"I think it's a beautiful plan--an inspiration, Frances," said Wythie. "And I know Rob can do it like no one else; she does such things with her face and voice that she always makes one see what she sees." And Oswyth smiled proudly on Rob. "I should hate to fail, after your mother had done so much to launch me," said Rob. "'Screw your courage to the sticking-point and we'll not fail,'" said Frances, who could hardly have been less like Lady Macbeth. "Then, if I succeed, I might enlarge my field, have classes in neighboring towns, and by and by in Hartford and New Haven, and--why not?--New York," cried Rob, airily. "Then if the bricquette machine did turn out badly I could support the family." "Rob, Rob, I thought you had no doubt of the invention!" cried her mother, such a sharp note of pain in her voice that it betrayed her own doubt, and her unconscious dependence on the young girl's opinion, ignorant though it was. "Neither have I, Mardy, it's sure--don't be afraid," said Rob, hastily. "But when you want a thing so dreadfully, _dreadfully_ much you can't help thinking what it would be not to get it. And I feel as the Red Queen must have felt when she was a little girl, and had to believe three impossible things before breakfast. I do believe, but I have to try--try with both hands, as Her Red Majesty told Alice to do--to keep my faith, though I know it's all right all the while. And the invention is so nearly completed, Francie, that Patergrey thinks that next week he can write to the people in New York whom he wants to have buy it. Isn't that a comfort, after so long? It sounds so definite." "Indeed it does!" cried Frances, heartily. Mrs. Grey hastily left the room, and Wythie ran after her, guessing that she had gone to hide sudden tears. Rob looked after them soberly. "Oh, France," she said, "you could not have come with your plan at a better time--we need cheering. They put the mortgage on the little grey house yesterday--they were doing it when we came home. And Patergrey got so wrought up that he had another of those dreadful heart attacks last night." "Oh, Rob; poor, dear, brave Rob! I am so sorry for you!" cried Frances, with ready tears of sympathy and a convulsive hug. Rob shook herself free. "Now, don't pity me!" she cried. "I have all I can do to keep steady if I am as hard as nails, and you see I _must_ keep gay for the others. I know, France; we know each other, but don't love me now! No one could have done me the good you have in giving me the hope of being useful. I'll never forget how you came in this black morning and tried to 'push dem clouds away'--you have made a big rift. If ever I get rich and famous I'll give you your heart's desire, and if ever I can help you while I'm poor--which may be a while yet, you know--I'll walk over the ocean to do it. But don't you love me nor pity me to-day."