"A nickel's worth of pepper—the strongest you have."

This was quickly settled—and the grave-faced twins betook themselves to the corner drug store.

"We—we want something with a perfectly awful smell," Lark explained soberly.

"What kind of a smell?"

"We don't care what kind, but it must be perfectly sickening. Like something rotten, or dead, if you have it. Something that will stay smelly for several hours,—but it mustn't be dangerous, of course."

"What do you want it for?"

"We want it to put in a room to give it a horrible smell for an hour or so." Lark winked at him solemnly. "It's a joke," she further elucidated.

"I see." His eyes twinkled. "I think I can fix you up." A moment later he handed her a small bottle. "Just sprinkle this over the carpet. It won't do any harm, and it smells like thunder. It costs a quarter."

Carol frowned. "I suppose we'll have to take it," she said, "but it's pretty expensive. I hate to have druggists get such a lot of money."

He laughed aloud. "I hate to have you get a good licking to-morrow, too,—but you'll get it just the same, or I miss my guess."

When the twins arrived home, Fairy was just cutting the candy she had made. "It's delicious," she said to Prudence. "Here's a nice dishful for you and the girls.—Pitch in, twins, and help yourselves. It's very nice."

The twins waved her haughtily away. "No, thank you," they said. "We couldn't eat that candy with relish. We are unworthy."

"All right," Prudence put in quickly, as Fairy only laughed. "I'll put it in the cupboard, and Fairy and I will eat it to-morrow. It's perfectly fine,—simply delicious."

But the twins were not to be tempted. Before they went up-stairs, Lark inquired sarcastically:

"I suppose, Fairy, you'll don your best blue silk in honor of this event?"

"Oh, no," was the ready answer, "I'll just wear my little green muslin. It's old, but very nice and comfortable—just right for an evening at home."

"Yes," scoffed Carol, "and of course you are remembering that every one says it is the most becoming dress you have."

"Oh, yes," laughed Fairy, "I'm remembering that, all right."

Then the twins went up-stairs, but not to their own room at once. Instead they slipped noiselessly into the front bedroom, and a little later Carol came out into the hall and stood listening at the head of the stairs, as though on guard.

"Be sure and leave quite a few stitches in, Lark," she whispered once. "We want it to hang together until Babbie gets here."

That was all. Presently Lark emerged, and their own door closed behind them.

"It's a good thing father has to go to the trustees' meeting to-night, isn't it?" asked Carol. And Lark agreed, absently. She was thinking of the oysters.

As soon as they finished supper, Lark said, "Don't you think we'd better go right to bed, Prue? We don't want to taint the atmosphere of the parsonage. Of course, Fairy will want to wash the dishes herself to make sure they are clean and shining."

"Oh, no," disclaimed Fairy, still good-naturedly. "I can give an extra rub to the ones we want to use,—that is enough. I do appreciate the thought, though, thanks very much."

So the twins plunged in, carefully keeping Connie beside them. "She has such a full-to-overflowing look," said Carol. "If we don't keep hold of her, she'll let something bubble over." Connie had a dismal propensity for giving things away,—the twins had often suffered from it. To-night, they were determined to forestall such a calamity.

Then they all three went to bed. To be sure it was ridiculously early, but they were all determined.

"We feel weak under this unusual strain. Our nerves can't stand the tension. We really must retire to rest. Maybe a good night's sleep will restore us to normal," Lark explained gravely.

Fairy only laughed. "Good!" she cried. "Do go to bed. The only time I am sure of you is when you are in your beds. Do you mind if I tie you in, to make assurance doubly sure?"

But the twins and Connie had disappeared.

"You keep your eyes open, Fairy," Prudence whispered melodramatically. "Those girls do not look right. Something is hanging over our heads." And she added anxiously, "Oh, I'll be so disappointed if things go badly. This is the first time we've ever lived up to etiquette, and I feel it is really a crisis."

Fairy was a little late getting up-stairs to dress, but she took time to drop into her sisters' room. They were all in bed, breathing heavily. She walked from one to another, and stood above them majestically.

"Asleep!" she cried. "Ah, Fortune is kind. They are asleep. How I love these darling little twinnies,—in their sleep!"

An audible sniff from beneath the covers, and Fairy, smiling mischievously, went into the front room to prepare for her caller.

