Rob punched and poked a pillow into shape, and looked morosely out of the window at the thunder-clouds piling up in the west, the result of the hot, sultry day. "Oh, I barked at him. I think I shall have to see him in future; I believe I have more effect than mild Mardy and patient Patergrey," Rob said. "But, oh, I'm tired--tired of being vivacious and snappy and go-ahead. I'm tired, dead tired, of fighting, Oswyth. I'd like to lie down and be taken care of, like a little ewe lamb. There are two Robs in me; one is sneakingly cowardly, and wants only to curl up in a hole and hide; and the other says: 'S't, boy! sic 'em, Rob!' And I'm up and at it again--at fate, and hard times, and Aunt Azraella, and house-work, and Mr. Flinders, and all those horrors. And then the tired, meek Rob tears around obediently, and no one dreams it's all like thumb-screws and rack to her. I'm tired of my rôle of snapping-turtle, Wythie." "Poor Rob!" said Oswyth, gently running her fingers in and out of Rob's beautiful, gleaming rings of hair, and stroking the mobile face, now twisting hard in its effort to laugh when the tears were very near falling. "Don't mind me," said Rob, succeeding in forcing a feeble laugh. "I'm tired, and it's been a fearfully humid, trying, tiresome, crooked day. Besides, we're going to have a thunder-storm, and electricity always makes me sick. Don't mind me." CHAPTER SEVEN ITS MENACE Miss Charlotte Grey was spending the day with her cousins. Two of August's weeks had slipped away, and the air was fresh and pleasant. It seemed to the Grey girls as if it were always refreshing weather when "Cousin Peace" came. All unpleasant tasks were laid aside; the blinds in the cosey upstairs sitting-room were closed, with the slats turned to admit the breeze and the droning sound of the bees humming in the old garden. This old garden was left to its own sweet will, and by August it was a thoroughly sweet will; its varied-shaped beds were lush with a profusion of honey-laden blossoms, whose fragrance permeated everywhere. Every taint of annoyance seemed banished from the little grey house when Cousin Peace came to spend the day. Mrs. Grey was hemming delicately cool linen to be divided into family collars, and feather-stitched. Wythie was putting new sleeves into Prue's cherished white gown, Roberta was making fresh, clean-looking, green-and-white gingham into an apron, and Prue was shelling peas, the juicy sweetness of their pods adding to the pleasant summer smells around them. Miss Charlotte was knitting--she was usually knitting--little fleecy white things to wrap babies in, and bright mittens for little hands. "I have a new magazine here which Mrs. Silsby sent down yesterday by Frances, Charlotte," said Mrs. Grey, "but I thought we would keep it for those lazy hours after dinner, then one of the girls must read to us."