"Do you cook in those filthy pans?" next demanded Aunty Jane, inspecting the fruit of the large pine that served, as Mr. Black punned merrily, as a "pan-tree."
"They're clean inside," defended Jean. "That's smoke from the camp fire."
"I wash the outside of my saucepans," sniffed Aunty Jane, with blighting emphasis. "Also my frying-pans."
"It isn't considered proper in camp," returned Mr. Black, whose eyes were twinkling wickedly; "but if you'd like a little missionary work, Miss Jane, there's the dishcloth."
"Dishcloth!" gasped Aunty Jane, disdainfully, eying the fairly clean rag drying in the sun. "I wouldn't scrub my coal bin with a cloth the color of that."
"I wouldn't scrub mine with anything," laughed Mrs. Bennett; "but never mind, Aunty Jane, our girls seem to be thriving in spite of torn dresses and unscoured pans. This life is doing them a world of good."
"Good!" sniffed Aunty Jane. "Why! The place must be fairly swarming with germs. I shouldn't think of permitting Marjory to remain here—I shall take her home with me to-night."
This was lightning from a clear sky. For a moment nobody said a word. Then there was a chorus of protests.