Look at the children's clean clothes, carefully folded with almost painful exactness; yet they were like a pile of rags just thrown together. And their unironed condition added to the illusion. Every cooking-pot and pan had been cleaned and polished, yet, to his eyes, the litter of them suggested one of the heaps of iron scraps out on the dumps. How was it every piece of china looked forlornly suggestive of a wanderer without a home? No, he did not know. He had done his very best, and yet everything seemed to need just that magic touch to give his home the requisite well-cared-for air. He was disappointed, and his feelings were plainly to be perceived in the regretful glance of his pale eyes. For some moments his optimistic energy rose and prompted him to begin all over again, but he denied himself this satisfaction as he glanced through the window at the morning sun. It was too high up in the sky. There was other work yet before him, with none too much time for its performance before the midday meal. Instead, he turned to the "regulations" which Sunny Oak had furnished him with, and, with an index finger following out the words, he read down the details of the work for Sunday--in so far as his twins were concerned. "Ah," he murmured, "I got the wash done yesterday. It says here Monday. That's kind of a pity." Then he brightened into hopefulness. "Guess I kin do those things again Monday. I sort o' fancy they could do with another wash 'fore the kiddies wear them. I never could wash clothes right, first time. Now, Sunday." His finger passed slowly from one detail to another. "Breakfast--yes. Bath. Ah, guess that comes next. Now, 'bout that bath." He glanced anxiously round him. Then he turned back to the regulations. "It don't say whether hot or cold," he muttered disappointedly. For a moment he stood perplexed. Then he began to reason the matter out with himself. It was summer. For grown-ups it would naturally be a cold bath, but he was not so sure about children. They were very young, and it would be so easy for them to take cold, he thought. No, it had best be hot. He would cook some water. This thought prompting him, he set the saucepan on the stove and stirred the fire. He was turning back to his regulations, when it occurred to him that he must now find something to bathe the children in. Glancing about amongst the few pots he possessed, he realized that the largest saucepan, or "billy," in the house would not hold more than a gallon of water. No, these were no use, for though he exercised all his ingenuity he could see no way of bathing the children in any of them. Once during his cogitations he was very nearly inspired. It flashed through his mind that he might stand each child outside of a couple of pots and wash them all over that way. But he quickly negatived the thought. That wasn't his idea of a bath. They must sit _in_ the water.