The bell rang as she was dressing. Prudence went to the door, preternaturally ceremonious, and ushered Mr. Babler into the front room. She turned on the electric switch as she opened the door. She was too much impressed with the solemnity of the occasion to take much note of her surroundings, and she did not observe that the young man sniffed in a peculiar manner as he entered the room.

"I'll call Fairy," she said demurely.

"Tell her she needn't primp for me," he answered, laughing. "I know just how she looks already."

But Prudence was too heavily burdened to laugh. She smiled hospitably, and closed the door upon him. Fairy was tripping down the stairs, very tall, very handsome, very gay. She pinched her sister's arm as she passed, and the front room door swung behind. But she did not greet her friend. She stood erect by the door, her head tilted on one side, sniffing, sniffing.

"What in the world?" she wondered. Then she blushed. Perhaps it was something he had used on his hair! Or perhaps he had been having his suit cleaned! "Oh, I guess it's nothing, after all," she stammered. But Eugene Babler was strangely quiet. He looked about the room in a peculiar questioning way.

"Shall I raise a window?" he suggested finally. "It's rather—er—hot in here."

"Yes, do," she urged. "Raise all of them. It's—do you—do you notice a—a funny smell in here? Or am I imagining it? It—it almost makes me sick!"

"Yes, there is a smell," he said, in evident relief. "I thought maybe you'd been cleaning the carpet with something. It's ghastly. Can't we go somewhere else?"

"Come on." She opened the door into the sitting-room. "We're coming out here if you do not mind, Prue." And Fairy explained the difficulty.

"Why, that's very strange," said Prudence, knitting her brows. "I was in there right after supper, and I didn't notice anything. What does it smell like?"

"It's a new smell to me," laughed Fairy, "but something about it is strangely suggestive of our angel-twins."

Prudence went to investigate, and Fairy shoved a big chair near the table, waving her hand toward it lightly with a smile at Babbie. Then she sank into a low rocker, and leaned one arm on the table. She wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully.

"That smell," she began. "I am very suspicious about it. It was not at all natural——"

"Excuse me, Fairy," he said, ill at ease for the first time in her knowledge of him. "Did you know your sleeve was coming out?"

Fairy gasped, and raised her arm.

"Both arms, apparently," he continued, smiling, but his face was flushed.

"Excuse me just a minute, will you?" Fairy was unruffled. She sought her sister. "Look here, Prue,—what do you make of this? I'm coming to pieces! I'm hanging by a single thread, as it were."

Her sleeves were undoubtedly ready to drop off at a second's notice! Prudence was shocked. She grew positively white in the face.

"Oh, Fairy," she wailed. "We are disgraced."

"Not a bit of it," said Fairy coolly. "I remember now that Lark was looking for the scissors before supper. Aren't those twins unique? This is almost bordering on talent, isn't it? Don't look so distressed, Prue. Etiquette itself must be subservient to twins, it seems. Don't forget to bring in the stew at a quarter past nine, and have it as good as possible,—please, dear."

"I will," vowed Prudence, "I'll—I'll use cream. Oh, those horrible twins!"

"Go in and entertain Babbie till I come down, won't you?" And Fairy ran lightly up the stairs, humming a snatch of song.

But Prudence did a poor job of entertaining Babbie during her sister's absence. She felt really dizzy! Such a way to introduce Etiquette into the parsonage life. She was glad to make her escape from the room when Fairy returned, a graceful figure in the fine blue silk! She went back to the dining-room, and painstakingly arranged the big tray for the designated moment of its entrance,—according to etiquette. Fairy and Babbie in the next room talked incessantly, laughing often and long, and Prudence, hearing, smiled in sympathy. She herself thought it would be altogether stupid to be shut up in a room alone with "just a man" for a whole evening,—but etiquette required it. Fairy knew about such things, of course.

A little after nine, she called out dismally, "Fairy!" And Fairy, fearing fresh disaster, came running out.

"What now? What——"

"I forget what you told me to say," whispered Prudence wretchedly, "what was it? The soup is ready, and piping hot,—but what is it you want me to say?"

Fairy screamed with laughter. "You goose!" she cried. "Say anything you like. I was just giving you a tip, that was all. It doesn't make any difference what you say."

