“Of course it isn’t,” said Barbara, intent upon the gathers of a white cambric waist of Rosamond’s.  “I wonder, Ruth, if we shall have to read all those Pub.  Doc.s that father gets.  You see women will make awful hard work of it, if they once do go at it; they are so used to doing every—­little—­thing”; and she picked out the neck-edging, and smoothed the hem between the buttons.

“We shall have to take vows, and devote ourselves to it,” Barbara went on, as if she were possessed.  “There will have to be ’Sisters of Polity.’  Not that I ever will.  I don’t feel a vocation.  I’d rather be a Polly-put-the-kettle-on all the days of my life.”

“Mr. Goldthwaite!” said Ruth.

“May I?” asked Harry, as if he had just come, leaning down over the rail, and speaking to Barbara, who faced about with a jump.

She knew by his look; he could not keep in the fun.

“‘May you’?  When you have, already!”

“O no, I haven’t!  I mean, come down?  Into the one-pleasant-little-place, and help?”

“You don’t know the way,” Barbara said, stolidly, turning back again, and folding up the waist.

“Don’t I?  Which,—­to come down, or to help?” and Harry flung himself over the rail, clasped one hand and wrist around a copper water-pipe that ran down there, reached the other to something-above the window,—­the mere pediment, I believe,—­and swung his feet lightly to the sill beneath.  Then he dropped himself and sat down, close by Barbara’s elbow.

“You’ll get sprinkled,” said she, flourishing the corn-whisk over a table-cloth.

“I dare say.  Or patted, or punched, or something.  I knew I took the risk of all that when I came down amongst it.  But it looked nice.  I couldn’t help it, and I don’t care!”

Barbara was thinking of two things,—­how long he had been there, and what in the world she had said besides what she remembered; and—­how she should get off her rough-dried apron.

“Which do you want,—­napkins or pillow-cases?” and he came round to the basket, and began to pull out.

“Napkins,” says Barbara.

The napkins were underneath, and mixed up; while he stooped and fumbled, she had the ruffled petticoat off over her head.  She gave it a shower in such a hurry, that as Harry came up with the napkins, he did get a drift of it in his face.

“That won’t do,” said Barbara, quite shocked, and tossing the whisk aside.  “There are too many of us.”

She began on the napkins, sprinkling with her fingers.  Harry spread up a pile on his part, dipping also into the bowl.  “I used to do it when I was a little boy,” he said.

Ruth took the pillow-cases, and so they came to the last.  They stretched the sheets across the table, and all three had a hand in smoothing and showering.

“Why, I wish it weren’t all done,” says Harry, turning over three clothes-pins in the bottom of the basket, while Barbara buttoned her sleeves.  “Where does this go?  What a nice place this is!” looking round the clean kitchen, growing shadowy in the evening light.  “I think your house is full of nice places.”