When Jane said that dear Annie did not realize that she made false statements, she voiced an opinion of the family before which Annie was always absolutely helpless. Defense meant counter-accusation. Annie could not accuse her family. She glanced from one to the other. In her blue eyes were still sparks of wrath, but she said nothing. She felt, as always, speechless, when affairs reached such a juncture. She began, in spite of her good sense, to feel guiltily responsible for everything--for the spoiling of the hay, even for the thunder-storm. What was more, she even wished to feel guiltily responsible. Anything was better than to be sure her sisters were not speaking the truth, that her father was blaming her unjustly. Benny, who sat hunched upon himself with the effect of one set of bones and muscles leaning upon others for support, was the only one who spoke for her, and even he spoke to little purpose. “One of you other girls,” said he, in a thick, sweet voice, “might have come out and helped Annie; then she could have got the hay in.” They all turned on him. “It is all very well for you to talk,” said Imogen. “I saw you myself quit raking hay and sit down on the piazza.” “Yes,” assented Jane, nodding violently, “I saw you, too.” “You have no sense of your responsibility, Benjamin, and your sister Annie abets you in evading it,” said Silas Hempstead with dignity. “Benny feels the heat,” said Annie. “Father is entirely right,” said Eliza. “Benjamin has no sense of responsibility, and it is mainly owing to Annie.” “But dear Annie does not realize it,” said Jane. Benny got up lumberingly and left the room. He loved his sister Annie, but he hated the mild simmer of feminine rancor to which even his father's presence failed to add a masculine flavor. Benny was always leaving the room and allowing his sisters “to fight it out.”