares, and who was always ready to cut down their share to the minimum.

rob arose with a sigh. there was a tacit understanding that in any matter of business it should be she, and not wythie, who came to the front.

"something has failed," she said, laconically, speaking from past experience and the pessimism of a humid, tiresome day.

[94]

"good day, roberta," said mr. flinders, when rob appeared at the door. "i'm afraid i've got to say what you won't want to hear."

"very likely, mr. flinders," said rob, drearily. "i am so tired to-night there are few things i should want to hear."

"well, the pertaters is doing bad—your pertaters," said mr. flinders. "i thought mebbe you'd want to know in time to engage some."

"are they spoiled?" asked roberta, aghast, for the failure of that particular crop meant serious misfortune for the winter.

"well, what with dry-rot and bugs, i guess you're not goin' to git many," said mr. flinders. "i thought mebbe you'd want to know," he ended, breaking down under the sternness of roberta's dark eyes.

"did the bugs and dry-rot attack only our potatoes?" she demanded.

"it's kinder diffused, so to say," admitted the farmer, "but i guess it's fair to subtract the loss from yours mostly, because i've got to be made good for my trouble."

this was farmer flinders's invariable response, and rob flashed fire. "mr. flinders," she said, "you can't share only profits—you've got to share losses, too. we're getting tired of it.[95] we'll send for someone to look over the garden, and decide the question of the proportion of loss on the spoiled crop, and we will settle exactly on the basis of one-third loss for us and two-thirds for you, just as we share profits."

"i wasn't aware, roberta, you was runnin' the place. if you're managin', i'd like to be notified," said farmer flinders, rigid with offence.

"i'm the business one of the family," said poor rob, with sudden inspiration, "and it will be as i say. i represent the greys. we shall not accept less than our third of the good vegetables, and that notification will be all you need, mr. flinders."

she had never encountered the old fellow before, and she felt that he recognized and objected to the fact that here was youthful fire and determination to deal with, unlike her mother's gentleness or her father's easy methods.

"i'll see your father later," said the farmer, turning away ill at ease. "good-day, roberta."

"good-day," said rob, briefly, and retraced her steps heavily upstairs. she found wythie lying across the foot of their bed, and threw herself on her face beside her.

"what luck?" asked oswyth, sleepily.

[96]

rob punched and poked a pillow into shape, and looked morosely out of the window at the thunder-clouds piling up in the west, the result of the hot, sultry day.

"oh, i barked at him. i think i shall have to see him in future; i believe i have more effect than mild mardy and patient patergrey," rob said. "but, oh, i'm tired—tired of being vivacious and snappy and go-ahead. i'm tired, dead tired, of fighting, oswyth. i'd like to lie down and be taken care of, like a little ewe lamb. there are two robs in me; one is sneakingly cowardly, and wants only to curl up in a hole and hide; and the other says: 's't, boy! sic 'em, rob!' and i'm up and at it again—at fate, and hard times, and aunt azraella, and house-work, and mr. flinders, and all those horrors. and then the tired, meek rob tears around obediently, and no one dreams it's all like thumb-screws and rack to her. i'm tired of my rôle of snapping-turtle, wythie."

"poor rob!" said oswyth, gently running her fingers in and out of rob's beautiful, gleaming rings of hair, and stroking the mobile face, now twisting hard in its effort to laugh when the tears were very near falling.

"don't mind me," said rob, succeeding in[97] forcing a feeble laugh. "i'm tired, and it's been a fearfully humid, trying, tiresome, crooked day. besides, we're going to have a thunder-storm, and electricity always makes me sick. don't mind me."