“They have imbibed some of their beloved grandmother’s theories,” said Jack to Barbara, on the third day of the visit. “Talk about the ‘New Thought’! Those kids have more new and original thoughts in ten seconds than her whole sect has in ten years. What idea do you suppose they conceived this morning? I came up the back walk in time to see a bundle of white linen dangling in the air at the barn window. Those little fiends were up in the loft working the hay pulley, and hanging from the rope below was the youngest Wemott baby, the hook of the rope caught through the band of its little apron. There was only a button between that infant and eternity when I rescued it.” “They are the worst children I ever saw,” said Barbara. “Cecilia is hard to manage, but she is as nothing compared with the Bossall boys. You can’t appeal to their better natures, for there is nothing there to appeal to. And as for punishing them, I don’t believe that they are afraid of anything in this whole world.” “Except Gassy,” suggested Jack. “Yes, they seem to hold her in wholesome respect I can’t understand the cause of their consideration for her, unless it is fear. Cecilia isn’t mighty in the flesh, but her tongue is a power.” * * * * * The reason for this respect came to light the next day. It _was_ fear: but fear of something besides Gassy’s tongue. Before daylight, Aunt Sarah creaked her way up the attic stairs to the little, hot room in which Barbara had slept since the arrival of the guests. Aunt Sarah was addicted to black silk nightgowns, and the long, dark robe, a lighted candle, and curling-pins, rolled so tightly that they lifted her eyebrows, gave her a decidedly Lady Macbethian appearance. “Are you awake, Barbara?” she inquired, in an angry stage whisper. By that time Barbara could truthfully answer that she was. “What is it?” she asked. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Aunt Sarah, in a voice that betokened anything but regret. “But I am in such a state of mind that even New Thought fails to calm me. I was never so insulted in my life as by the treatment that has been accorded me and mine while in my own niece’s home.” “What do you mean, Aunt Sarah?” cried Barbara, now thoroughly aroused. “I mean just this: Cecilia has been according Edward’s children a system of torture that has nearly robbed them of their sanity.” Even in her worry and bewilderment, a wicked thought, reflecting upon the _present_ mental condition of Edward’s children flashed through Barbara’s mind. But she checked the desire to give utterance to it.