Ah, do! Please!"

"It can be a surprise for Aunt Polly," suggested Meg artfully. "Won't
you tell us, Daddy?"

"No. I like surprises that are surprises," asserted Father Blossom.
"Now, not another word does any one get out of me on this subject.
Not a word."

The next few days were very busy ones; but at last two trunks were
brought down and placed in the hall, and Mother Blossom made lists and
packed and explained her plans to Meg and Bobby, who, as the oldest,
could be expected to remember.

"All the stockings are here, dear, right in this tray," Mother Blossom
would say. "And I'm putting Bobby's blouses in this trunk. You are
sure you will remember so that Aunt Polly needn't be bothered in case
I don't get both trunks unpacked for you?"

Meg was sure she could remember.

"Where's Twaddles?" asked Mother Blossom the last afternoon, when she
was putting in the very final things. "I haven't seen him since lunch
time. Dot, do you know where he went?"

"I think he's watching Sam give Philip a bath," volunteered Bobby. "He
likes the smell of that dog soap, Mother."

"I can't say I do," said Mother Blossom frankly. "It is strongly
carbolic. Go and call him in, will you, Bobby?"

Bobby found Twaddles blissfully watching the shivering Philip enduring
a last rinsing after his bath. Sam liked to keep him clean, and he
said that because a dog had a broken leg was no reason why he
shouldn't be washed.

"Mother says for you to come in," Bobby told his brother. "It's time
to get ready for supper. Gee, that soap does smell, doesn't it?"

"I like it," Twaddles affirmed, sniffing luxuriously. "I wish we took
baths with that kind."

Mother Blossom sent him to the bathroom to wash his face and hands and
she brushed his hair for him herself.

"What is that I keep smelling?" she asked once or twice, "Oh, the
carbolic dog-soap. Twaddles, I do wish you wouldn't handle it so
much."

"Who's been to the drug store?" said Father Blossom, when they sat
down to supper. "Phew! I smell carbolic, strong."

"Philip had a bath," explained Twaddles uneasily. "Perhaps you smell
it, Daddy."

"Twaddles means the soap," giggled Meg. "You can't smell a bath,
silly."

Father Blossom laid down his carving knife and fork.

"I can't stand that," he declared positively. "Twaddles, you needn't
tell me just handling a soapy dog is responsible for the whiffs of
carbolic I'm getting. What is that in your pocket?"

A dark wet stain was slowl