Their subdued spirits took an involuntary jump. Nevertheless they greeted their guest in an unusually quiet way. Billy’s perceptions, always keen, apparently leaped in an instant of calculation to the truth. After a while, in which he devoted himself to the Little Six, he suggested that the Big Six take a walk with him. They accepted the invitation with alacrity and plunged into the woods. When they were out of sight of the Little House, “Now what’s the matter?” Billy Potter suddenly demanded. They told him; all at once; each interrupting the other, piling on excuses and explanations; interrupted with confessions and self-accusals. “We feel that we’ve treated Mr. Westabrook rottenly,” Arthur concluded. “And we don’t know what to do to show him we’re sorry,” Rosie after a pause added. “That’s pretty bad,” Billy commented. “Now let’s think of some way out of this.” He himself meditated for an interval, falling into a study so deep that no one of the children dared interrupt it. “I’ll tell you,” he burst out after a while, “Why not invite Mr. Westabrook down for an afternoon--to make another inspection of the house--and to stay for supper. You probably haven’t shown him for a long time how well you can cook.” “No, we haven’t,” Maida said. “I think father has eaten only one meal that we girls cooked.” “I think that would be lovely,” Rosie agreed. “Let’s do it as quickly as possible,” Arthur suggested. “This is Friday morning. Why don’t you invite him for Monday night?” The children caught the suggestion at once. That night, working together--for Billy Potter stayed over only one train--they painfully drafted a formal invitation to Mr. Westabrook to spend Monday afternoon with them and stay to supper. They posted it the next morning and almost by return mail, they received a formal acceptance. Monday was a day of the most frantic work that the Little House had ever seen. Everything was swept that could be swept; dusted that could be dusted; washed that could be washed; polished that could be polished. Rosie even washed off the stepping stones that led to the Little House. And Maida not to be outdone, shined the brass knocker on the door and the knob. Laura was only stopped in time from pinning flypaper, which she had bought with her own pocket money, on the outside of the screen door. “There are no flies in the house,” Mrs. Dore protested, “and we can’t catch all the flies in the outside world.” The boys cleaned the barn, the little cellar to the house, its tiny garret. They rolled and re-rolled the tennis court. They begged for other work and Mrs. Dore gave them all the table silver to polish and some pots, obstinately black, to scrape.