"Girls! Girls!" she cried, forgetting for the moment her own sorry state. "What is the matter? Twins!"

Sepulchral silence! And Connie knew that this was the dreadful Skull and Bones. Her teeth chattered as she stood there, irresolute in the intense and throbbing darkness.

"It's only the twins," she assured herself over and over, and began fumbling with the latch of the barn door,—but her fingers were stiff and cold. Suddenly from directly above her, there came the hideous clanking of iron chains. Connie had read ghost stories, and she knew the significance of clanking chains, but she stood her ground in spite of the almost irresistible impulse to fly. After the clanking, the loud and clamorous peal of a bell rang out.

"It's that old cow bell they found in the field," she whispered practically, but found it none the less horrifying.

Finally she stepped into the blackness of the barn, found the ladder leading to the haymow and began slowly climbing. But her own weight seemed a tremendous thing, and she had difficulty in raising herself from step to step. She comforted herself with the reflection that at the top were the twins,—company and triumph hand in hand. But when she reached the top, and peered around her, she found little comfort,—and no desirable company?

A small barrel draped in black stood in the center of the mow, and on it a lighted candle gave out a feeble flickering ray which emphasized the darkness around it. On either side of the black-draped barrel stood a motionless figure, clothed in somber black. On the head of one was a skull,—not a really skull, just a pasteboard imitation, but it was just as awful to Connie. On the head of the other were crossbones.

"Kneel," commanded the hoarse voice of Skull, in which Connie could faintly distinguish the tone of Lark.

She knelt,—an abject quivering neophyte.

"Hear the will of Skull and Crossbones," chanted Crossbones in a shrill monotone.

Then Skull took up the strain once more. "Skull and Crossbones, great in mercy and in condescension, has listened graciously to the prayer of Constance, the Seeker. Hear the will of the Great Spirit! If the Seeker will, for the length of two weeks, submit herself to the will of Skull and Crossbones, she shall be admitted into the Ancient and Honorable Order. If the Seeker accepts this condition, she must bow herself to the ground three times, in token of submission."

"There's no ground here," came a small faint voice from the kneeling Seeker.

"The floor, madam," Skull explained sternly. "If the Seeker accepts the condition,—to submit herself absolutely to the will of Skull and Crossbones for two entire weeks,—she shall bow herself three times."

Constance hesitated. It was so grandly expressed that she hardly understood what they wanted. Carol came to her rescue.

"That means you've got to do everything Lark and I tell you for two weeks," she said in her natural voice.

Then Constance bowed herself three times,—although she lost her balance in the act, and Carol forgot her dignity and gave way to laughter, swiftly subdued, however.

"Arise and approach the altar," she commanded in the shrill voice, which yet gave signs of laughter.

Constance arose and approached.

"Upon the altar, before the Eternal Light, you will find a small black bow, with a drop of human blood in the center. This is the badge of your pledgedom. You must wear it day and night, during the entire two weeks. After that, if all is well; you shall be received into full membership. If you break your pledge to the Order, it must be restored at once to Skull and Crossbones. Take it, and pin it upon your breast."

Constance did so,—and her breast heaved with rapture and awe in mingling.

Then a horrible thing happened. The flame of the "Eternal Light" was suddenly extinguished, and Carol exclaimed, "The ceremony is ended. Return, damsel, to thine abode."

A sound of scampering feet,—and Constance knew that the Grand Officials had fled, and she was alone in the dreadful darkness. She called after them pitifully, but she heard the slam of the kitchen door before she had even reached the ladder.

It was a sobbing and miserable neophyte who stumbled into the kitchen a few seconds later. The twins were bending earnestly over their Latin grammars by the side of the kitchen fire, and did not raise their eyes as the Seeker burst into the room. Constance sat down, and gasped and quivered for a while. Then she looked down complacently at the little black bow with its smudge of red ink, and sighed contentedly.

The week that followed was a gala one for the twins of Skull and Crossbones. Constance swept their room, made their bed, washed their dishes, did their chores, and in every way behaved as a model pledge of the Ancient and Honorable. The twins were gracious but firm. There was no arguing, and no faltering. "It is the will of Skull and Crossbones that the damsel do this," they would say. And the damsel did it.

Prudence did not feel it was a case that called for her interference. So she sat back and watched, while the twins told stories, read and frolicked, and Constance did their daily tasks.

So eight days passed, and then came Waterloo. Constance returned home after an errand downtown, and in her hand she carried a great golden pear. Perhaps Constance would have preferred that she escape the notice of the twins on this occasion, but as luck would have it, she passed Carol in the hall.

"Gracious! What a pear! Where did you get it?" demanded Carol covetously.

"I met Mr. Arnold down-town, and he bought it for me. He's very fond of me. It cost him a dime, too, for just this one. Isn't it a beauty?" And Connie licked her lips suggestively.

Carol licked hers, too, thoughtfully. Then she called up the stairs, "Lark, come here, quick!"

Lark did so, and duly exclaimed and admired. Then she said significantly, "I suppose you are going to divide with us?"

"Of course," said Connie with some indignation. "I'm going to cut it in five pieces so Prudence and Fairy can have some, too."

A pause, while Carol and Lark gazed at each other soberly. Mentally, each twin was figuring how big her share would be when the pear was divided in fives. Then Lark spoke.

"It is the will of Skull and Crossbones that this luscious fruit be turned over to them immediately."

Constance faltered, held it out, drew it back.

"If I do, I suppose you'll give me part of it, anyhow," she said, and her eyes glittered.

"Not so, damsel," said Carol ominously. "The Ancient and Honorable takes,—it never gives."

For a moment Constance wavered. Then she flamed into sudden anger. "I won't do it, so there!" she cried. "I think you're mean selfish pigs, that's what I think! Taking my very own pear, and—but you won't get it! I don't care if I never get into your silly old society,—you don't get a bite of this pear, I can tell you that!" And Constance rushed up-stairs and slammed a door. A few seconds later the door opened again, and her cherished badge was flung down upon Skull and Crossbones.

"There's your old black string smeared up with red ink!" she yelled at them wildly. And again the door slammed.

Carol picked up the insulted badge, and studied it thoughtfully. Lark spoke first.

"It occurs to me, Fair Gwendolyn, that we would do well to keep this little scene from the ears of the just and righteous Prudence."

"Right, as always, Brave Knight," was the womanly retort. And the twins betook themselves to the haymow in thoughtful mood.

A little later, when Prudence and Fairy came laughing into the down-stairs hall, a white-faced Constance met them. "Look," she said, holding out a pear, divided into three parts, just like Gaul. "Mr. Arnold gave me this pear, and here's a piece for each of you."

The girls thanked her warmly, but Prudence paused with her third almost touching her lips. "How about the twins?" she inquired. "Aren't they at home? Won't they break your pledge if you leave them out?"

Constance looked up sternly. "I offered them some half an hour ago, and they refused it," she said. "And they have already put me out of the society!" There was tragedy in the childish face, and Prudence put her arms around this baby-sister.

"Tell Prue all about it, Connie," she said. But Constance shook her head.

"It can't be talked about. Go on and eat your pear. It is good."

"Was it all right?" questioned Prudence. "Did the twins play fair, Connie?"

"Yes," said Constance. "It was all right. Don't talk about it."

But in two days Constance repented of her rashness. In three days she was pleading for forgiveness. And in four days she was starting in on another two weeks of pledgedom, and the desecrated ribbon with its drop of blood reposed once more on her ambitious breast.

For three days her service was sore indeed, for the twins informed her, with sympathy, that she must be punished for insubordination. "But after that, we'll be just as easy on you as anything, Connie," they told her. "So don't you get sore now. In three days, we'll let up on you."

A week passed, ten days, and twelve. Then came a golden October afternoon when the twins sat in the haymow looking out upon a mellow world. Constance was in the yard, reading a fairy story. The situation was a tense one, for the twins were hungry, and time was heavy on their hands.

"The apple trees in Avery's orchard are just loaded," said Lark aimlessly. "And there are lots on the ground, too. I saw them when I was out in the field this morning."

"Some of the trees are close to our fence, too," said Carol slowly. "Very close."

Lark glanced up with sudden interest. "That's so," she said. "And the wires on the fence are awfully loose."

Carol gazed down into the yard where Constance was absorbed in her book. "Constance oughtn't to read as much as she does," she argued. "It's so bad for the eyes."

"Yes, and what's more, she's been getting off too easy the last few days. The time is nearly up."

"That's so," said Lark. "Let's call her up here." This was done at once, and the unfortunate Constance walked reluctantly toward the barn, her fascinating story still in her hand.

"You see, they've got more apples than they need, and those on the ground are just going to waste," continued Carol, pending the arrival of the little pledge. "The chickens are pecking at them, and ruining them."

"It's criminal destruction, that's what it is," declared Lark.

Connie stood before them respectfully, as they had instructed her to stand. The twins hesitated, each secretly hoping the other would voice the order. But Lark as usual was obliged to be the spokesman.

"Damsel," she said, "it is the will of Skull and Crossbones that you hie ye to yonder orchard,—Avery's, I mean,—and bring hither some of the golden apples basking in the sun."

"What!" ejaculated Connie, startled out of her respect.

Carol frowned.

Connie hastened to modify her tone. "Did they say you might have them?" she inquired politely.

"That concerns thee not, 'tis for thee only to render obedience to the orders of the Society. Go out through our field and sneak under the fence where the wires are loose, and hurry back. We're awfully hungry. The trees are near the fence. There isn't any danger."

"But it's stealing," objected Connie. "What will Prudence——"

"Damsel!" And Connie turned to obey with despair in her heart.

"Bring twelve," Carol called after her, "that'll be four apiece. And hurry, Connie. And see they don't catch you while you're about it."

After she had gone, the twins lay back thoughtfully on the hay and stared at the cobwebby roof above them.

"It's a good thing Prudence and Fairy are downtown," said Lark sagely.