"Oh, I am determined to do my part just right," vowed Prudence fervently, "according to etiquette and all. What was it you said?"

Fairy stifled her laughter with difficulty, and said in a low voice, "Wouldn't you like a little nice, hot, oyster stew?" Prudence repeated it after her breathlessly.

So Fairy returned once more, and soon after Prudence tapped on the door. Then she opened it, and thrust her curly head inside. "Wouldn't you like a little nice, hot, oyster stew?" she chirped methodically. And Fairy said, "Oh, yes indeed, Prudence,—this is so nice of you."

The stew was steaming hot, and the three gathered sociably about the table. Prudence was talking. Fairy was passing the "crackers,"—Prudence kicked her foot gently beneath the table, to remind her that etiquette calls them "wafers." So it happened that Babbie was first to taste the steaming stew. He gasped, and gulped, and swallowed some water with more haste than grace. Then he toyed idly with spoon and wafer until Prudence tasted also. Prudence did not gasp. She did not cry out. She looked up at her sister with wide hurt eyes,—a world of pathos in the glance. But Fairy did not notice.

"Now, please do not ask me to talk until I have finished my soup," she was saying brightly, "I simply can not think and appreciate oyster stew at the same time."

Then she appreciated it! She dropped her spoon with a great clatter, and jumped up from the table. "Mercy!" she shrieked. "It is poisoned!"

Babbie leaned back in his chair and laughed until his eyes were wet. Prudence's eyes were wet, too, but not from laughter! What would etiquette think of her, after this?

"What did you do to this soup, Prudence?" demanded Fairy.

"I made it,—nothing else," faltered poor Prudence, quite crushed by this blow. And oysters forty cents a pint!

"It's pepper, I think," gasped Babbie. "My insides bear startling testimony to the presence of pepper."

And he roared again, while Prudence began a critical examination of the oysters. She found them literally stuffed with pepper, there was no doubt of it. The twins had done deadly work! Their patience, at least, was commendable,—it seemed that not one oyster had escaped their attention. The entire pint had been ruined by the pepper.

"Revenge, ye gods, how sweet," chanted Fairy. "The twins are getting even with a vengeance,—the same twins you said were adorable, Babbie." It must be said for Fairy that her good nature could stand almost anything. Even this did not seriously disturb her. "Do you suppose you can find us some milk, Prue? And crackers! I'm so fond of crackers and milk, aren't you, Babbie?"

"Oh, I adore it. But serve a microscope with it, please. I want to examine it for microbes before I taste."

But Prudence did better than that. She made some delicious cocoa, and opened a can of pear preserves, donated to the parsonage by the amiable Mrs. Adams. The twins were very fond of pear preserves, and had been looking forward to eating these on their approaching birthday. They were doomed to disappointment! The three had a merry little feast, after all, and their laughter rang out so often and so unrestrainedly that the twins shook in their beds with rage and disappointment.

Mr. Starr came in while they were eating, and joined them genially. But afterward, when Prudence realized that etiquette called for their retirement, her father still sat complacently by the register, talking and laughing. Prudence fastened her eyes upon him.

"Well, I must honestly go to bed," she said, gazing hypnotically at her father. "I know you will excuse me. I must store up my strength to deal with the twins in the morning."

She got up from her chair, and moved restlessly about the room, still boring her father with her eyes. He did not move. She paused beside him, and slipped her hand under his elbow.

"Now, father," she said gaily, "we must put our heads together, and think out a proper punishment for the awful creatures."

Her hand was uplifting, and Mr. Starr rose with it. Together they left the room with cordial good nights, and inviting Mr. Babler to "try the parsonage again." Prudence listened outside the twins' door, and heard them breathing loudly. Then she went to her own room, and snuggling down beneath the covers, laughed softly to herself.

"Etiquette!" she gurgled. "Etiquette! There's no room for such a thing in a parsonage,—I see that!"

It speaks well for the courage of Babbie, and the attractions of Fairy, that he came to the parsonage again and again. In time he became the best of friends with the twins themselves, but he always called them "the adorables," and they never asked him why. The punishment inflicted upon them by Prudence rankled in their memories for many months. Indeed, upon that occasion, Prudence fairly surpassed herself in the ingenuity she displayed. The twins considered themselves very nearly as grown-up as Fairy, and the fact that she was a young lady, and they were children, filled their hearts with bitterness. They never lost an opportunity of showing their independence where she was concerned. And with marvelous insight, Prudence used Fairy as her weapon of punishment,—in fact, the twins called Fairy the "ducking-stool" for many days.

