"But my clothes"—
"In with you."
"My shoes!"
He picked her up as lightly as if her bony frame weighed nothing, and deposited her in the midst of the foamy suds. Her screams quickly brought the household to the spot.
"Don't you get out," Dr. Sanford said, "until you have had enough of the washtub to last you for five years."
"But, Charles," remonstrated his wife, "she'll get her death cold."
"She's more likely to get her death hot," he returned, smiling grimly. "Let her soak a while. It won't hurt her. And now let us have supper."
He marched off to the dining-room.
"Come, Britann; come, Patty."
"But you don't mean to leave that poor creature there to die, do you?" Mrs. Sanford pleaded. "I doubt it must be a forerunner of a bad sign to have such things happen in a house."