Ruth and Barbara looked at each other and smiled.
“I mean,” continued the major, “don’t fill the tubs to the brim. A hand’s depth is the allowance; or we shall be high and dry without any water and no prospect of any unless a rain comes. This interminable drought has dried up every brook on the place and the cisterns are lower than they have ever been before. We keep one cistern always full—not so much in case of drought as in case of fire; it might be needed some day.”
They all promised to bathe in what Jimmie Butler called “two-fingers of water.”
“If the water gives out,” said Jimmie, “we’ll beautify our complexions by bathing in milk. I think I need a lotion for a delicate skin, anyhow.” Jimmie’s nose was a mass of freckles.
“You would have to have your face peeled, Jimmie,” said Stephen, “before you could call it delicate.”
“Excuse me,” replied Jimmie, “my indelicate skin then.”
“I have not made any plans for your entertainment this afternoon, young ladies,” the major was saying. “Miss Stuart is determined that you must lie down and sleep off the effects of the Gypsy camp. But to-morrow we shall have a picnic to make up for it, and Miss Ruth may take her tea basket, since we have none in this household.”
“I’m not a bit tired now,” said Ruth.
“Neither are we,” echoed the other girls as they rose from the table.
“Well, suppose we make a compromise,” said the major, “by showing you over the house? After that sleep must be your portion, eh, Sallie?”