"Our history lesson yesterday was on the way Alexander Hamilton made banks and money out of nothing but his country's debts, almost before it was a country; I wish I knew how he did it," observed Prue, pensively.
"You haven't told us what form you felt your felony would take, Rob," said Oswyth. "Where does your moral felon hurt you?"
"I feel twinges all over, my dear Anglo-Saxon messenger," said Rob, airily. "In my feet when I look at my shoes, in my fingers when I put on my old gloves, or, worse yet, mittens instead of gloves, such as most fair maidens wear, and in my stomach when I try to make it believe an egg, some creamed potatoes, and a rice-pudding are porterhouse steak. But it's reaching a climax on my back. I must have a winter coat, and so must—a muster must—you, my patient Wythie. To-day when I came past the rectory—St. Chad's rectory—the lady rectoress had hung out her three daughters' three new winter coats, fur-trimmed, O my sisters, and beautiful to behold! I am going to break and enter that house in the dark of the moon, and steal those coats."
"I hope if you're caught your punishment will be banishment from Fayre, or I don't see what good your felony will do you—you can never wear the coats," laughed Wythie, and then she sighed. "It's hard, Robsy, but bear up, my boy! You believe this is our last hard winter."
Rob shrugged her shoulders. "Of course, but it's also the only one we're living through this year, and next year's dinners aren't sustaining—or, at least, you can't help weak moments if you live on them," she said. "Here comes our Aunt Azraella. She is stopping in the back yard to examine those two underskirts you sewed that lace on, Wythie. She is estimating its cost and disapproving of it at a high rate of pressure. I wish she would come around the front way, even if it is farther! What with the bleaching grass, the clothes-line, and the pantry window, the back way is dangerous to a critic born."
"Rob, you're a villain!" said Wythie, trying to pull her lips straight.
"You've time for a little laugh, Oswyth; she's delaying now at the blind I mended—neat job, Mrs. Winslow, ma'am, though I say it who shouldn't," remarked Rob. "As to being a villain, it's lucky I am, for unless a body's a saint like you—and you may have noticed I'm not— Aunt Azraella might embitter one unless she were handled with a lightly humorous touch. Eyes right! Shoulder arms! She comes, the Greek—a freak?—she comes!"
Wythie and Prue looked flushed and shaken as their aunt entered, but Rob met her with the solemnity of a Holbein portrait, or as nearly as nature had allowed her rippling face to attain that standard.
"Good-morning, girls," said Mrs. Winslow. "I hardly have time to sit. Where's your mother? It doesn't matter; don't call her. I came on an errand."
"She's decided to waive the skirts; think how much nicer they'll look with that lace on them when they're waved," whispered Rob to Wythie, who choked as she gave her sister a remonstrant pinch.