"Yes, or we'd catch it," assented Carol. "But I don't see why! The Averys have too many apples, and they are going to waste. I'm sure Mrs. Avery would rather let us have them than the chickens."

They lay in silence for a while. Something was hurting them, but whether it was their fear of the wrath of Prudence, or the twinges of tender consciences,—who can say?

"She's an unearthly long time about it," exclaimed Lark, at last. "Do you suppose they caught her?"

This was an awful thought, and the girls were temporarily suffocated. But they heard the barn door swinging beneath them, and sighed with relief. It was Connie! She climbed the ladder skilfully, and poured her golden treasure before the arch thieves, Skull and Crossbones.

There were eight big tempting apples.

"Hum! Eight," said Carol sternly. "I said twelve."

"Yes, but I was afraid some one was coming. I heard such a noise through the grapevines, so I got what I could and ran for it. There's three apiece for you, and two for me," said Connie, sitting down sociably beside them on the hay.

But Carol rose. "Damsel, begone," she ordered. "When Skull and Crossbones feast, thou canst not yet share the festive board. Rise thee, and speed."

Connie rose, and walked soberly toward the ladder. But before she disappeared she fired this parting shot, "I don't want any of them. Stolen apples don't taste very good, I reckon."

Carol and Lark had the grace to flush a little at this, but however the stolen apples tasted, the twins had no difficulty in disposing of them. Then, full almost beyond the point of comfort, they slid down the hay-chutes, went out the back way, climbed over the chicken coops,—not because it was necessary, but because it was their idea of amusement,—and went for a walk in the field. At the farthest corner of the field they crawled under the fence, cut through a neighboring potato patch, and came out on the street. Then they walked respectably down the sidewalk, turned the corner and came quietly in through the front door of the parsonage.

Prudence was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. Fairy was in the sitting-room, busy with her books. The twins set the table conscientiously, filled the wood-box, and in every way labored irreproachably. But Prudence had no word of praise for them that evening. She hardly seemed to know they were about the place. She went about her work with a pale face, and never a smile to be seen.

Supper was nearly ready when Connie sauntered in from the barn. After leaving the haymow, she had found a cozy corner in the com-crib, with two heavy lap robes discarded by the twins in their flight from wolves, and had settled down there to finish her story. As she stepped into the kitchen, Prudence turned to her with such a sorry, reproachful gaze that Connie was frightened.

"Are you sick, Prue?" she gasped.

Prudence did not answer. She went to the door and called Fairy. "Finish getting supper, will you, Fairy? And when you are all ready, you and the twins go right on eating. Don't wait for father,—he isn't coming home until evening. Come up-stairs with me, Connie; I want to talk to you."

Connie followed her sister soberly, and the twins flashed at each other startled and questioning looks.

The three girls were at the table when Prudence came into the dining-room alone. She fixed a tray-supper quietly and carried it off up-stairs. Then she came back and sat down by the table. But her face bore marks of tears, and she had no appetite. The twins had felt small liking for their food before, now each mouthful seemed to choke them. But they dared not ask a question. They were devoutly thankful when Fairy finally voiced their interest.

"What is the matter? Has Connie been in mischief?"

"It's worse than that," faltered Prudence, tears rushing to her eyes again.

"Why, Prudence! What in the world has she done?"

"I may as well tell you, I suppose,—you'll have to know it sooner or later. She—went out into Avery's orchard and stole some apples this afternoon. I was back in the alley seeing if Mrs. Moon could do the washing, and I saw her from the other side. She went from tree to tree, and when she got through the fence she ran. There's no mistake about it,—she confessed." The twins looked up in agony, but Prudence's face reassured them. Constance had told no tales. "I have told her she must spend all of her time up-stairs alone for a week, taking her meals there, too. She will go to school, of course, but that is all. I want her to see the awfulness of it. I told her I didn't think we wanted to eat with—a thief—just yet! I said we must get used to the idea of it first. She is heartbroken, but—I must make her see it!"

That was the end of supper. No one attempted to eat another bite. After the older girls had gone into the sitting-room, Carol and Lark went about their work with stricken faces.

"She's a little brick not to tell," whispered Lark.

"I'm going to give her that pearl pin of mine she always liked," said Carol in a hushed voice.

"I'll give her my blue ribbon, too,—she loves blue so. And to-morrow I'll take that quarter I've saved and buy her a whole quarter's worth of candy."

But that night when the twins went up to bed, they were doomed to disappointment. They had no chance of making it up with Constance. For Prudence had moved her small bed out of the twins' room, and had placed it in the front room occupied by herself and Fairy. They asked if they might speak to Constance, but Prudence went in with them to say good night to her. The twins broke down and cried as they saw the pitiful little figure with the wan and tear-stained face. They threw their arms around her passionately and kissed her many times. But they went to bed without saying anything.

Hours later, Lark whispered, "Carol! are you asleep?"

"No. I can't go to sleep somehow."

"Neither can I. Do you think we'd better tell Prudence all about it?"

Carol squirmed in the bed. "I—suppose we had," she said reluctantly.

"But—it'll be lots worse for us than for Connie," Lark added. "We're so much older, and we made her do it."

"Yes, and we ate all the apples," mourned Carol.

"Maybe we'd better just let it go," suggested Lark.

"And we'll make it up to Connie afterwards," said Carol.

"Now, you be careful and not give it away, Carol."

"You see that you don't."

But it was a sorry night for the twins. The next morning they set off to school, with no chance for anything but a brief good morning with Connie,—given in the presence of Prudence. Half-way down the parsonage walk, Carol said:

"Oh, wait a minute, Lark. I left my note-book on the table." And Lark walked slowly while Carol went rushing back. She found Prudence in the kitchen, and whispered:

"Here—here's a note, Prudence. Don't read it until after I've gone to school,—at ten o'clock you may read it. Will you promise?"

Prudence laughed a little, but she promised, and laid the note carefully away to wait the appointed hour for its perusal. As the clock struck ten she went to the mantle, and took it down. This is what Carol had written:

"Oh, Prudence, do please forgive me, and don't punish Connie any more. You can punish me any way you like, and I'll be glad of it. It was all my fault. I made her go and get the apples for me, and I ate them. Connie didn't eat one of them. She said stolen apples would not taste very good. It was all my fault, and I'm so sorry. I was such a coward I didn't dare tell you last night. Will you forgive me? But you must punish me as hard as ever you can. But please, Prudence, won't you punish me some way without letting Lark know about it? Please, please, Prudence, don't let Larkie know. You can tell Papa and Fairy so they will despise me, but keep it from my twin. If you love me, Prudence, don't let Larkie know."

As Prudence read this her face grew very stern. Carol's fault! And she was ashamed to have her much-loved twin know of her disgrace. At that moment, Prudence heard some one running through the hall, and thrust the note hastily into her dress. It was Lark, and she flung herself wildly upon Prudence, sobbing bitterly.

"What is the matter, Lark?" she tried, really frightened. "Are you sick?"

"Heartsick, that's all," wailed Lark. "I told the teacher I was sick so I could come home, but I'm not. Oh, Prudence, I know you'll despise and abominate me all the rest of your life, and everybody will, and I deserve it. For I stole those apples myself. That is, I made Connie go and get them for me. She didn't want to. She begged not to. But I made her. She didn't eat one of them,—I did it. And she felt very badly about it. Oh, Prudence, you can do anything in the world to me,—I don't care how horrible it is; I only hope you will. But, Prudence, you won't let Carol know, will you? Oh, spare me that, Prudence, please. That's my last request, that you keep it from Carol."

Prudence was surprised and puzzled. She drew the note from her pocket, and gave it to Lark. "Carol gave me that before she went to school," she explained. "Read it, and tell me what you are driving at. I think you are both crazy. Or maybe you are just trying to shield poor Connie."

Lark read Carol's note, and gasped, and—burst out laughing! The shame, and bitter weeping, and nervousness, had rendered her hysterical, and now she laughed and cried until Prudence was alarmed again.

In time, however, Lark was able to explain. "We both did it," she gasped, "the Skull and Crossbones. And we both told the truth about it. We made her go and get them for us, and we ate them, and she didn't want to go. I advised Carol not to tell, and she advised me not to. All the way to school this morning, we kept advising each other not to say a word about it. But I intended all the time to pretend I was sick, so I could come and confess alone. I wanted to take the punishment for both of us, so Carol could get out. I guess that's what she thought, too. Bless her little old heart, as if I'd let her he punished for my fault. And it was mostly my fault, too, Prue, for I mentioned the apples first of all."

Prudence laughed,—it was really ludicrous. But when she thought of loyal little Connie, sobbing all through the long night, the tears came to her eyes again. She went quickly to the telephone, and called up the school building next door to the parsonage.

"May I speak to Constance Starr, Mr. Imes?" she asked. "It is very important. This is Prudence, her sister." And when Connie came to the telephone, she cried, "Oh, you blessed little child, why didn't you tell me? Will you forgive me, Connie? I ought to have made you tell me all about it, but I was so sorry, I couldn't bear to talk much about it. The twins have told me. You're a dear, sweet, good little darling, that's what you are."

"Oh, Prudence!" That was all Connie said, but something in her voice made Prudence hang up the receiver quickly, and cry bitterly!

That noon Prudence pronounced judgment on the sinners, but her eyes twinkled, for Carol and Lark had scolded each other roundly for giving things away!

"Connie should have refused to obey you," she said gently, holding Connie in her arms. "She knew it was wrong. But she has been punished more than enough. But you twins! In the first place, I right now abolish the Skull and Crossbones forever and ever. And you can not play in the barn again for a month. And you must go over to the Averys this afternoon, and tell them about it, and pay for the apples. And you must send all of your spending money for the next month to that woman who is gathering up things for the bad little children in the Reform School,—that will help you remember what happens to boys and girls who get in the habit of taking things on the spur of the moment!"

