"At the beginning," said Rob, but Wythie, with a glance at her irrepressible sister, said: "Wherever you like; it really doesn't matter. And we girls are going to rake after you." "_You are little Boazes, Following your noazes; We are gleaners, like to Ruth, Raking hay while in our youth, Which we think a better line Than making hay in the sunshine,_" sang Rob, with one of her sudden inspirations. "Is this going to be a comic-opera, and are we taking part as stage peasants, or really working?" demanded Basil, sternly, though he looked surprised, and his eyes danced. Bruce threw up his hat in applause, and Bart stared open-mouthed. "Rob is demented, but not dangerous," said Frances, who had known the boys some time. "You know I warned you." "Well, now at it," said Bruce. "Be sure you don't kill any young ground sparrows," said Wythie, anxiously. "Oh, let me go ahead and scare up the mothers if there are any nests, then we'll see where they fly up," cried Prue. "Go ahead, Paula Revere; rouse the inhabitants," said Bartlemy. So the mowing began, Prue preceding, her cloud of yellow hair floating over her white gown as she scuffed her feet through the long grass, the boys in their white-flannel shirts, turned away at the necks, swinging their long scythes in their strong, long arms, and Oswyth, Frances, and Rob fluttering after them in their floating summer gowns, raking industriously. It was as pretty a picture as any figure in the cotillon and quite as much fun. Presently they all began to sing, Prue and Frances in their high sopranos, Oswyth in her sweet, low soprano, Rob in her soft alto, Basil a high tenor, Bruce, a barytone, and Bart something he sincerely believed was a heavy bass. People driving by stopped to look and listen, and Mr. Grey sat over his models in a happy dream, as the sound wafted in to him, while Mrs. Grey could hardly keep her mind on the cold meat she was slicing and the biscuits she was making for tea. "Bless their dear, happy hearts!" she thought. "How little it takes to rejoice them. They won't know if I go without some little things to make up the trifling cost of their bee." The work was only too short, it seemed to the girls, though perhaps the boys were glad to stop when Mrs. Grey came out on the steps at five and struck the brass-bowl, which was the Greys' Japanese way of summoning the family. They had not attempted to mow the orchard, nor the land running down toward the back road, out of sight, but all that showed from the street was gloriously shaven, and Rob had run the lawn-mower over it, enjoying its speed. The supper was not merely pretty. "It was distinguished," Frances told her friends later; she had a feminine instinct for old china. "But it was not merely distinguished--it was extinguished--they ate every crumb," Rob retorted. "And so it must have been good."