“But if the presentation is money, you must say, 'Thank you, but we'd rather not take it,'” said Mother. “I'll wash your Indian muslins at once,” she added. “You must look tidy on an occasion like this.” “Phil and I can wash them,” said Bobbie, “if you'll iron them, Mother.” Washing is rather fun. I wonder whether you've ever done it? This particular washing took place in the back kitchen, which had a stone floor and a very big stone sink under its window. “Let's put the bath on the sink,” said Phyllis; “then we can pretend we're out-of-doors washerwomen like Mother saw in France.” “But they were washing in the cold river,” said Peter, his hands in his pockets, “not in hot water.” “This is a HOT river, then,” said Phyllis; “lend a hand with the bath, there's a dear.” “I should like to see a deer lending a hand,” said Peter, but he lent his. “Now to rub and scrub and scrub and rub,” said Phyllis, hopping joyously about as Bobbie carefully carried the heavy kettle from the kitchen fire. “Oh, no!” said Bobbie, greatly shocked; “you don't rub muslin. You put the boiled soap in the hot water and make it all frothy-lathery--and then you shake the muslin and squeeze it, ever so gently, and all the dirt comes out. It's only clumsy things like tablecloths and sheets that have to be rubbed.” The lilac and the Gloire de Dijon roses outside the window swayed in the soft breeze. “It's a nice drying day--that's one thing,” said Bobbie, feeling very grown up. “Oh, I do wonder what wonderful feelings we shall have when we WEAR the Indian muslin dresses!” “Yes, so do I,” said Phyllis, shaking and squeezing the muslin in quite a professional manner. “NOW we squeeze out the soapy water. NO--we mustn't twist them--and then rinse them. I'll hold them while you and Peter empty the bath and get clean water.” “A presentation! That means presents,” said Peter, as his sisters, having duly washed the pegs and wiped the line, hung up the dresses to dry. “Whatever will it be?” “It might be anything,” said Phyllis; “what I've always wanted is a Baby elephant--but I suppose they wouldn't know that.” “Suppose it was gold models of steam-engines?” said Bobbie. “Or a big model of the scene of the prevented accident,” suggested Peter, “with a little model train, and dolls dressed like us and the engine-driver and fireman and passengers.” “Do you LIKE,” said Bobbie, doubtfully, drying her hands on the rough towel that hung on a roller at the back of the scullery door, “do you LIKE us being rewarded for saving a train?” “Yes, I do,” said Peter, downrightly; “and don't you try to come it over us that you don't like it, too. Because I know you do.” “Yes,” said Bobbie, doubtfully, “I know I do. But oughtn't we to be satisfied with just having done it, and not ask for anything more?”