After Hazard comes Ernestine. She is twelve, and is frequently called Ernie,—which name suits her just as well as Haze’s names do him; for she is really more of a boy than a girl, we think, despite her charming blue eyes and rose-leaf complexion. Ernie is very, very pretty, has sweet ways and a really lovely disposition; but, for all this, she is rather a trying child, for she is continually getting into scrapes, tearing her frocks, breaking the furniture, etc.,—and she always means so well that it is hard to scold her. Geof is Ernestine’s chum, just as Hazard is mine. He is Uncle George’s son, but so much more like a brother than a cousin that I am going to describe him here. He is fourteen years old, and the direct opposite of Haze in nearly every way. He is a handsome fellow, big for his age, and rather sullen sometimes. That, I think, is because he is not happier at home. He goes to a fashionable school, plays football and hockey, and is perfectly hopeless in his studies. Uncle George maintains he _could_ do better if he would. Aunt Adelaide, who is Geoffrey’s stepmother, says it is a case of “inherent stupidity.” Mother thinks neither is right, and that there is something radically wrong with the school methods. Altogether it is not pleasant for Geof, who wants to give up studying and go into business. This enrages Hazard. “A fellow with _your_ chances!” he says. “I’d swap them for yours,” answers Geof, who is not brilliant at an argument. And Haze snorts derisively. After Ernie comes Robin; he is six, and our baby. He has never been strong, because when he was a tiny mite of a thing a careless nurse dropped him and injured his hip. He has bright, dark eyes, and you can always tell when he is coming by the little hopping sound he makes with his crutch. It reminds one of a bird, so his name suits him, too. I love Robin better than anything in the world; and I am never going to marry, so that I can stay with him and take care of him always. But this is a secret. And that (including mother, whom one can’t describe because she is too wonderful) is all there are of us, except the kitten, which is black and is named Rosebud, and the cook, who is also black and is named Rose. Of course, we did not name the kitten after the cook. It just happened that way. As to Uncle George’s family,—whom we call the George Grahams,—they are very wealthy, and have a beautiful house, and horses, and plenty of servants. But we would not change with them. No, indeed! When Uncle George comes to visit us of a Sunday morning, as he sometimes does to see how we are getting on, he is sure to stand in the middle of our shabby back parlour, and puff out his cheeks, and throw out his chest and say,—