"I don't think it's right to run down our posterity," said Prue, pulling her ribbons and spreading her hair rapidly. "I'm very proud of my descent." And before Oswyth could suggest that she did not mean posterity, three straw hats arose in the air, revealing three flushed, handsome, boyish faces, and three cheery voices called: "Good-afternoon, Miss Oswyth, Miss Rob, Miss Prue." And the oldest Rutherford boy--he looked nearly eighteen--added: "Are you farming?" "We're harming--our tempers," cried Rob. "Also a borrowed lawn-mower." "Won't you come in and rest?" added Oswyth. "You look warm." "We've been up to the river swimming; it's pretty warm in the sun, walking fast. What's wrong with your tempers? Maybe we'd better keep out." But as he spoke the eldest boy opened the low gate, and they all came in. Oswyth led the way to the house, and Prue and the youngest Rutherford were dispatched for chairs to set on the lawn, for the little grey house had been built before the day of piazzas. Before the six young people were fairly settled a figure in white appeared in the doorway, smiling invitingly over a big tray laden with glasses, some plain cookies, and the beautiful old glass pitcher, of which the Greys were so proud, full of lemonade and tinkling with ice. "Oh, that's Mardy all over--always thinking of something for us!" cried Oswyth, as she and Rob sprang forward to relieve their mother of her burden. CHAPTER TWO ITS NEIGHBORS "Won't you come and see the new Rutherford boys, Mardy? We met them at Frances Silsby's the other night," said Roberta, as she took the tray from her mother, while Oswyth took the pitcher. The three tall lads arose as Mrs. Grey came toward them. "Dear me!" she smiled. "I never would dream you were _new_ Rutherford boys if I espied you at a distance, but quite old ones. I am glad to see you." "We are glad to be here," said the oldest boy, shaking heartily the motherly hand held out to him, and smiling back into the kindly eyes which always won young things, quadruped or biped, and were especially attractive to a motherless lad. "I am Basil Rutherford, this is my second mate, Bruce, and this my little baby brother Bartlemy. Stand up straight, Tom Thumb, and ask Mrs. Grey if she doesn't think you ought to be put in an incubator. We're so afraid we won't be able to raise him," added Basil, with a tragic glance at the girls. Fifteen-year-old Bartlemy stood erect to his full six feet one of height, and grinned with the helpless good-nature of a frequent victim. The Rutherfords were very much alike, brown-skinned, brown-haired, blue-eyed boys, with honesty and kindliness shining from their fine faces. Mrs. Grey made up her mind about them on the spot--as she usually did on meeting strangers. "Nice creatures!" she thought, and laughed as she surveyed Bartlemy.