"Why don't you wish we could afford to hire a man to keep the place decent, like other people, while you're wishing?" asked Prue, rather bitterly.
"Because I don't see the use of wishing for what you can never have," said Rob, quickly.
"We can't be rich—not till Patergrey gets the bricquette machine done—and since it's impossible, why, it's impossible. But it would be perfectly possible for those big creatures to swing scythes and get this grass mown in short order—it would be rather a lark for them. And if it ever does get cut, and I don't keep it short with Aunt Azraella's mower, then it will be because I've forgotten the art of wheedling that beloved lady into lending it."
"How did you get it this time?" asked Oswyth.
"Talked Mayflower and Pilgrim Rock—it never fails," said Rob. "She thinks now there was a Brewster in her family, and that probably through him she goes back to glory. And you know what Mardy let slip one day about the parental Brown and his remarkably good cobbling! Poor Aunt Azraella! It must be painful to miss the dead in the way she does! Miss having had ancestors to die. Though I don't know why good honest cobbling isn't as good as lots of things they did in colonial days—better than the spelling, for instance. Mercy, those boys are almost here! Is my hair too crazy, and have I grass stains on my nose, Wythie?"
"I don't think it's right to run down our posterity," said Prue, pulling her ribbons and spreading her hair rapidly. "I'm very proud of my descent." And before Oswyth could suggest that she did not mean posterity, three straw hats arose in the air, revealing three flushed, handsome, boyish faces, and three cheery voices called: "Good-afternoon, Miss Oswyth, Miss Rob, Miss Prue."
And the oldest Rutherford boy—he looked nearly eighteen—added: "Are you farming?"
"We're harming—our tempers," cried Rob. "Also a borrowed lawn-mower."
"Won't you come in and rest?" added Oswyth. "You look warm."