"We'll get up a real affair, give an old folks' concert or something, in costume—we'd have a great one," cried Bruce. "Will you, say toward spring?"
"Very likely," said Rob, "but what are we going to do now, this minute?"
"You are going to dance," said Mrs. Grey. "I'm going to play for you, and if our piano is old and thin, then you must remember that it is in old-time costume also, and not mind."
"We can have a fine square-dance," cried Prue. "Just four couples—papa, will you dance?"
"Will I? Will I not?" Mr. Grey cried, gayly. "Whose patent are we celebrating, I'd like to know? Rob and I are head couple."
He gave his hand to Rob, Basil and Wythie took one side, Bruce and Frances the other, while tall Bartlemy and Prue fell together, as they usually did.
Mrs. Grey played, concealing as well as she could, with her fine touch and real talent, time's ravages on the queer, yellow-keyed old piano.
"Now sing," ordered Mr. Grey, when, the dance over, he dropped weary, but happy, into a chair. The quaint figures with the flushed young faces gathered about the old piano, and sang as they were bidden, sang until the clock in the hall startled them by striking eleven.
"Why, I had no idea of the time!" cried Frances. "Mamma will think I'm stolen. I must hurry and get into my present-day things and fly home. We've had a lovely time, dear Grey people! There never was a place where people had so much fun without trying, and because they couldn't help it, as in the little grey house."