"The offense was against Fairy," said Prudence, with a solemnity she did not feel, "and the reparation must be done to her. For three weeks, you must do all of her bedroom work, and run every errand she requires. Moreover, you must keep her shoes well cleaned and nicely polished, and must do every bit of her darning!"

The twins would have preferred whipping a thousand times. They felt they had got a whipping's worth of pleasure out of their mischief! But a punishment like this sat heavily upon their proud young shoulders, and from that time on they held Fairy practically immune from their pranks.

But Prudence did not bother her head about etiquette after that experience. "I'm strong for comfort," she declared, "and since the two can not live together in our family, I say we do without etiquette."

And Fairy nodded in agreement, smiling good-naturedly.



CHAPTER VIII

THE FIRST DARK SHADOW OF WINTER

Prudence and Fairy stood in the bay window of the sitting-room, and looked out at the thickly falling snow. Already the ground was whitely carpeted, and the low-branched peach trees just outside the parsonage windows were beginning to bow down beneath their burdens.

"Isn't it beautiful, Prudence?" whispered Fairy. "Isn't it beautiful? Oh, I love it when it snows."

"Yes, and you love it when the sun shines, too," said Prudence, "and when it rains, and when the wind is blowing. You have the soul of a poet, that's what is the matter with you. You are a nature-fiend, as Carol would say."

Fairy turned abruptly from the window. "Don't talk for a minute, Prue,—I want to write."

So Prudence stood quietly in the window, listening to the pencil scratching behind her.

"Listen now, Prue,—how is this?" Fairy had a clear expressive voice, "a bright voice," Prudence called it. And as she read her simple lines aloud, the heart of Prudence swelled with pride. To Prudence, Fairy was a wonderful girl.

"Good night, little baby earth, going to sleep, Tucked in your blankets, all woolly and deep. Close your tired eyelids, droop your tired head, Nestle down sweetly within your white bed. Kind Mother Sky, bending softly above, Is holding you close in her bosom of love. Closely she draws the white coverlets warm, She will be near you to shield you from harm. Soon she will set all her candles alight, To scatter the darkness, and save you from fright. Then she will leave her cloud-doorway ajar, To watch you, that nothing your slumbers may mar. Rest, little baby earth, rest and sleep tight, The winter has come, and we bid you good night."

Fairy laughed, but her face was flushed. "How is that?" she demanded.

"Oh, Fairy," cried Prudence, "it is wonderful! How can you think of such sweet little things? May I have it? May I keep it? Oh, I think it is perfectly dear—I wish I could do that! I never in the world would have thought of baby earth going to sleep and Mother Sky tucking her in white blankets.—I think you are just wonderful, Fairy!"

Fairy's eyes were bright at the praise, but she laughed as she answered. "You always think me and my scribbles perfection, Prue,—even the love verses that shocked the Ladies' Aid. You are a bad critic. But doesn't the snow make you think—pretty things, Prudence? Come now, as you stood at the window there, what were you thinking?"

"I was just wondering if Connie wore her rubbers to school, and if father remembered to take his muffler."

Fairy burst into renewed laughter. "Oh, you precious, old, practical Prudence," she gurgled. "Rubbers and mufflers, with such a delicious snowfall as this! Oh, Prudence, shame upon you."

Prudence was ashamed. "Oh, I know I am a perfect idiot, Fairy," she said. "I know it better than anybody else. I am so ashamed of myself, all the time." Then she added rather shyly, "Fairy, are you ashamed of me sometimes? When the college girls are here, and you are all talking so brilliantly, aren't you kind of mortified that I am so stupid and dull? I do not care if outsiders do think I am inferior to the rest of you, but—really I do not want you to be ashamed of me! I—oh, I know it myself,—that I do not amount to anything, and never will, but—it would hurt if I thought you and the twins were going to find me—humiliating." Prudence was looking at her sister hungrily, her lips drooping, her eyes dark.

For a long instant Fairy stared at her incredulously. Then she sprang to her feet, her face white, her eyes blazing.