The twins accepted all of this graciously, except that which referred to confessing their sin to their neighbors. That did hurt! The twins were so superior, and admirable! They couldn't bear to ruin their reputations. But Prudence stood firm, in spite of their weeping and wailing. And that afternoon two shamefaced sorry girls crept meekly in at the Averys' door to make their peace.

"But about the Skull and Crossbones, it's mostly punishment for me, Prue," said Connie regretfully, "for the twins have been in it ever since we came to Mount Mark, and I never got in at all! And I wanted them to call me Lady Magdalina Featheringale." And Connie sighed.



CHAPTER V

THE TWINS STICK UP FOR THE BIBLE

Prudence had been calling on a "sick member." Whenever circumstances permitted she gladly served as pastoral assistant for her father, but she always felt that raising the family was her one big job, and nothing was allowed to take precedence of it. As she walked that afternoon down Maple Street,—seemingly so-called because it was bordered with grand old elms,—she felt at peace with all the world. The very sunshine beaming down upon her through the huge skeletons of the leafless elms, was not more care-free than the daughter of the parsonage. Parsonage life had been running smoothly for as much as ten days past, and Prudence, in view of that ten days' immunity, was beginning to feel that the twins, if not Connie also, were practically reared!

"Mount Mark is a dear old place,—a duck of a place, as the twins would say,—and I'm quite sorry there's a five-year limit for Methodist preachers. I should truly like to live right here until I am old and dead."

Then she paused, and bowed, and smiled. She did not recognize the bright-faced young woman approaching, but she remembered just in time that parsonage people are marked characters. So she greeted the stranger cordially.

"You are Miss Starr, aren't you?" the bright-faced woman was saying. "I am Miss Allen,—the principal of the high school, you know."

"Oh, yes," cried Prudence, thrusting forth her hand impulsively, "oh, yes, I know. I am so glad to meet you."

Miss Allen was a young woman of twenty-six, with clear kind eyes and a strong sweet mouth. She had about her that charm of manner which can only be described as winsome womanliness. Prudence gazed at her with open and honest admiration. Such a young woman to be the principal of a high school in a city the size of Mount Mark! She must be tremendously clever. But Prudence did not sigh. We can't all be clever, you know. There must be some of us to admire the rest of us!

The two walked along together, chatting sociably on subjects that meant nothing to either of them. Presently Miss Allen stopped, and with a graceful wave of her hand, said lightly:

"This is where I am rooming. Are you in a very great hurry this afternoon? I should like to talk to you about the twins. Will you come in?"

The spirits of Prudence fell earthward with a clatter! The twins! Whatever had they been doing now?

She followed Miss Allen into the house and up the stairs with the joy quite quenched in her heart. She did not notice the dainty room into which she was conducted. She ignored the offered chair, and with a dismal face turned toward Miss Allen.

"Oh, please! What have they been doing? Is it very awful?"

Miss Allen laughed gaily. "Oh, sit down and don't look so distressed. It's nothing at all. They haven't been doing anything. I just want to discuss them on general principles, you know. It's my duty to confer with the parents and guardians of my scholars."

Immensely relieved, Prudence sank down in the chair, and rocked comfortably to and fro a few times. General principles,—ah, blessed words!

"I suppose you know that Carol is quite the idol of the high school already. She is the adored one of the place. You see, she is not mixed up in any scholastic rivalry. Lark is one of the very best in her class, and there is intense rivalry between a few of the freshmen. But Carol is out of all that, and every one is free to worship at her shrine. She makes no pretensions to stand first."

"Is she very stupid?" Prudence was disappointed. She did so want both of her twins to shine.

"Stupid! Not a bit of it. She is a very good scholar, much better than the average. Our first pupils, including Lark, average around ninety-six and seven. Then there are others ranging between ninety and ninety-four. Carol is one of them. The fairly good ones are over eighty-five, and the fairly bad ones are over seventy-five, and the hopeless ones are below that. This is a rough way of showing how they stand. Lark is a very fine scholar, really the best in the class. She not only makes good grades, she grasps the underlying significance of her studies. Very few freshmen, even among the best, do that. She is quite exceptional. We hope to make something very big and fine of Larkie."

Prudence's eyes shone with motherly pride. She nodded, striving to make her voice natural and matter-of-fact as she answered, "Yes, she is bright."

"She certainly is! Carol is quite different, but she is so sweet-spirited, and vivacious, and—un-snobbish, if you know what that means—that every one in high school, and even the grammar-grade children, idolize her. She is very witty, but her wit is always innocent and kind. She never hurts any one's feelings. And she is never impertinent. The professors are as crazy about her as the scholars,—forgive the slang. Did the twins ever tell you what happened the first day of school?"

"No,—tell me." Prudence was clearly very anxious.

"I shall never forget it. The freshmen were sent into the recitation room to confer with Professor Duke about text-books, etc. Carol was one of the first in the line, as they came out. She sat down in her seat in the first aisle, with one foot out at the side. One of the boys tripped over it. 'Carol,' said Miss Adams gently, 'you forgot yourself, didn't you?' And Carol's eyes twinkled as she said, 'Oh, no, Miss Adams, if I had I'd still be in the recitation room.'" Miss Allen laughed, but Prudence's eyes were agonized.

"How hateful of her!"

"Don't the twins tell you little things that happen at school,—like that, for instance?"

"Never! I supposed they were perfectly all right."

"Well, here's another. Twice a week we have talks on First Aid to the Injured. Professor Duke conducts them. One day he asked Carol what she would do if she had a very severe cold, and Carol said, 'I'd soak my feet in hot water and go to bed. My sister makes me.'" Miss Allen laughed again, but Prudence was speechless.

"Sometimes we have talks on normal work, practical informal discussions. Many of our scholars will be country school-teachers, you know. Miss Adams conducts these normal hours. One day she asked Carol what she would do if she had applied for a school, and was asked by the directors to write a thesis on student discipline, that they might judge of her and her ability by it? Carol said, 'I'd get Lark to write it for me.'"

Even Prudence laughed a little at this, but she said, "Why don't you scold her?"

"We talked it all over shortly after she entered school. Miss Adams did not understand Carol at first, and thought she was a little impertinent. But Professor Duke and I stood firm against even mentioning it to her. She is perfectly good-natured about it. You know, of course, Miss Starr, that we really try to make individuals of our scholars. So many, many hundreds are turned out of the public schools all cut on one pattern. We do not like it. We fight against it. Carol is different from others by nature, and we're going to keep her different if possible. If we crush her individuality, she will come out just like thousands of others,—all one pattern! Miss Adams is as fond of Carol now as any one of us. You understand that we could not let impudence or impertinence pass unreproved, but Carol is never guilty of that. She is always respectful and courteous. But she is spontaneous and quick-witted, and we are glad of it. Do you know what the scholars call Professor Duke?"

"Professor Duck," said Prudence humbly. "But they mean it for a compliment. They really admire and like him very much. I hope he does not know what they call him."

"He does! One day he was talking about the nobility system in England. He explained the difference between dukes, and earls, and lords, etc., and told them who is to be addressed as Your Majesty, Your Highness, Your Grace and so on. Then he said, 'Now, Carol, if I was the king's eldest son, what would you call me?' And Carol said, 'I'd still call you a Duck, Professor,—it wouldn't make any difference to me.'"

Prudence could only sigh.

"One other time he was illustrating phenomena. He explained the idea, and tried to get one of the boys to mention the word,—phenomenon, you know. The boy couldn't think of it. Professor gave three or four illustrations, and still the boy couldn't remember it. 'Oh, come now,' professor said, finally, 'something unusual, something very much out of the ordinary! Suppose you should see a blackbird running a race down the street with a sparrow, what would you call it?' The boy couldn't imagine, and professor said, 'What would you call that, Carol?' Carol said, 'A bad dream.'"

Prudence smiled wearily.

"Sometimes we have discussions of moral points. We take turns about conducting them, and try to stimulate their interest in such things. We want to make them think, every one for himself. One day Professor Duke said, 'Suppose a boy in this town has a grudge against you,—unjust and unfair. You have tried one thing after another to change his attitude. But he continues to annoy and inconvenience and even hurt you, on every occasion. Remember that you have tried every ordinary way of winning his good will. Now what are you going to do as a last resort?' Carol said, 'I'll tell papa on him.'" Miss Allen laughed again, heartily. "It does have a disturbing effect on the class, I admit, and often spoils a good point, but Professor Duke calls on Carol every time he sees her eyes twinkle! He does it on purpose. And Miss Adams is nearly as bad as he. One day she said, 'Suppose you have unintentionally done something to greatly irritate and inconvenience a prominent man in town. He knows you did it, and he is very angry. He is a man of sharp temper and disagreeable manners. You know that he will be extremely unpleasant and insulting if you go to him with explanations and apologies. What are you going to do?' 'I think I'll just keep out of his way for a few weeks,' said Carol soberly."

"I hope she doesn't talk like that to you, Miss Allen."

Instantly Miss Allen was grave. "No, she does not, I am so sorry." Leaning forward suddenly, she said, "Miss Starr, why do the twins dislike me?"

"Dislike you!" echoed Prudence. "Why, they do not dislike you! What in the world makes you think——"

"Oh, yes indeed they do,—both of them. Now, why? People generally like me. I have always been popular with my students. This is my second year here. Last year the whole high school stood by me as one man. This year, the freshmen started as usual. After one week, the twins changed. I knew it instantly. Then other freshmen changed. Now the whole class comes as near snubbing me as they dare. Do you mean to say they have never told you about it?"

"Indeed they have not. And I am sure you are mistaken. They do like you. They like everybody."

"Christian tolerance, perhaps," smiled Miss Allen ruefully. "But I want them to like me personally and intimately. I can help the twins. I can do them good, I know I can. But they won't let me. They keep me at arm's length. They are both dear, and I love them. But they freeze me to death! Why?"

