"Good-night," said Rob faintly, not daring so much as to put out her hand. The crescent moon shone low in the west as she left the big house on the hill to cross the dry fields to the little grey house. "Oh, poor, hard, shut-in woman! Poor Aunt Azraella!" Rob found herself saying aloud. CHAPTER ELEVEN ITS DEADLY INSULT Wythie was in her "uniform," as the Grey girls still called the plain dark blue ginghams, feather-stitched in white which, renewed as fast as they wore out, were their housework gowns. With her plump hands protected by old gloves, she was sweeping her and Rob's room. A blue bordered handkerchief formed into a dusting-cap added greatly to her picturesque effect as she leaned on her broom and watched Rob coming up the street. There had been several days in which to get used to the thought that Aunt Azraella was going hence from the big house on the hill, leaving it to Roberta for whatever purpose she pleased to use it. The question had been discussed in family conclaves, between the girls in private and with their mother and Miss Charlotte. It was an exciting thought that the power to do much was coming into the Grey girls' young hands, though the outlook was not for more wealth than would have seemed to many people just sufficient for their own wants. It was characteristic of these simple-hearted Grey people that they should be quite satisfied with what they already had, and begin at once to plan to help others with their moderate excess. Wythie leaned out of the window as Rob drew near, and the brisk winter wind promptly removed her cap to deposit it at Rob's feet as she turned in at the low gate, set back for the season against the hedge and out of the way of drifts. Rob picked it up and bowed low to her sister, holding the cap in a position of salute, while, with the other hand, she waved a letter upward. "From Mrs. Flinders," she called, and Wythie immediately began to divest herself of her sweeping gloves as she called back: "I'm glad we've heard from her at last. I'm coming down." She found Rob already hatless by the fireside in the sitting-room, where their mother and Cousin Peace were established with their work, and Polly, with Roberta Charlotte on her knee and Hortense in a doll's rocking-chair at her side, was reading aloud Hans Christian Andersen's Wonder Tales with much satisfaction in her own proficiency. "Will Pollykins go out to visit Lydia for a little while?" asked Rob coaxingly. "We shall have something to tell her when she comes back, and we want to surprise her." The quiet child arose at once and went obediently away, taking her family with her. Rob opened her mother's letter the instant that the door was closed behind the small representative of "the Flinders." "It is addressed to you, Mardy, but I suppose it doesn't matter," remarked Rob as she acted on her supposition.