"It's worse than you see at first, because it means keeping up the interest, besides lessening the value of the old place," said Rob. "My brethren and sister Frances, I must earn money."
Frances clasped the hand Rob held out to her, and patted it silently. Her pretty, happy face had grown distressed; she had loved Rob as a superior being since she had been taken by her nurse to see Rob's collection of dolls, and she fully realized how bitter it was to all the Greys to put a burden upon the home which always seemed more like a member of the family than its shelter.
The Rutherfords rowed on in silence awhile, then Bruce squared his shoulders and threw back his head with a cheerful smile for the girls. "Well, if you must mortgage, don't worry about it. Everybody has a mortgage—they are as common as family cats. And when the machine is done you can pay it off again, and that will be in a short time. It really isn't worth talking about," he said, cheerfully.
Rob gave him a grateful look. "That's what I say, Bruce!" she cried.
"And isn't it great that your father has no more heart attacks?" added Basil, desiring to contribute his underscore mark to some item of cheer on the page of life the Greys were at present conning.
"It's wonderful, too," said Wythie, "for he works as hard as though Dr. Fairbairn had never warned him—but he doesn't look well."
"I think you can earn money, Rob; I think I know a way for you to do it," said Frances. "I've been wondering if it were possible, and I'll talk to mamma to-night—it needs her help—and then to-morrow I'll come to talk to you about it."
"So cheer up, Grey sisters; this is your last pull," said Basil.
"I wonder if it is," said Wythie, watching the strong, steady strokes as The Graces sped up the river under Basil and Bartlemy's rowing.
"Oh, no; there's Indian summer to come; we'll row lots of times this year, and all next season. I did not mean this kind of pull," smiled Basil.