"There you go again. Jack may be young, but he is trying awfully hard to help papa, and you needn't go twitting him about his age."
"I'm sure I never meant to twit him," said Edith; "and I think he's awfully touchy. But it is half past four, Cynthia, and time to go meet papa. Won't you be sure to brush your hair and put on a fresh neck-tie or something? You do look so untidy. That skirt is all frayed out around the bottom."
"Oh, bother my hair and my neck-tie, and everything else!" cried Cynthia, though with perfect good-nature. "Edith, you make such a fuss! Shall I go meet papa?"
"No, I'll go; but I wish you would order the horse. Now, Cynthia, don't forget your hair, will you? Papa hates to see you untidy."
For answer Cynthia banged the screen-door as she disappeared into the house and walked through the wide hall, humming as she went.
"What shall I do with these children?" sighed Edith to herself, as she laid down the stocking, mended at last, and prepared to put up her work. "I'm sure I do the best I can, and what I think our mother would have liked, but it is very hard. If Cynthia only would be more neat!"
A loud crash interrupted her thoughts. At the end of the piazza, where the children had been playing, was a mass of chairs and tables, while from the midst of the confusion came roars of pain, anger, and fright.
"What is the matter?" cried Edith, running to the scene, and overturning her work-basket in her flight.
It took several minutes to extricate the screaming children, set them on their feet, and ascertain that no bones were broken.
"Get the red oil!" shrieked Janet; "that naughty boy has killed me! I'm dead! I'm dead! Get the red oil!"