"I can't believe it!"

"But it is true. Don't they talk of their professors at home at all?"

"Oh, often."

"What do they say of us?"

"Why, they say Miss Adams is a perfectly sweet old lamb,—they do not mean to be disrespectful. And they say Professor Duke is the dearest duck! They almost swear by 'Professor Duck'!"

"And what do they say of me?"

Prudence hesitated, thinking hard.

"Come now, what do they say? We must get to the bottom of this."

"Why, they have said that you are very pretty, and most unbelievably smart."

"Oh! Quite a difference between sweet old lamb, and the dearest duck, and being very pretty and smart! Do you see it?"

"Yes," confessed Prudence reluctantly, "but I hadn't thought of it before."

"Now, what is wrong? What have I done? Why, look here. The twins think everything of Professor Duke, and I am sure Carol deliberately neglects her science lessons in order to be kept in after school by him. But though she hates mathematics,—my subject,—she works at it desperately so I can't keep her in. She sits on Mr. Duke's table and chats with him by the hour. But she passes me up with a curt, 'Good night, Miss Allen.'"

"And Larkie, too?"

"Lark is worse than Carol. Her dislike is deeper-seated. I believe I could win Carol in time. Sometimes I waylay her when she is leaving after school, and try my best. But just as she begins to thaw, Lark invariably comes up to see if she is ready to go home, and she looks at both of us with superior icy eyes. And Carol freezes in a second. Ordinarily, she looks at me with a sort of sympathetic pity and wonder, but Lark is always haughty and nearly contemptuous. It is different with the rest of the class. It is nothing important to them. The twins are popular in the class, you know, and the others, realizing that they dislike me, hold aloof on their account."

"I can't fathom it," said Prudence.

"Now, Professor Duke is very brilliant and clever and interesting. And he does like Carol tremendously,—Larkie, too. He says she is the cleverest girl he ever knew. But Carol is his favorite. But he does not like teaching, and he has not the real interests of the scholars at heart. Next year, he is to begin some very wonderful research work at a big salary. That is what he loves. That is where his interests lie. But this year, being idle, and his uncle being on the school board here, he accepted this place as a sort of vacation in the meanwhile. That is all it means to him. But I love teaching, it is my life-work. I love the young people, and I want to help them. Why won't the twins give me a chance? Surely I am as attractive as Professor Duke. They are even fond of Miss Adams, whom most people consider rather a sour old maid. But they have no use for me. I want you to find out the reason, and tell me. Will you do it? They will tell you if you ask them, won't they?"

"I think so. It is partly my fault. I am very strict with them about saying hateful things about people. I do not allow it. And I insist that they like everybody,—if they don't, I make them. So they have just kept it to themselves. But I will do my best."

One would have thought that Prudence carried the responsibility for the entire public-school system of the United States upon her shoulders that night, so anxious were her eyes, so grave her face. Supper over, she quietly suggested to Fairy that she would appreciate the absence of herself and Connie for a time. And Fairy instantly realized that the twins must be dealt with seriously for something. So she went in search of Connie, and the two set out for a long walk. Then Prudence went to the kitchen where the twins were washing the dishes, and as usual, laughing immoderately over something.

Prudence sat down and leaned her elbows on the table, her chin in her palms. "I met Miss Allen to-day," she said, closely observing the faces of the twins. A significant glance flashed between them, and they stiffened instantly.

"She's very pretty and sweet, isn't she?" continued Prudence.

"Yes, very," agreed Lark without any enthusiasm.

"Such pretty hair," added Carol dispassionately.

"She must be very popular with the scholars," suggested Prudence.

"Yes, most of them are fond of her," assented Lark.

"She has rather winsome manners, I think," said Carol.

"Which of your professors do you like best?" queried Prudence.

"Duck," they answered unanimously, and with brightening faces.

"Why?"

"Because he is a duck," said Carol, and they all laughed. But Prudence returned to the charge without delay.

"Do you like Miss Allen?" She was going through these questions with such solemnity that the twins' suspicions had been aroused right at the start. What had Miss Allen told their sister? Again that significant flash from twin to twin.

"She certainly has very likeable ways," said Lark shrewdly.

"But do you like her?" insisted Prudence.

"I would like her very much under ordinary circumstances," admitted Carol.

"What is unusual about the circumstances?" Prudence wanted to know.

"Look here, Prudence, what did Miss Allen tell you? Was she complaining about us? We've been very nice and orderly, I'm sure." Lark was aggrieved.

"She wasn't complaining. She likes you both. But she says you do not like her. I want to know why."

"Well, if you must know, Miss Allen is a heretic," snapped Lark.

Then Prudence leaned back in her chair and gazed at the flushed faces of the twins for two full minutes.

"A—a—a what?" she ejaculated, when power of speech returned to her.

"Heretic," said Carol with some relish. "A heretic! You know what heresy is, don't you? We'll tell you all about it if you like, now you've got things started."

"We didn't tell you before because we thought you and father would feel badly about sending us to school to a heretic. But don't you worry,—Miss Allen hasn't influenced us any."

"We haven't given her a chance," said Carol, with her impish smile.

"Go on," begged Prudence. "Tell me. You're both crazy, I see that. But tell me!"

"Well," began Lark, for Carol always relegated the story-telling to her more gifted twin, "we've suspected Miss Allen right from the start. They used to have Bible reading every morning in school, one chapter, you know, and then the Lord's prayer. After the first week, Miss Allen dropped it. We thought that was a—a suspicious circumstance."

"Phenomenally so," said Carol darkly.

"But we kept our suspicions to ourselves, and we didn't come across anything else for several days. We wouldn't condemn anybody on—on circumstantial evidence, Prue. We're very fair-minded, you know."

"In spite of being twins," added Carol.

"What's that got to do with it?" Prudence inquired, frowning at Carol.

"Oh, nothing," admitted Carol, driven into a corner. "I just wanted to make it emphatic."

"Go on, Lark."

"Well, there's a girl at school named Hattie Simpson. You do not know her, Prue. We don't associate with her. Oh, yes, we like her very well, but she isn't parsonage material."

"She's a goat," put in Carol. "You needn't frown, Prue, that's Bible! Don't you remember the sheep and the goats? I don't know now just what it was they did, but I know the goats were very—very disreputable characters!"

"Go on, Lark."

"Well, her folks are atheists, and she's an atheist, too. You know what an atheist is, don't you? You know, Prue, Mount Mark is a very religious town, on account of the Presbyterian College, and all, and it seems the Simpsons are the only atheists here. Hattie says people look down on her terribly because of it. She says the church folks consider them, the Simpsons, that is, the dust on their shoes, and the crumbs off the rich man's table. She got that terribly mixed up, but I didn't correct her."

"I think she did very well for an atheist," said Carol, determined not to be totally overlooked in this discussion.

"What has all this to do with Miss Allen?"

"Well, one day Hattie was walking home from school with us, and she was telling us about it,—the dust on their shoes, etc.,—and she said she liked Miss Allen better than anybody else in town. I asked why. She said Miss Allen believed the same things the Simpsons believe, only Miss Allen daren't say so publicly, or they would put her out of the school. She said Miss Allen said that most church members were hypocrites and drunkards and—and just generally bad, and the ones outside the church are nearly always good and moral and kind. She said Miss Allen joined the Presbyterian church here because most of the school board are Presbyterians. She said Miss Allen said she didn't care if people were Catholics or Jews or atheists or—or just ordinary Protestants, so long as they were kind to one another, and went about the world doing good works. And that's why Miss Allen wouldn't read the Bible and say the Lord's prayer in school."

"What do you think of that?" demanded Carol. "Isn't that heresy? She's as bad as the priest and Levite, isn't she?"

"Did you ask Miss Allen about it?"

"No, indeed, we've just ignored Miss Allen ever since. We have watched her as closely as we could since then, to see if we could catch her up again. Of course she has to be careful what she says in school, but we found several strong points against her. It's a perfectly plain case, no doubt about it."

"And so you went among the other freshmen influencing them, and telling tales, and criticizing your——"

"No indeed, Prue, we wouldn't! But you know it says in the Bible to beware of false doctrines and the sowers of bad seed,—or something like that—"

"And we bewared as hard as we could!" grinned Carol.

"We have tried to explain these things to the other freshmen so Miss Allen could not lead them into—into error. Oh, that's Christian Science, isn't it? Well, Minnie Carlson is a Christian Scientist and she talks so much about falling into error that—honestly——"

"We can't tell error from truth any more," interjected Carol neatly. "And so I hope you won't punish us if we accidentally vary from the truth once in a while."

This was quite beyond Prudence's depth. She knew little of Christian Science save that it was a widely accepted creed of recent origin. So she brought the twins back to Miss Allen again. "But, twins, do you think it was kind, and Christian, and—and like parsonage girls, to accept all this against Miss Allen without giving her a chance to defend herself?"

"As I told you, Prue, we have watched her very close since then. She has never come right out in the open,—she wouldn't dare,—but she has given herself away several times. Nothing can get by us when we're on the watch, you know!"

Prudence knew. "What did Miss Allen say?"

The twins thought seriously for a while.

"Oh, yes, Lark," suggested Carol finally, "don't you remember she said the Bible was an allegory?"

"What?"

"Yes, she did. She was explaining to the English class what was meant by allegory, and she said the purpose of using allegory was to teach an important truth in a homely impressive way that could be remembered. She mentioned several prominent allegories, and said the Bible was one. And you know yourself Prue, that the Bible is Gospel truth, and—I mean, it is so! I mean——"

"What she means," said Lark helpfully, "is that the Bible is not just a pretty way of teaching people to be good, but it's solid fact clear through."

"That's very well expressed, Lark,"—Prudence herself could not have expressed it half so well! "But how do you twins understand all these things so thoroughly?"