"Prudence Starr," she cried furiously, "how dare you say such things of us? Do you think we are as despicable as all that? Oh, Prudence, I never was so insulted in all my life! Ashamed of you! Ashamed—Why, we are proud of you, every one of us, daddy, too! We think you are the finest and dearest girl that ever lived. We think—Oh, I think God Himself must be proud of a girl like you, Prudence Starr! Ashamed of you!"

And Fairy, bursting into tears, rushed wildly out of the room. For all her poetical nature, Fairy was usually self-restrained and calm. Only twice before in all her life had Prudence seen her so tempest-tossed, and now, greatly disturbed, yet pleased at the passionate avowals, she hurried away in search of her sister. She needed no more assurance of her attitude.

So the twins and Connie came into an empty room, and chattered away to themselves abstractedly for an hour. Then Prudence came down. Instantly Connie was asked the all-important question:

"Are your feet wet?"

Connie solemnly took three steps across the room. "Hear me sqush," she said proudly. She did sqush, too!

"Constance Starr, I am ashamed of you! This is positively wicked. You know it is a law of the Medes and Persians that you change your shoes and stockings as soon as you come in when your feet are wet. Do it at once. I'll get some hot water so you can soak your feet, too. And you shall drink some good hot peppermint tea, into the bargain. I'll teach you to sit around in wet clothes! Do you think I want an invalid on my hands?"

"Oh, don't be so fussy," said Connie fretfully, "wet feet don't do any harm." But she obligingly soaked her feet, and drank the peppermint.

"Are your feet wet, twins?"

"No," said Lark, "we have better judgment than to go splashing through the wet old snow.—What's the matter with you, Carol? Why don't you sit still? Are your feet wet?"

"No, but it's too hot in this room. My clothes feel sticky. May I open the door, Prudence?"

"Mercy, no! The snow is blowing a hurricane now. It isn't very hot in here, Carol. You've been running outdoors in the cold, and that makes it seem hot. You must peel the potatoes now, twins, it's time to get supper. Carol, you run up-stairs and ask papa if he got his feet wet. Between him and Connie, I do not have a minute's peace in the winter time!"

"You go, Lark," said Carol. "My head aches."

"Do you want me to rub it?" asked Prudence, as Lark skipped up-stairs for her twin.

"No, it's just the closeness in here. It doesn't ache very bad. If we don't have more fresh air, we'll all get something and die, Prudence.—I tell you that. This room is perfectly stuffy.—I do not want to talk any more." And Carol got up from her chair and walked restlessly about the room.

But Carol was sometimes given to moods, and so, without concern, Prudence went to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal.

"Papa says his feet are not wet, and that you are a big simpleton, and—Oh, did you make cinnamon rolls to-day, Prue? Oh, goody! Carrie, come on out! Look,—she made cinnamon rolls."

Connie, too, hastened out to the kitchen in her bare feet, and was promptly driven back by the watchful Prudence.

"I just know you are going to be sick, Connie,—I feel it in my bones. And walking out in that cold kitchen in your bare feet! You can just drink some more peppermint tea for that, now."

"Well, give me a cinnamon roll to go with it," urged Connie. "Peppermint is awfully dry, taken by itself."

Lark hooted gaily at this sentiment, but joined her sister in pleading for cinnamon rolls.

"No, wait until supper is ready. You do not need to help peel the potatoes to-night, Carol. Run back where it is warm, and you must not read if your head aches. You read too much anyhow. I'll help Lark with the potatoes. No, do not take the paper, Carol,—I said you must not read."

Then Lark and Prudence, working together, and talking much, prepared the supper for the family. When they gathered about the table, Prudence looked critically at Connie.

"Are you beginning to feel sick? Do you feel like sneezing, or any thing?—Connie's awfully naughty, papa. Her feet were just oozing water, and she sat there in her wet shoes and stockings, just like a stupid child.—Aren't you going to eat any supper, Carol? Are you sick? What is the matter? Does your head still ache?"

"Oh, it doesn't ache exactly, but I do not feel hungry. No, I am not sick, Prudence, so don't stew about it. I'm just not hungry. The meat is too greasy, and the potatoes are lumpy. I think I'll take a cinnamon roll." But she only picked it to pieces idly. Prudence watched her with the intense suspicious gaze of a frightened mother bird.

