There are of us—­Stephen Holabird’s family—­just six.  Stephen and his wife, Rosamond and Barbara and little Stephen and Ruth.  Ruth is Mrs. Holabird’s niece, and Mr. Holabird’s second cousin; for two cousins married two sisters.  She came here when she had neither father nor mother left.  They thought it queer up at the other house; because “Stephen had never managed to have any too much for his own”; but of course, being the wife’s niece, they never thought of interfering, on the mere claim of the common cousinship.

Ruth Holabird is a quiet little body, but she has her own particular ways too.

There is one thing different in our house from most others.  We are all known by our straight names.  I say known; because we do have little pet ways of calling, among ourselves,—­sometimes one way and sometimes another; but we don’t let these get out of doors much.  Mr. Holabird doesn’t like it.  So though up stairs, over our sewing, or our bed-making, or our dressing, we shorten or sweeten, or make a little fun,—­though Rose of the world gets translated, if she looks or behaves rather specially nice, or stays at the glass trying to do the first,—­or Barbara gets only “Barb” when she is sharper than common, or Stephen is “Steve” when he’s a dear, and “Stiff” when he’s obstinate,—­we always introduce “my daughter Rosamond,” or “my sister Barbara,” or,—­but Ruth of course never gets nicknamed, because nothing could be easier or pleasanter than just “Ruth,”—­and Stephen is plain strong Stephen, because he is a boy and is expected to be a man some time.  Nobody writes to us, or speaks of us, except as we were christened.  This is only rather a pity for Rosamond.  Rose Holabird is such a pretty name.  “But it will keep,” her mother tells her.  “She wouldn’t want to be everybody’s Rose.”

Our moving to Westover was a great time.

That was because we had to move the house; which is what everybody does not do who moves into a house by any means.

We were very much astonished when Grandfather Holabird came in and told us, one morning, of his having bought it,—­the empty Beaman house, that nobody had lived in for five years.  The Haddens had bought the land for somebody in their family who wanted to come out and build, and so the old house was to be sold and moved away; and nobody but old Mr. Holabird owned land near enough to put it upon.  For it was large and solid-built, and could not be taken far.

We were a great deal more astonished when he came in again, another day, and proposed that we should go and live in it.

We were all a good deal afraid of Grandfather Holabird.  He had very strict ideas of what people ought to do about money.  Or rather of what they ought to do without it, when they didn’t happen to have any.

Mrs. Stephen pulled down the green blinds when she saw him coming that day,—­him and his cane.  Barbara said she didn’t exactly know which it was she dreaded; she thought she could bear the cane without him, or even him without the cane; but both together were “scare-mendous; they did put down so.”