"Then it's my turn now," said Peter. And that was how the quarrel began.
"You're always being disagreeable about nothing," said Peter, after some heated argument.
"I had the rake first," said Bobbie, flushed and defiant, holding on to its handle.
"Don't I tell you I said this morning I meant to have it. Didn't I, Phil?"
Phyllis said she didn't want to be mixed up in their rows. And instantly, of course, she was.
"If you remember you ought to say."
"Of course she doesn't remember—but she might say so."
"I wish I'd had a brother instead of two whiney little kiddy sisters," said Peter. This was always recognised as the marking the high-water mark of Peter's rage.
Bobbie made the reply she always made to it.
"I can't think why little boys were ever invented," and just as she said it she looked up, and saw the three long windows of Mother's workshop flashing in the red rays of the sun. The sight brought back those words of praise:—
"You don't quarrel like you used to do.",
"Oh!" cried Bobbie, just as if she had been hit,
