felt that this peace was illusion, that under the fair surface of a calm Sunday morning, things were brewing, as if some kind of storm of the spirit were coming up. It in no way surprised her when the sound of dispute arose, and Robert's voice in loud anger.
"You keep off me or I will, I say!" and then a shrill wail of pain from Sara. She flew around the corner of the house, followed by her brother.
"He's done it!" she shrilled. "He's done it—what you told him never to, no matter what I did. He's done it! He hit me!"
"Yes! And why—and why?" cried Robert, with the indignation of the outraged male; "they was hiding behind trees and Jamie shot arrows at me, and Sara came out and kicked me and said, 'Get out, you Brewster!'"
"But he knew I was in fun," wailed Sara; "he knew I was in fun. I didn't mean to hurt him, and he—he meant to hurt me."
"But I didn't hurt you," said Robert.
"But you meant to hurt me, and I didn't mean to hurt you," sobbed Sara. "And now, Father, now give it to him! You said last time he did it he was too big, and that men never hit women, and you said you'd give him"
"Now, see here, Sara," her father commanded, "stop crying. And, Robert, you go into the house. Peace," he cried, "is what I want, and peace is what I intend to have. Who started this silly Brewster business, anyway?"
"You did," Alice informed him. He ignored this loftily.
"You did, Father," Sara corroborated.
"There'll be no more of it," her father informed her.
"But what can I do?" Sara inquired. "I can't Brewster; I can't Chaplin."
