"My bringing up explains it, Azraella. Mother believed in teaching her children to use their hands and wits. I'll tell you, Azraella; it's that Plymouth strain you so venerate. The Pilgrim mothers wove and spun, and my tailoring must be a case of pure heredity," said Mrs. Grey, laughing with a girlish mischievousness that rarely found expression. Wythie and Rob were just beginning to be old enough to realize that their mother was young. The coats were finished, and really were triumphs. Aunt Azraella was so pleased with her curtains for turning out so creditably to her that she actually produced from the treasure-house of her attic, which the girls longed to ravage, handsome buttons to adorn the coats, and enough rich velvet for hats for all three nieces. Wythie made jaunty little muffs from the material of the coats, and behold, from being shabby, she and Rob were transformed into an external splendor that enabled them to look their sister maidens in the face with equable minds. But aside from this windfall matters grew worse, rather than better, in the little grey house. Everything that they could deny themselves the Greys went without. Prue rebelled against her childish fare of rice and molasses, and declared her eyes were growing almond-shaped from over-indulgence in that celestial and nuptial grain. Rob sang her a pleasing extemporaneous ditty about _"Little Prue-sing, poor little thing! Lived upon 'lasses and rice, But she turned up her nose and said: 'Under the rose, I'd rather have something more nice.' But I said: 'O my Sweet, it will give you small feet, And won't you consider the price?'"_ Prue looked less pleased with the ditty than she might have been, and Wythie, "the olivebranch," as Rob called her, said, hastily: "We've a Japanese kitten, so we oughtn't to mind being just a trifle Mongolian, Prudy. Come here, Kiku-san." For Kiku-san was wearing his most serene and sanctified expression, and that look usually preceded his breaking something. "Prudence, mavourneen, the Grey dawn is breaking," sang Rob, with immense expression. "And you know it is always darkest before dawn. Just wait--only wait a little while longer, my child, and Patergrey will compress all our troubles with his coal-dust, and consume them forever. Wait for the machine, Goldilocks." But away down in her stanch and loyal heart Rob could not help feeling that it was weary waiting. CHAPTER NINE ITS BURDEN "Poor and content is rich and rich enough, but poor and genteel is--pardon slang--most tough!" remarked Rob, looking over her shoulder as she knelt before the oven, and making a wry face at Wythie, unconscious of the streak of soot on her chin. "If you could be but one, which would you rather be, poor or genteel, Rob?" laughed her mother. But there was little laughter in the eyes under a brow upon which increasing anxiety was daily making its record.