"I didn't mean not to answer you, Aunt Azraella," said Rob, with new dignity. "My plan is neither to refuse nor accept, but to write Mr. Marston that we must have a few days in which to look into the matter. If he's an honest man, he won't object; if the machine is worth four thousand dollars to him, he will take it a week later as well as now, and if--and I know it is--it is worth six times that, why, we save ourselves from a trick, that's all." Mrs. Winslow turned to Rob with a touch of respect in her manner. "That has a little the ring of sense," she graciously remarked. "But you must remember that he may have some reason for wanting that machine this moment or never, and it may be worth four thousand to-day, and nothing a week hence, unless he gets it now. That often happens in business matters. Mary, write your note." "I confess I'm strongly inclined to your view, Azraella," said Mrs. Grey, "but I can't write to-night. Rob seems to me not like my young daughter, but like her father's representative, and I cannot disregard her, as I should Wythie, for instance." "And what is Oswyth's opinion?" asked Aunt Azraella, turning to her favorite niece. "I'm a coward," said Wythie, with a faint smile. "I'm afraid to refuse a certainty of even a small piece of good fortune." "Sensible girl!" said her aunt, approvingly. "Then Roberta is the only one that stands out against good luck?" "Stands _for_ good luck, Aunt Azraella," said Rob, rising, as her aunt arose, with the air which had come upon her, adding years and dignity to her, since she had learned to suffer. "You won't write, Mary?" insisted Mrs. Winslow, wrapping herself in her barège defence from the cold wind. "Not to-night; to-morrow will still be time," said Mrs. Grey, also rising. "Then I wash my hands of you, and if you come to grief, don't appeal to me for sympathy nor help. I foresee the end; this girl is so headstrong, and will so appeal to your desire to carry out your husband's will, that she will get her way, and your one hope of peace will be gone. You can't help confessing, Mary, no matter how you mourn him, that Sylvester knew nothing of business, and for you to allow sentimentality and a girl's ignorance to wreck you, is little short of criminal." Having delivered this valedictory with crushing effect, Mrs. Winslow stalked away. Prue came back dissolved in tears from closing the door behind her aunt; she found her mother, Wythie, and Rob sitting silent and sad around the fire. "Oh, Rob, dear Rob," cried Prue, hysterically, "you mean well, but how can you be so obstinate? Don't listen to her, Mardy; we shall never be happy again; we shall lose our home, too, if you do!" And Prue dropped, sobbing, in the big chair Mrs. Winslow had vacated.