"There are some canned oysters out there, Carol. If I make you some soup, will you eat it?"

This was a great concession, for the canned oysters were kept in anticipation of unexpected company. But Carol shook her head impatiently. "I am not hungry at all," she said.

"I'll open some pineapple, or those beautiful pickled peaches Mrs. Adams gave us, or—or anything, if you'll just eat something, Carrie."

Still Carol shook her head. "I said I wasn't hungry, Prudence." But her face was growing very red, and her eyes were strangely bright. She moved her hands with unnatural restless motions, and frequently lifted her shoulders in a peculiar manner.

"Do your shoulders hurt, Carol?" asked her father, who was also watching her anxiously.

"Oh, it feels kind of—well—tight, I guess, in my chest. But it doesn't hurt. It hurts a little when I breathe deep."

"Is your throat still sore, Carol?" inquired Lark. "Don't you remember saying you couldn't swallow when we were coming home from school?"

"It isn't sore now," said Carol. And as though intolerant of further questioning, she left the dining-room quickly.

"Shall I put flannel on her chest and throat, father?" asked Prudence nervously.

"Yes, and if she gets worse we will call the doctor. It's probably just a cold, but we must——"

"It isn't diphtheria, papa, you know that," cried Prudence passionately.

For there were four reported cases of that dread disease in Mount Mark.

But the pain in Carol's chest did grow worse, and she became so feverish that she began talking in quick broken sentences.

"It was too hot!—Don't go away, Larkie!—Her feet were wet, and it kept squshing out.—I guess I'm kind of sick, Prue.—Don't put that thing on my head, it is strangling me!—Oh, I can't get my breath!" And she flung her hand out sharply, as though to push something away from her face.

Then Mr. Starr went to the telephone and hurriedly called the doctor. Prudence meanwhile had undressed Carol, and put on her little pink flannel nightgown.

"Go out in the kitchen, girls, and shut the door," she said to her sisters, who stood close around the precious twin, so suddenly stricken. "Fairy!" she cried. "Go at once. It may be catching. Take the others with you. And keep the door shut."

But Lark flung herself on her knees beside her twin, and burst into choking sobs. "I won't go," she cried. "I won't leave Carrie. I will not, Prudence!"

"Oh, it is too hot," moaned Carol. "Oh, give me a drink! Give me some snow, Prudence. Oh, it hurts!" And she pressed her burning hands against her chest.

"Lark," said her father, stepping quickly to her side, "go out to the kitchen at once. Do you want to make Carrie worse?" And Lark, cowed and quivering, rushed into the kitchen and closed the door.

"I'll carry her up-stairs to bed, Prue," said her father, striving to render his voice natural for the sake of the suffering oldest daughter, whose tense white face was frightening.

Together they carried the child up the stairs. "Put her in our bed," said Prudence. "I'll—I'll—if it's diphtheria, daddy, she and I will stay upstairs here, and the rest of you must stay down. You can bring our food up to the head of the stairs, and I'll come out and get it. They can't take Carol away from the parsonage."

"We will get a nurse, Prudence. We couldn't let you run a risk like that. It would not be right. If I could take care of her properly myself, I——"

"You couldn't, father, and it would be wicked for you to take such chances. What would the—others do without you? But it would not make any difference about me. I'm not important. He can give me anti-toxin, and I'm such a healthy girl there will be no danger. But she must not be shut alone with a nurse. She would die!"

And Carol took up the words, screaming, "I will die! I will die! Don't leave me, Prudence. Don't shut me up alone. Prudence! Prudence!"

Down-stairs in the kitchen, three frightened girls clung to one another, crying bitterly as they heard poor Carol's piercing screams.

"It is pneumonia," said the doctor, after an examination. And he looked at Prudence critically. "I think we must have a nurse for a few days. It may be a little severe, and you are not quite strong enough." Then, as Prudence remonstrated, "Oh, yes," he granted, "you shall stay with her, but if it is very serious a nurse will be of great service. I will have one come at once." Then he paused, and listened to the indistinct sobbing that floated up from the kitchen. "Can't you send those girls away for the night,—to some of the neighbors? It will be much better."

