"Why, when Prue was only eight years old she found some boys abusing a little grey kid--probably she felt for him because she was a little Grey kid herself. At any rate, she purchased him for all her wealth--a quarter--and brought him home. He's been a good goat, and used to drag Prue in her wagon until she outgrew it. We named him Ben Bolt because he bolted everything in sight, but though I used to sing to him, inquiring if he didn't 'remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,' it never affected him visibly." "Painting is over for to-day," announced Bartlemy. "My easel has a fractured limb, and my palette is broken." "Oh, can't you go on?" cried Prue, so mournfully that they all laughed. "Not to-day. We'll try again--sans Ben Bolt--soon," said Bartlemy. "It's such a pity; my dress is so clean," sighed Prue. "She finds it a world of stains and pains," observed Rob. "Never mind, Prue; you aren't losing your hair yet." "Come on, kid; help with these peas, since you can't paint," said Basil. "Meaning me, or the goat?" asked Bartlemy, accepting the invitation. "Give Ben Bolt the pods, and let's sing to him; then he'll be ashamed of himself," said Rob, who dearly loved the sextettes the Greys and Battalion B carolled. "Or ashamed of us," suggested Bruce, but obediently lifted up his voice in song. The peas were done much too soon, with so many shelling. Long before the young people were tired the last pod had yielded its five plump fellows to the green-filled pan, under the pressure of Wythie's thumb. Shouldering their burdens the six returned to the house. "It has been a dear day," said Wythie, as she and Rob stood for a moment on the steps before closing the little grey house for the night. "Beautiful!" assented Rob, promptly. "In spite of our trials and drawbacks we do have some blithe days in the grey house." CHAPTER SIX ITS HARD DAYS "Julius has abdicated, and Augustus reigns in his stead," remarked Prue, as she tore off the leaf of her calendar, which marked the first day of the eighth month. Prue was fond of making what she considered neatly erudite allusions. Matters had not been going well in the little grey house. Mrs. Grey found herself looking forward to the winter with dread, a dread she tried to stifle, for it was contrary to this brave woman's temperament and principles to look apprehensively toward the future. Mr. Grey was working feverishly on his bricquette machine, more than ever absorbed in it; it seemed to his anxious wife as if he were putting into it his own vitality, that it was consuming something far more precious than its inventor had ever dreamed would feed it. But, since she could not prevent the harm--if harm were being done--Mrs. Grey strove to drive the thought of it from her, and bear her immediate burden, which was not too light.