Down to the orchard they went, and to Bartlemy, as the one it concerned, was left the selection of place. Finally he placed Prue to his satisfaction--and greatly to her own--in the fork of a picturesquely shaped old appletree, and fell back to regard her in approved artist fashion, head on one side, and with one eye closed. Then he set up his easel, and the rest disposed of themselves on the grass, regardless of creatures that crawled. Basil and Bruce--as perhaps she had expected--volunteered to help Rob in her task, and sitting opposite each other, placed the empty basket between their knees, while Rob sat beside them, where she could reach supplies, with the bright pan in her lap, into which the peas were soon hailing under the swift work of thirty fingers. Oswyth began to darn, sitting a little apart, but almost forgetting her work in the interest of watching Bartlemy sketch in the outline of the appletree and Prue's slender figure, with swift, sure strokes. Whatever Bartlemy might prove as a colorist, he unmistakably could draw. "_When the little busy B's Turn their minds to shelling peas,_" began Rob in a cheerful sing-song, but got no further, for Bruce interrupted her, carrying on her stanza, "_'Neath the leadership of Rob, What's a half-bushel job?_" he sang. "You are such nice boys," cried Rob, approvingly. "Just as big geese as we are ourselves." "Bigger, physically, but mentally we yield to you," said Basil, with a bow. "Do you expect to be a painter, Bart?" asked Wythie. The sketch he was making was really full of talent. "I'd like to be; they say I can't tell what I want till I finish college, but I think I know," said Bartlemy. "I want to go off to Europe and live in galleries for a few years, and then try my own hand." "I mean to teach school," said pretty Prue, looking as picturesquely unlike such a career as was possible. "I'm the only one that is getting a regular school training; Wythie and Rob did lessons at home, but I'm to be properly educated. So I shall teach. Unless I sing," she added, as an after-thought. "Bruce has been a doctor, according to his own verdict, ever since he could speak," said Basil. "And Basil doesn't care what he does, provided it puts a pen between his fingers, and encloses him in four walls lined with books," added Bruce. "I think I shall be a motorman," said Rob, gravely. "I get so deadly tired sometimes of hearing no clang or rattle! There is a monotony about my youth that will drive me to trolleys, or a Ferris wheel when I grow up. I'd like to see things hum."