But this the younger girls stubbornly refused to do. "If you send me out of the house when Carol is sick, I will kill myself," said Lark, in such a strange voice that the doctor eyed her sharply.

"Well, if you will all stay down-stairs and keep quiet, so as not to annoy your sister," he consented grudgingly. "The least sobbing, or confusion, or excitement, may make her much worse. Fix up a bed on the floor down here, all of you, and go to sleep."

"I won't go to bed," said Lark, looking up at the doctor with agonized eyes. "I won't go to bed while Carol is sick."

"Give her a cup of something hot to drink," he said to Fairy curtly.

"I won't drink anything," said Lark. "I won't drink anything, and I won't eat a bite of anything until Carol is well. I won't sleep, either."

The doctor took her hand in his, and deftly pushed the sleeve above the elbow.

"You can twist my arm if you like, but I won't eat, and I won't drink, and I won't sleep."

The doctor smiled. Swiftly inserting the point of his needle in her arm, he released her. "I won't hurt you, but I am pretty sure you will be sleeping in a few minutes." He turned to Fairy. "Get her ready for bed at once. The little one can wait."

An hour later, he came down-stairs again. "Is she sleeping?" he asked of Fairy in a low voice. "That is good. You have your work cut out for you, my girl. The little one here will be all right, but this twin is in nearly as bad shape as the one up-stairs."

"Oh! Doctor! Larkie, too!"

"Oh, she is not sick. But she is too intense. She is taking this too hard. Her system is not well enough developed to stand such a strain very long. Something would give way,—maybe her brain. She must be watched. She must eat and sleep. There is school to-morrow, isn't there?"

"But I am sure Lark will not go, Doctor. She has never been to school a day in her life without Carol. I am sure she will not go!"

"Let her stay at home, then. Don't get her excited. But make her work. Keep her doing little tasks about the house, and send her on errands. Talk to her a good deal. Prudence will have her hands full with the other twin, and you'll have all you can do with this one. I'm depending on you, my girl. You mustn't fail me."

That was the beginning of an anxious week. For two days Carol was in delirium most of the time, calling out, crying, screaming affrightedly. And Lark crouched at the foot of the stairs, hands clenched passionately, her slender form tense and motionless.

It was four in the afternoon, as the doctor was coming down from the sick room, that Fairy called him into the dining-room with a suggestive glance.

"She won't eat," she said. "I have done everything possible, and I had the nurse try. But she will not eat a bite. I—I'm sorry, Doctor, but I can't make her."

"What has she been doing?"

"She's been at the foot of the stairs all day. She won't do a thing I tell her. She won't mind the nurse. Father told her to keep away, too, but she does not pay any attention. When I speak to her, she does not answer. When she hears you coming down, she runs away and hides, but she goes right back again."

"Can your father make her eat? If he commands her?"

"I do not know. I doubt it. But we can try. Here's some hot soup,—I'll call father."

So Lark was brought into the dining-room, and her father came down the stairs. The doctor whispered an explanation to him in the hall.

"Lark," said her father, gently but very firmly, "you must eat, or you will be sick, too. We need all of our time to look after Carol to-day. Do you want to keep us away from her to attend to you?"

"No, father, of course not. I wish you would all go right straight back to Carrie this minute and leave me alone. I'm all right. But I can't eat until Carol is well."

Her father drew a chair to the table and said, "Sit down and eat that soup at once, Larkie."

Lark's face quivered, but she turned away. "I can't, father. You don't understand. I can't eat,—I really can't. Carrie's my twin, and—oh, father, don't you see how it is?"

He stood for a moment, frowning at her thoughtfully. Then he left the room, signing for the doctor to follow. "I'll send Prudence down," he said. "She'll manage some way."

"I must stay here until I see her eat it," said the doctor. "If she won't do it, she must be kept under morphine for a few days. But it's better not. Try Prudence, by all means."

So Prudence, white-faced, eyes black-circled, came down from the room where she had served her sister many weary hours. The doctor was standing in the center of the room. Fairy was hovering anxiously near Lark, rigid at the window.

"Larkie," whispered Prudence, and with a bitter cry the young girl leaped into her sister's arms.