"Oh, you know Mrs. Sears is our Sunday-school teacher, and she's always hot on the trail of the higher critics and heretics. She explained all about the—the nefarious system to us one Sunday. She says the higher critics try to explain away the Bible by calling it allegory. So we were ready for Miss Allen there. And whenever anything came up at school, we would ask Mrs. Sears about it on Sunday,—without mentioning names of course. She's very much gratified that we are so much interested in such things. She thinks we're sure to be deaconesses, at the very least. But Carol said she wouldn't be a deaconess,—she was going to be a Red Cross nurse and go to war. That stumped Mrs. Sears for a while, and then she said we could be Red Cross Deaconess nurses."

"I won't," said Carol, "because the deaconess uniforms aren't as stylish as the Red Cross nurses'. I think I'll look pretty fine in a white uniform with a stiff little cap and a red cross on my arm. Red crosses make a very pretty decoration, don't you think they do, Lark?"

"What else did Miss Allen say at school?" Prudence demanded, leading the twins back to the subject.

"Well, one day she said,—you know she gives uplifting little moral talks quite often, Prue. Sometimes she tells us stories with inspiring points. She's really a moral person, I believe."

"And I'm honestly sorry she's a heretic," said Carol, "for I do want to be friendly enough with her to ask if she uses anything on her complexion to keep it so rose-leafy. If she does, I'll have some of it, if it takes all my next year's clothes!"

Lark laughed. "A rose-leaf complexion will be a poor substitute for——"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, twins, come back to Miss Allen. I am going right up to her house this minute, to ask her about it, and explain——"

"She's the one to do the explaining, seems to me," said Carol belligerently. "We've got to stick up for the Bible, Prue,—it's our business."

"And I don't think you should tell her,—it may hurt her feelings," urged Lark.

"Have heretics feelings?" queried Carol. "I suppose it's a feeling of——"

"Carol! Will you quit talking for a minute! This is a serious matter. If she believes all that nonsense, she's no proper teacher and—and she'll have to be put out of the high school. And if she doesn't believe it, she's a martyr! I'm going to find out about it at once. Do you want to come with me?"

"I should say not," said the twins promptly.

"I think you're very foolish to go at all," added Lark.

"I wouldn't go for a dollar," declared Carol. "It'd be very interesting to see how a heretic feels, but I don't care to know how ordinary Christians feel when they fall into their hands. I'm not aching to see Miss Allen to-night."

So Prudence set forth, conscientiously, in the darkness. A brave and heroic thing for Prudence to do, for she was a cowardly creature at heart.

Miss Allen heard her voice in the lower hall, and came running down-stairs to meet her. "Come up," she cried eagerly, "come on up."

And before Prudence was fairly inside the door, she demanded, "What is it? Did you find out? Is it my fault?"

Then Prudence blushed and stammered, "Why—it sounds—silly but—they think you are a—heretic."

Miss Allen gasped. Then she laughed. Then she walked to her dressing-table and picked up a long hatpin. "Will you kindly jab this into me?" she said. "I'm having a nightmare."

Prudence explained in detail. At first Miss Allen laughed, it must be confessed. Then she grew very sober. "It is really my fault," she said, "for I should have remembered that young people read a ton of meaning into a pound of words. Of course, I am not guilty, Miss Starr. Professor Duke and Miss Adams can swear to that. They call me Goody-goody. They say I am an old-fashioned apostle, and they accuse me of wanting to burn them both at the stake! Now, sit down and let me explain."

Prudence sat down. She was glad, so glad, that this sweet-faced, bright-eyed woman was an "ordinary Christian," and not a "priest and a Levite!"

"About the allegory business, it is very simple. What I said was this,—'The Bible is full of allegory.' I did not say, 'The Bible is allegory.' I said the Bible is full of allegory, and so it is. The parables, for instance,—what are they? Do you see the difference?—But it is really more serious about poor little Hattie Simpson. As the twins told you, her parents are atheists. Her father is a loud-voiced, bragging, boastful, coarse-hearted fellow. Hattie herself does not know what her parents believe, and what they do not. She simply follows blindly after them. She thinks she is an eyesore in Mount Mark because of it. She resents it bitterly, but she feels the only decent thing for her to do is to stand by her folks. Let me tell you about our conversation. I tried to make friends with her, for I truly pity her. She has no friends, she slinks about as though constantly ashamed of herself. She trusts no one, herself least of all. I tried to draw her out, and with partial success. She told me how she feels about it all. I said, 'Hattie, won't you let some one—some minister, who knows how—tell you about Christianity, and explain to you what Christians really believe?' 'No,' she said passionately, 'I'll stand by my folks.' Then I saw she was not ready yet. I said, 'Well, perhaps it is just as well for the present, for you are too young now to take any definite stand for yourself. It is true,' I told her, 'that many church members are not Christians, and are bad immoral people,—as your father says. They are not Christians. And it is true that many outside of the church are good moral people,—but they are not Christians, either.' And then I said, 'Don't worry your head just now about whether people are Catholics or Jews or Protestants, or what they are. Just try to love everybody, and try to grow up to be such a sweet, kind, loving woman that you will be a blessing to the world. And what is more,' I said, 'do not puzzle your head now about why some believe the Bible, and some do not. Just wait. When you are older, you shall go into things for yourself, and make your own decision.'"

Prudence nodded. "I think you were very sweet about it," she said.

"I wanted to win her confidence in the hope that some time, a little later, I myself may show her what Christ is to us, and why we love the Bible. But I did fight shy of the real point, for fear I might anger her and put a barrier between us. I just tried to win her confidence and her love, to pave the way for what I may be able to do later on. Do you see? I have had several talks with her, but she is not ready. She is just a child, stubbornly determined to stand with her folks, right or wrong. I am trying now to cultivate the ground, I say nothing to make her dislike or distrust me. I did not think of her telling it to others,—and telling it wrong! Surely no one but the twins could have read so much into it!"

"Well," and Prudence smiled, "you know we are parsonage people! We have to stick up for the Bible, as Carol says."

"Oh, and about the Bible reading," said Miss Allen suddenly, "I have nothing to do with that. As you know, there are Jews and Catholics and Christian Scientists and every branch of Protestant represented in our little school. The Jews and Christian Scientists are in a minority. The Jews, have always objected to Bible reading, but they were too few to be influential. With a Catholic teacher, the Catholics were quite willing to have it. With a Protestant teacher, the Protestants were strong for it. But there was always friction—one side objecting—so the school board ruled it out entirely. I did not explain this to the scholars. I did not want our young people to know of the petty bickering and scrapping going on among the elders in the town. So I simply said that hereafter we would dispense with the Bible reading. But it was the direct order of the board. I argued against it, so did Professor Duke, so did Miss Adams. But as it happens, we are all three Presbyterians! It did no good."

Then as Prudence rose to go home, she asked eagerly, "Do you think the twins will like me now?"

"I don't see how in the world they can help it," declared Prudence, smiling; "indeed, they admitted they were only too anxious to love you, but couldn't honestly do so because they had to stick up for the Bible! I am so glad and relieved! This is the first time I have gone heresy-hunting, and I was quite bowed down with the weight of it. And if ever I can help with poor little Hattie, will you let me know? I must have the twins invite her to spend some Saturday with us. That's the way I make the girls like people,—by being with them a great, great deal."

Just before she said good night, Prudence murmured hopefully, "I am sorry it happened, but it will be a good lesson for the twins. I am sure that after this, they will be less ready to listen to gossip, and more ready to give one the benefit of a doubt. It's a great responsibility, this raising a family, Miss Allen—and especially twins!"



CHAPTER VI

AN ADMIRER

It must be remembered that Prudence did not live in a sheltered and exclusive city home, where girls are rigidly withheld from all unchaperoned intercourse with young men and old. We know how things are managed in the "best homes" of the big cities,—girls are sheltered from innocent open things, and, too often, indulge in really serious amusements on the quiet. But this was the Middle West, where girls are to be trusted. Not all girls, of course, but as a matter of fact, the girls who need watching, seldom get enough of it to keep them out of mischief. Out in Iowa, girls and boys are allowed to like each other, and revel in each other's company. And it is good for both.

Prudence was not a sentimental girl. Perhaps this was partly due to the fact that at the age when most girls are head-full of boy, Prudence was hands-full of younger sisters! And when hands are full to overflowing, there is small likelihood of heads being full of nonsense. Prudence liked boys as she liked girls,—that was the end of it. Romance was to her a closed book, and she felt no inclination to peep between the covers. Soul-stirring had not come to her yet.

But Prudence was attractive. She had that indescribable charm that carries a deep appeal to the eyes, and the lips, and the hearts of men. Happily Prudence herself did not realize this. The first young man of Mount Mark to yield to the charms of Prudence was a serious-minded lawyer, nearly ten years her senior. This was just the type of man to become enraptured with Prudence. He gazed across at her solemnly during the church service. He waited patiently after the benediction until she finished her Methodist practise of hand-shaking, and then walked joyously home with her. He said little, but he gazed in frank enchantment at the small womanly girl beside him.

"He's not half bad, Fairy," Prudence would confide to her sister when they were snug in their bed. "He's not half bad at all. But at heart, he doesn't approve of me. He doesn't know that himself, and I certainly can't believe it is my duty to tell him. But I am convinced that it is true. For instance, he thinks every one, especially women, should have a mission in life, a serious, earnest mission. I told him I didn't believe anything of the kind,—I think we are just supposed to live along from day to day and do what we can, and be happy, and not say mean things about one another. But he said he considered that I was fulfilling the noblest mission a woman could have. Now what do you reckon he meant by that, Fairy? I've been puzzling my brain over it for days and days. Anybody can tell I am not the sort of girl to have a mission! Maybe he just said it to encourage me,—he's a very encouraging sort of man. He's very nice,—oh, very nice, indeed! But isn't it a nuisance to have him tagging along home with me, when I might be having such a good time with you and the twins, or father? Can a girl tell a man she prefers to go home with her family, without hurting his feelings? Is there any way to turn a person down without letting him know it? He's so nice I wouldn't hurt his feelings for anything, but—it's such a bother! I'm too young for beaus, and since I'm never going to get married it's just a waste of time."

