ravan party
turned their backs on their wayside tent for their trip to the far-off
gold mine, when Ruth, Jean, Olive and Frieda were seized with a furious
attack of housewifely energy. Everything was routed out of the tent and
wagon. A flapping line of blankets hung on Jim's best lasso, which was
stretched from a tree to a tent pole. Then the girls collected their
laundry and carried it down to the brook. The water of the stream was so
clear that every pebble shone under it like a jewel, and the sand was as
white as the sand of the sea. Over a shimmering pool a broad, flat rock
formed a comfortable platform.

Jean and Ruth got down on their knees on this stone, swashing their
clothes up and down and smearing them with big bars of soap, like the
laundresses in Holland, until the clear water of the brook was a mass
of iridescent soap bubbles.

Olive and Frieda rinsed and squeezed and spread the clothes out on the
grass or hung them picturesquely over the low bushes. At the end of
their labors, Frieda and Jean started a shadow dance with a big red
tablecloth which Ruth had washed none too clean. Jean flapped it from
one end, Frieda swirled it from the other; it flew up in the air like a
red balloon and collapsed just as suddenly. Ruth and Olive rested in a
patch of sunshine watching them. Suddenly Jean attempted to twist her
unwieldy scarf into graceful curves about Frieda, but instead, tripped
her up, and the little girl lay in a heap of helpless laughter on the
grass. Straightway, Jean flung herself down beside her, beginning to
unwind her long braids of hair.

"Ruth, make Frieda let me wash her hair," Jean urged. "She doesn't look
like our pretty blond baby any more, but a poor, neglected 'orfling.' I
am sure if she lies down flat on the rock, I can manage so she won't
tumble into the brook."

Frieda crawled out of Jean's embrace, looking quite unresigned to the
experience ahead of her. "You shan't do any such thing, Jean Bruce,"
she protested; "you'll get gallons of soap in my eyes and make me all
sandy."

Jean struck a dramatic attitude. "Frieda Ralston, if you will let me
make you beautiful, I will give you all my share of the gold that Jim
and Jack bring back from the mine," she exclaimed.

Frieda shook her head. "They won't bring any gold," she said firmly.

"But you'll feel lots better, Frieda," Ruth begged.

Frieda saw that the weight of opinion was against her, and, besides, she
was vain of her hair an