And Fairy screamed with laughter, but told Prudence she must solve her own love problems! And Prudence, unwilling to give offense, and preferring self-sacrifice, endured his company until a gay young college lad slipped in ahead of him. "First come, first served," was the motto of heartless Prudence, and so she tripped comfortably away with "Jimmy," laughing at his silly college stories, and never thinking to give more than a parting smile at the solemn face she left behind.

After Jimmy came a grocery clerk named Byron Poe Smith, and after him somebody else, and somebody else, and somebody else. And Prudence continued to laugh, and thought it "awfully amusing, Fairy, but I keep wondering what you and the twins are laughing about!"

But it was Fairy herself who brought a real disturbing element into the life of Prudence. One of the lightest-minded of the many light-minded college men, had been deeply smitten by the charms of dignified Fairy. He walked with her, and talked with her,—this young man was a great deal of a talker, as so pathetically many college men are! He planned many little expeditions and entertainments for her amusement, and his own happiness. His name was Eugene Babler.

"Oh, he talks a lot," said Fairy coolly, "but he certainly shows one a good time, and that's the point, you know!"

She came in from college one afternoon and rattled off this little tale to Prudence.

"A few of us were on the campus to-day, and we decided to go down the creek to-morrow afternoon and take our suppers. There'll be Ellen Stark, and Georgia Prentiss, and myself. And the boys will be Tom Angell, and Frank Morris, and Eugene Babler. And Professor Rayburn was there when we were talking about it, and so we asked him to go along, but we told him he must take a girl. And he said, 'I wonder if your sister wouldn't go? I have only met her once, but perhaps on your recommendation, Miss Fairy——' and he paused with his breath in the air, inquiringly. So I said, 'Do you mean Prudence, or one of the twins?' He smiled very kindly and said, 'I mean Prudence.' I said I was sure you would go, and so you'll have to do it. It's a great honor, Prue, for all the upper-class girls, and even the unmarried women on the Fac. are crazy about him. He's so aloof, you know, and very intelligent. I swelled with pride at the public tribute to the parsonage!"

"Professor Rayburn! Of the Fac.!" gasped Prudence. "Oh, I'm sure he didn't mean me, Fairy. You must have misunderstood him. Why, I wouldn't know what to say to a professor, you know! What is his line?"

"Bugs!" cried Fairy. "He's the biology man. And this is his first year here, and he's very brilliant,—they say! I'm no authority on bugs myself. But anyhow every one just raves about him, and he showed very plainly that he was anxious to get acquainted with you, so you'll have to go."

"But bugs!" wailed Prudence. "What do I know about bugs! Will he expect me to know how to divide them,—separate them, you know—"

"I suppose you mean dissect them, you poor child," screamed Fairy. "Divide bugs! If professor could hear you now, Prue, he would be sadly disillusioned. You must just trot up-stairs and get one of the twins' biology books and cram up a little. He won't expect you to be an advanced buggist. He can give you points himself. Men do love to have girls appeal to their superior knowledge, and be admiring and deferent. Maybe he will 'divide one' for you if you ask him 'please.'"

"I won't do it," declared Prudence. "I don't like bugs anyhow, and—why, the very pictures of them in the twins' books make me nervous. I won't do it. You can just tell him I don't feel qualified to go."

"You've got to go," said Fairy sternly, "for I said you would, and he's counting on it. He's going to phone you this afternoon and ask you himself. You've got to go."

At that instant, the telephone rang.

"There's professor!" cried Fairy. "You tell him you are just delighted to go, and that you are so interested in bugs!"

With a flushed face, Prudence took down the receiver. "Hello," she said, "this is the parsonage."

And then, a second later, she said, "Yes, this is Prudence."

After that she stood silent for some little time, with Fairy crouched beside her, trying to hear.

Then spoke Prudence. "Yes, Fairy has been telling me. And it's very kind of you, indeed, and I know I would enjoy it. But as I was telling Fairy, I don't know a thing about bugs, and I don't like them anyhow, so I'm afraid you would find me rather stupid."

Fairy was striving to get a hand over her sister's lips to stem the words, but Prudence eluded her. They were both somewhat astounded at the great peal of laughter which came over the telephone.

"Good! That's just what I was hoping for! You couldn't have said anything that would give me greater pleasure. Then shall I come around with Babler, for you and your sister, about one o'clock?—Oh, that is very kind of you, Miss Starr. Good-by! Don't cultivate an interest in bugs between now and to-morrow, for my sake!"

The girls looked at each other doubtfully when the receiver was once more on its hook.

"I'm afraid he's laughing at me," said Prudence questioningly.

"I should hope so," cried Fairy. "What in the world did you say that for? Couldn't you have pretended to be interested? Professor likes women to be dignified and intellectual and deep, and——"

"Then why on earth did he ask me to go?" demanded Prudence. "Any one could tell to look at me that I'm not dignified and intellectual and deep, and——"

"And I know he admired you, for he was so eager when he asked about you. Think how grand it would be to speak of 'my sister, Mrs. Professor Rayburn,' and——"

"Don't be silly, Fairy. If I was going to marry anybody, which I am not, I hope you do not think for one minute that I'd marry a buggist! Gracious! Goodness! I've a notion not to go a step! I'll call him up and——"

But Fairy only laughed.

And after all, Prudence looked forward to the little outing in the glorious October woods with eager anticipation. It was seldom indeed that she indulged in merry-making away from the parsonage. Yet she was fond of gaiety. Long before one o'clock on that eventful day, she was ready. And her face was so bright, and her eyes so starry, that placid self-satisfied Fairy felt a twinge of something like envy.

"You look like a creature from another world, Prue," she said. "If Professor Rayburn has any sense in his bones, he will fall dead in love with you,—bugs or no bugs!"

"People do not have sense in their bones, Fairy, and—and—shall I say professor, or just plain Mister?"

"Professor, I suppose,—every one calls him professor."

"Then I shall say Mister," said Prudence. "It will be so hard to enjoy myself if I keep remembering that he teaches bugs! I might as well be at school. I shall say Mister."

And she did say "Mister," and she said it so sweetly, and looked up into Professor Rayburn's face so brightly, and with happiness so evident and so girlish, that the staid professor felt a quick unaccountable throbbing down somewhere beneath his coat. He did look eager! There was no doubt of it. And he looked at Prudence, continuously.

"Just like ordinary men, isn't he?" whispered Fairy to Eugene Babler,—called "Babbie," for short and for humiliation,—for he enjoyed the reputation of being a "talker" even among college men!

The three young couples struck off briskly down the road, creek-ward, and Prudence followed sedately with her professor.

"Fairy says it was perfectly disgusting of me to tell you I didn't know anything about bugs," she said comfortably. "But I thought maybe, you were one of those professors who like one thing so much they can't be interested in anything else. And I wanted to warn you. But I guess you aren't that kind, after all?"

"Oh, no, indeed," he assured her fervently, looking deep into her blue eyes. "I like bugs, it is true. But really I like other things, one thing at least, much better."

"Is it a riddle?" she inquired. "Am I supposed to guess?"

"It isn't a riddle, but you may guess. Think hard, now! It's a serious matter. Please don't say 'food.'"

"If I get below seventy will I be put down a grade?" she asked. Then with intense solemnity, "I guess girls."

They laughed together, youthfully. "You are right," he said.

And with a sigh of relief, Prudence answered, "That's the first time I ever got a hundred in anything in my life. I was very much accustomed to eighties when I was in school. I am very common and unbrilliant," she assured him. "Fairy says you are perfectly horribly clever——"

She glanced up when she heard his exclamation, and laughed at his rueful face. "Oh, that isn't Fairy's expression. She thinks brilliant and clever people are just adorable. It is only I who think them horrible." Even Prudence could see that this did not help matters. "I—I do not mean that," she stammered. "I am sure you are very nice indeed, and we are going to be good friends, aren't we? But I am such a dunce myself that I am afraid of real clever people. They are so superior. And so uninteresting, and—oh, I do not mean that either." Then Prudence laughed at her predicament. "I may as well give it up. What I really mean is that you are so nice and friendly and interesting, that I can hardly believe you are so clever. You are the nicest smart person I ever saw,—except my own family, I mean." She smiled up at him deliciously. "Does that make it square?"

"More than square," he said. "You are too complimentary. But the only thing that really counts to-day is whether we are going to be real good friends, as you suggested. We are, aren't we? The very best and closest of friends?"

"Yes," agreed Prudence, dimpling. "I like men to be my friends,—nice men, I mean. But it isn't always safe. So many start out to be good friends, and then want to be silly. So a girl has to be very careful. But it's perfectly safe with you, and so we can be the very best of friends. I won't need to be watchful for bad symptoms."

"Do you think me so unmanly that I couldn't fall in love?" he asked, and his voice was curious, as though she had hurt him.

"Oh, of course, you'll fall in love," laughed Prudence. "All nice men do.—But not with me,—that was what I meant I couldn't imagine a buggy professor—oh, I beg your pardon! But the twins are so silly and disrespectful, and they thought it was such a joke that I should even look at a professor of biology that they began calling you the buggy professor. But they do not mean any harm by it, not the least in the world. They're such nice sweet girls, but—young, you know. Are your feelings hurt?" she asked anxiously.

"Not a bit! I think the twins and I will be tremendously good friends. I'm quite willing to be known as the buggy professor. But you were trying to explain why I couldn't fall in love with you. I suppose you mean that you do not want me to."

"Oh, not that at all," she hastened to assure him. Then she stopped. "Yes," she said honestly, "that is true, too. But that isn't what I was trying to say. I was just saying that no one realizes any more than I how perfectly impossible it would be for a clever, grown-up, brilliant professor to fall in love with such an idiot as I am. That's all. I meant it for a compliment," she added, seeing he was not well pleased.

He smiled, but it was a sober smile. "You said it was true that you did not wish me to be—fond of you. Why? Don't you like me then, after all?"

Now, he realized that this was a perfectly insane conversation, but for the life of him, he couldn't help it. Prudence was so alluring, and the sky was so warmly blue, the sunshine so mild and hazy, and the roadside so gloriously gay with colors! Who could have sense on such a day, with such a girl as this?

"Oh, I do like you very much indeed," declared Prudence. "It's a big relief, too, for I didn't expect to—oh, I beg your pardon again, but—well, I was scared when Fairy told me how remarkable you are. I didn't want to disgrace the parsonage, and I knew I would. But—why, the reason I do not want you to fall in love with me,—that's very different from being fond of me, I do want you to be that,—but when people fall in love, they get married. I'm not going to get married, so it would be silly to fall in love, wouldn't it?"

He laughed heartily at the matter-of-factness with which this nineteen-year-old girl disposed of love and marriage. "Why aren't you going to be married?" he inquired, foolishly happy, and showing more foolishness than happiness, just as we all do on such occasions.

"Well, it will be ten or eleven years before Connie is fairly raised."

"Yes, but you won't be a Methuselah, in eleven years," he smiled.

"No, but you forget father."

"Forget father! Are you raising him, too?"

"No, I'm not raising him, but I'm managing him." But when he laughed, she hastened to add, "That is, I take care of him, and keep house for him, and remind him of things he forgets." Then with girlish honesty, she added, "Though I must confess that he has to remind me of things I forget, oftener than I do him. I inherited my forgetfulness from father. I asked him once if he inherited his from grandfather, and he said he forgot whether grandfather was forgetful or not! Father is very clever. So's Fairy. And the twins are the smartest little things you ever saw,—and Connie, too. Connie is the oddest, keenest child. She's wonderful. They all are,—but me. It's kind of humiliating to be the only stupid one in a family of smart folks. I suppose you've no idea how it feels, and I can't explain it. But sometimes I think maybe I ought to go off and die, so the whole family can shine and sparkle together. As it is, there's just a dull glow from my corner, quite pale and ugly compared with the brilliant gleams the others are sending out."

Said Professor Rayburn, "Ah, Prudence, the faint, sweet mellow glows are always beautiful. Not sparkling, perhaps, not brilliant! But comforting, and cheering, and—always to be trusted. It's just these little corner-glows, like yours, that make life worth living."

This was rather deep for Prudence, but she felt instinctively that he was complimenting her. She thanked him sweetly, and said, "And after all, I do not really mind being the stupid one. I think it's rather fun, for then I can just live along comfortably, and people do not expect much of me. It would wear me all out to be as clever as Fairy, or as witty as Carol, or as studious as Lark. But I am most tremendously proud of them, I assure you."

If Professor Rayburn had continued along this interesting and fruitful line of conversation, all would have been well.

"But it came just like a clap of thunder in the sunshine," said Prudence to Fairy dramatically, as they sat in their room talking things over that night. "We were having a perfectly grand time, and I was just thinking he was as nice and interesting as if he didn't know one thing to his name, when—Crash! That's how it happened."

Fairy wiped her eyes, and lay back weakly on the bed. "Go on," she urged. "What happened?"

"He stopped right in the middle of a sentence about me, something real nice, too, that I was awfully interested in, and said, 'Look, Miss Starr!' Then he got down on his knees and began cautiously scraping away the sticks and leaves. Then he fished out the most horrible, woolly, many-legged little animal I ever saw in my life. He said it was a giminythoraticus billyancibus, and he was as tickled over it as though he had just picked up a million-dollar diamond. And what do you suppose the weird creature did with it? He wrapped it in a couple of leaves, and put his handkerchief around it and put it in his pocket!—Do you remember when we were eating by the creek, and I got jam on my fingers? He offered me his handkerchief to wipe it off? Do you remember how I shoved him away, and shuddered? I saw you look reprovingly at me! That's why! Do you suppose I could wipe my fingers with a handkerchief that had been in one of his pockets?"

"It wasn't the one that had the giminy billibus, was it?"

"No, but goodness only knows what had been in this one,—an alligator, maybe, or a snake. He's very fond of snakes. He says some of them are so useful. I try to be charitable, Fairy, and I believe I would give even Satan credit for any good there was in him,—but it is too much to ask me to be fond of a man who is fond of snakes. But that is not the worst. He put the giminy thing in his pocket,—his left pocket! Then he came on walking with me, on my right side. On my right side, Fairy, do you understand what that means? It means that the giminy billibus, as you call it—oh, I wouldn't swear to the name, Fairy, I do not claim to be smart, but I know how it looked! Well, anyhow, name and all, it was on the side next to me. I stopped to look at a little stick, and switched around on the other side. Then he stooped to look at a bunch of dirt, and got on the wrong side again. Then I stopped, and then he did, and so we kept zig-zagging down the road. A body would have thought we were drunk, I suppose. Four times that man stopped to pick up some wriggling little animal, and four times he deposited his treasure in one of his various pockets. Don't ask why it is impossible for me to be friends with such a being,—spare me that humiliation!"

But the fair daughter of the parsonage proved irresistibly attractive to the unfortunate professor, and he was not to be lightly shunted aside. He forsook the Presbyterian church, of which he was a member, and attended the Methodist meetings with commendable assiduity. After each service, he accompanied Prudence home, and never failed to accept her invitations, feebly given, to "come in a minute." He called as often during the week as Propriety, in the voice of Prudence, deemed fitting. It was wholly unnatural for Prudence to cater to Propriety, but Professor Rayburn did not know this. Weeks passed, a month slipped away, and another. Professor Rayburn was considered a fixture in the parsonage household by all except Prudence herself, who chafed under her bondage.

"I can't just blurt out that I think he's a nuisance," she mourned to Fairy. "Oh, if he'd just do something disgusting so I could fire him off,—Pop! Just like that. Wouldn't it be glorious?"

But the professor did not indulge in disgusting things, and Prudence continued to worry and fret. Then came a blessed evening when the minister and Fairy were away from home, and the twins and Connie were safely in their beds. Professor Rayburn sat with Prudence in the cozy living-room, and Prudence was charming, though quiet, and the professor was only human. Prudence had made tea, and as she rose to relieve him of his empty cup, he also rose to return it to the table. Laughing, they put it down on the tray, each holding one side of the saucer. Then when it was safely disposed of, Prudence turned toward him, still laughing at the silliness of it,—very alluring, very winsome. And Mr. Rayburn, unexpectedly to himself as to her, put his arms around her and kissed her. He was aghast at himself, once it was over, and Prudence,—well, let us say frankly that Prudence was only relieved, for it came to her in a flash that this was the "disgusting thing" for which she had so fervently longed.

"Mr. Rayburn!"

"That was very stupid and unpardonable of me, Prudence," he said quickly, "I really did not think what I was doing. But you were so sweet, and—I'm awfully fond of you, Prudence, you know that."

Prudence looked at him thoughtfully. She felt that this hardly gave her the desired opening. So she waited, hoping he would commit himself further. More humbled by her unnatural silence, he did go on.

"You know, Prudence, when a man cares for a girl as I care for you, it isn't always easy for him to be sober and sensible. You shouldn't have been so—so dear."

Prudence sighed happily. She was content. This gave her the long-desired cue.

"Mr. Rayburn," she said gently but decidedly, "I think you ought not to come here any more."

He walked over to her quickly, and stood beside the chair into which she had dropped when he kissed her.

"Don't say that, Prudence," he said in a hurried low voice.

"It is true," she persisted, feeling somehow sorry, though she did not understand why she should feel so. "I—I—well, you know I—you remember what I told you that first day, don't you? About getting married, and falling in love, and such things. It is true. I don't want to love anybody, and I don't want to get married, and Fairy says—it is—remotely possible—that you might get—very fond of me."

He smiled rather grimly. "Yes, I think it is—remotely possible."

"Then that settles it," she said comfortably. "And besides, I have such a lot to do that I can't—well, bother—spending so much time outside as I have with you. I've been neglecting my work, and it isn't right. I haven't the time."

"Which is your way of saying that you do not like me, isn't it?"

Prudence stood up impulsively. "Oh, I like you, but—" she threw out her hands expressively. He took them in his, tenderly, firmly.

"But, Prudence," he argued, "that is because the woman in you isn't awake. You may never love me—a dismal possibility, but it is true. But don't you think it only fair that you should give me a chance to try?"

"Oh, but that's just the point," she cried. "I do not want you to try. I do not want to run any risk, at all. I wouldn't marry you if I did love you—I told you that right in the beginning."

He still held her hands in one of his, caressing them slowly with the other. "What is there about me that you do not like?" he demanded suddenly. "There is something, I know."

And with her awful unbelievable honesty. Prudence told him. "Yes," she said, "that is true. I hated to mention it, but there is something! Mr. Rayburn, I just can't stand the bugs!"

"Good heavens! The what?"

"The bugs! I can't bear for you to be near me, because I keep wondering if there are bugs and things in your pocket. I'm afraid they'll get over on me. Even now it makes me shiver when you hold my hands, because I know you've been handling the horrible little creatures with yours." He dropped her hands abruptly, and stared at her. "And after you leave, I get down on my hands and knees and look over the floor, and examine the chairs, to see if any have crawled off! It's a terrible feeling, Mr. Rayburn. You know I told you I hated bugs.—I'm afraid I've hurt your feelings," she said sadly.

"Where in the world did you get such an idea as that?" he demanded rather angrily. "Do you think I have pet bugs to carry around with me for company?"

"No,—but don't you remember the picnic,—and how you kept gathering them up in your handkerchiefs and putting them in your pockets? And how I kept squirming around to get on the other side,—I was trying to get away from the bugs!"

"But, my heavens, Prudence, those were my field clothes. I don't put bugs in these pockets,—these are my Sunday togs!" He smiled a little. "And I always wash my hands, you know." He found it humorous, and yet it hurt him. Such a little thing to prejudice a girl so strongly,—and one he liked so marvelously well!

"You might forget, and put them in these pockets,—it's a kind of habit with you, I suppose. And just plain washing won't take the idea of bugs off your hands."

"Prudence, you are only a girl,—a childish girl, but a very sweet one. I want you to like me. When you grow up, you are going to be a wonderfully good and lovely woman. I—I am going to want you then. I know it. Let's just be friends now, can't we—until later—for a long time yet? I'll promise on my word of honor never to put another bug in my pockets, or my handkerchiefs. But I can't promise not to touch them, for I have to do it in class. That's how I earn my living! But I will wash my hands with Ivory soap and sapolio, and rub them with cold cream, and powder them, and perfume them, before I ever come near you again. Won't that do?"

Prudence shook her head. "I know you are laughing at me," she said, "but I always told you I was just a silly simpleton. And—it isn't the bugs altogether. I—I like it better to be with my sisters than——"

"Than with me? I see. As I said, the woman of you is still sleeping. Well, we are young, and I will wait. I won't bother you any more for a long time, Prudence, but I shan't forget you. And some day I will come back to you again." He stared at her moodily. Then he put his hands beneath her elbows, and looked into her eyes searchingly. "You are a strange girl, Prudence. In some ways, you are so womanly, and in other ways so—pitifully girlish! All the woman in your heart seems to be given to your sisters and your father, and— But you will waken, and I won't hurry you." Then he put his arms around her again, and whispered in her ear, "But I love you, Prudence, and—if some one else should do the awakening—it would hurt!" Then he kissed her, and went away.

But Prudence ran up-stairs, singing happily. "Oh, I feel like a caged-up bird that has broken loose," she cried to her reflection in the mirror jubilantly. "Oh, what fun it will be to come home from church with Fairy and the twins, the way I used to do!"



CHAPTER VII

LESSONS IN ETIQUETTE

Connie was lying flat on her back near the register. The twins were sitting on the floor near her, hearing each other conjugate Latin verbs. And Prudence, with her darning basket, was earnestly trying to solve a domestic problem,—how to get three pairs of wearable stockings out of eleven hosiery remnants. So Fairy found them as she came in, radiant and glowing.

"Glorious day," she said, glancing impartially at her sisters. "Just glorious! Why are you all hugging the register, may I ask? It is perfect weather. Connie, you should be out-of-doors this minute, by all means. Twins, aren't you grown-up enough to sit on chairs, or won't your footies reach the floor?—Babbie, Eugene Babler, you know, is coming to spend the evening, Prudence."

"What is going on to-night?" queried Prudence.

"Nothing is going on. That's why he is coming. It's too cold to meander around outdoors these nights, and so we shall have to amuse ourselves inside as best we can."

The whole family came to attention at this.

"Oh, goody!" cried Connie. "Let's make taffy, shall we, Fairy?"

"Certainly not. This isn't a children's party. You'll go to bed at eight o'clock as usual, Connie mine.—Now, we must have something to eat. The question is, What shall it be?"

"Yes," agreed Carol with enthusiasm,—Carol was always enthusiastic on the subject of something to eat. "Yes, indeed, that is the question. What shall we have?"

"You will likely have pleasant dreams, Carol," was the cool retort. "Babbie did not invite himself to spend the evening with you, I believe."

"Do you mean to suggest," demanded Lark with withering scorn, "that it is your intention to shut yourself up alone with this—this creature, excluding the rest of us?"

"Yes, and have refreshments for just you two?" cried Carol.



"That is my intention most certainly. The twins and Connie will not put in appearance at all. Prue will serve the refreshments, and will eat with us. Babbie and I shall spend the evening in the front room."

"The front room?" echoed Prudence. "This room is much cheerier, and more homelike."

"Well, Babbie isn't a member of the family, you know," said Fairy.

"You are doing your best," sniffed Carol.

"Now, you girls must understand right off, that things are different here from what they were at Exminster. When boys came to the house there they came to have a good time with the whole family. But here it is very different. I've been looking around, and I've got on to the system. The proper thing is to receive callers privately, without the family en masse sitting by and superintending. That's etiquette, you know. And one must always serve refreshments. More etiquette. Men are such greedy animals, they do not care to go places where the eats aren't forthcoming."

"Men! Are you referring to this Babbling creature now?" interposed Carol.

"Ouch!" said Lark.

"But won't it be rather—poky—just sitting in the front room by yourselves all evening?" asked Prudence doubtfully, ignoring the offended twins.

"Oh, I dare say it will. But it's the proper thing to do," said Fairy complacently.

"What are you going to do all evening?" Connie wanted to know. "Just sit and look at each other and admire yourselves?"

The twins thought this very clever of Connie, so they both said "Ouch!" approvingly.

"Why, no, baby dear," said Fairy good-naturedly. "We shall talk. Feast our souls with a flow of reason, you know. We shall converse. We shall hold pleasant intercourse."

"Wouldn't it be more fun to have the girls in for a little while?" This from Prudence.

"Oh, it might,—but it wouldn't be the proper thing at all. College men do not care to be entertained by babies."

"No," snapped Lark, "the wisdom of babies is too deep for these—these—these men in embryo."

This was so exquisitely said that Lark was quite restored to amiability by it. "In embryo," had been added to her vocabulary that very day in the biology class. It was only the sheerest good fortune which gave her the opportunity of utilizing it so soon. And Carol said "Ouch!" with such whole-souled admiration that Lark's spirit soared among the clouds. She had scored!

"And what shall we serve them?" urged Prudence. "I suppose it would hardly do to—pop corn, would it?"

"No, indeed. Popping corn is very nice for the twins and the little boys in the neighborhood." Fairy smiled with relish as she saw the twins wince at this thrust. "But Babbie and I— Oh, never! It wouldn't do at all. Now, oyster stew and crackers,—I mean wafers,——"

"Oysters are fearfully expensive, Fairy," objected the frugal Prudence.

"Oh, we can stand it for once," said Fairy easily. "This is the first time, and we must do something extra. Babbie is all the rage at school, and the girls are frantic with jealousy because I have cut everybody else out. To be honest about it, I can't understand it myself. Babbie's such a giddy scatter-brained youngster, you'd think he'd prefer——"

"Do you like him, Fairy? Don't you think he's tiresome? He talks so much, it seems to me."

"To be sure I like him. He's great fun. He's always joking and never has a sensible thought, and hates study. He's an amusing soul, I must say. He's going to attend here a couple of years, and then study pharmacy. His father is a druggist in Ottumwa, and quite well off. The only reason Babbie came here instead of going to a big college in the East is because his father is a trustee. Trustees are in honor bound to send their offspring to the college they trustee,—just as ministers are obliged to trade with the members when possible."

"Even if they short-weight and long-charge you," put in Carol.

"Carol!" exclaimed Prudence reprovingly. "Well, we'll serve oyster stew then. Will you eat in the dining-room?"

"No, we'll eat on the little table in the front room,—informally, you know. You must get it ready, and arrange it nicely on the big tray. Then you must come to the door and say, 'Wouldn't you like a little oyster stew?' Say it carelessly, as if we always have something to eat before going to bed. And I'll say, 'Oh, yes, Prudence, bring it right in.' Then you bring it in, and we'll all eat together.—That's the way to do it! Babbie's had dates with the very swellest girls in school, and he knows about such things. We must do it up brown!"

"Swell!" mocked Lark. "Do it up brown! Oh, you'll be a record-breaker of a college professor all right. I'm sure this young Babler is just the type of man to interest the modern college professor! Swell! Do it up brown!"

"Ouch!" grinned Carol.

"Now, will you twins run down-town for the oysters?" asked Prudence briskly.

"Who? Us?" demanded Lark, indignantly and ungrammatically. "Do you think we can carry home oysters for the—the—personal consumption of this Babbling young prince? Not so! Let Fairy go after the oysters! She can carry them home tenderly and appreciatively. Carol and I can't! We don't grasp the beauty of that man's nature."

"Oh, yes, twinnies, I think you'll go, all right. Hurry now, for you must be back in time to help me get supper. Fairy'll have to straighten the front room, and we won't have time. Run along, and be quick."

For a few seconds the twins gazed at each other studiously. Neither spoke. Without a word, they went up-stairs to prepare for their errand.

They whispered softly going through the upper hall.

"We'd better make a list," said Carol softly.

So with heads close together they wrote out several items on a piece of paper.

"It'll cost quite a lot," objected Carol. "Thirty cents, anyhow. And Prudence'll make us pay for the oysters, sure. Remember that."

"We'd better let Connie in, too," suggested Lark.

Connie was hastily summoned, and the twins whispered explanations in her willing ears. "Good!" she said approvingly. "It'll serve 'em right."

"But it'll cost money," said Carol. "How much have you got?"

Then Connie understood why she had been consulted. The twins always invited her to join their enterprises when money was required.

"A quarter," she faltered.

"Well, we'll go shares," said Lark generously. "We'll pay a dime apiece. It may not take that much. But if Prudence makes us pay for the oysters, you'll have to pay a third. Will you do that?"

"Yes, indeed." Connie was relieved. She did not always get off so easily!

"Twins! You must hurry!" This was Prudence at the bottom of the stairs. And the twins set off quite hurriedly. Their first tall was at the meat market.

"A pint of oysters," said Lark briefly.

When he brought them to her, she smelled them suspiciously. Then Carol smelled.

"Are these rotten oysters?" she demanded hopefully.

"No," he answered, laughing. "Certainly not."

"Have you got any rotten ones?"

"No, we don't keep that kind." He was still laughing.

The twins sighed and hurried next door to the grocer's.