Prudence caressed and soothed her tenderly. "Poor little Larkie," she murmured, "poor little twinnie!—But Carol is resting pretty well now, Lark. She's coming through all right. She was conscious several times to-day. The first time she just looked up at me and smiled and whispered, 'Hard luck, Prue.' Then a little later she said, 'Tell Larkie I'm doing fine, and don't let her worry.' Pretty soon she spoke again, 'You make Lark be sensible, Prue, or she'll be sick, too.' Once again she started to say something about you, but she was too sick to finish. 'Larkie is such a—,' but that was as far as she could go. She was thinking of you all the time, Lark. She is so afraid you'll worry and make yourself sick, too. She would be heartbroken if she was able to see you, and you were too sick to come to her. You must keep up your strength for Carol's sake. If she is conscious to-morrow, we're going to bring you up a while to see her. She can hardly stand being away from you, I know. But you must get out-of-doors, and bring some color to your cheeks, first. It would make her miserable to see you like this."

Lark was still sobbing, but more gently now, and she still clung to her sister.

"To-morrow, Prudence? Honestly, may I go up to-morrow? You're not just fooling me, are you? You wouldn't do that!"

"Of course I wouldn't. Yes, you really may, if you'll be good and make yourself look better. It would be very bad for Carrie to see you so white and wan. She would worry. Have you been eating? You must eat lots, and then take a good run out-of-doors toward bedtime, so you will sleep well. It will be a good tonic for Carol to see you bright and fresh and rosy."

"Oh, I can't bear to be fresh and rosy when Carrie is sick!"

"It hurts,—but you are willing to be hurt for Carol's sake! You will do it on her account. It will do her so much good. Now sit down and eat your soup, and I'll stay here a while and tell you all about her. I gave her the pansies you bought her,—it was so sweet of you, too, Larkie. It must have taken every cent of your money, didn't it? I suppose you ordered them over the telephone, since you wouldn't leave the house. When I told Carol you got them for her, she took them in her hand and held them under the covers. Of course, they wilted right away, but I knew you would like Carrie to have them close to her.'—Oh, you must eat it all, Lark. It looks very good. I must take a little of it up to Carol,—maybe she can eat some.—And you will do your very best to be strong and bright and rosy—for Carol—won't you?"

"Yes, I will,—I'll go and run across the field a few times before I go to bed. Yes, I'll try my very best." Then she looked up at the doctor, and added: "But I wouldn't do it for you, or anybody else, either."

But the doctor only smiled oddly, and went away up-stairs again, wondering at the wisdom that God has placed in the hearts of women!

Dreary miserable days and nights followed after that. And Prudence, to whom Carol, even in delirium, clung with such wildness that they dare not deny her, grew weary-eyed and wan. But when the doctor, putting his hand on her shoulder, said, "It's all right now, my dear. She'll soon be as well as ever,"—then Prudence dropped limply to the floor, trembling weakly with the great happiness.

Good Methodist friends from all over Mount Mark came to the assistance of the parsonage family, and many gifts and delicacies and knick-knacks were sent in to tempt the appetite of the invalid, and the others as well.

"You all need toning up," said Mrs. Adams crossly, "you've all gone clear under. A body would think the whole family had been down with something!"

Carol's friends at the high school, and the members of the faculty also, took advantage of this opportunity to show their love for her. And Professor Duke sent clear to Burlington for a great basket of violets and lilies-of-the-valley, "For our little high-school song-bird," as he wrote on the card. And Carol dimpled with delight as she read it.

"Now you see for yourself, Prudence," she declared. "Isn't he a duck?"

When the little parsonage group, entire, gathered once more around the table in the "real dining-room," they were joyful indeed. It was a gala occasion! The very best china and silverware were brought out in Carol's honor. The supper was one that would have gratified the heart of a bishop, at the very least!

"Apple pie, with pure cream, Carol," said Lark ecstatically, for apple pie with pure cream was the favorite dessert of the sweet-toothed twins. And Lark added earnestly, "And I don't seem to be very hungry to-night, Carol,—I don't want any pie. You shall have my piece, too!"

"I said I felt it in my bones, you remember," said Prudence, smiling at Carol, "but my mental compass indicated Connie when it should have pointed to Carol! And I do hope, Connie dear, that this will be a lesson to you, and impress upon you that you must always change your shoes and stockings when your feet are wet!"

And for the first time in many days, clear, happy-hearted laughter rang out in the parsonage.



CHAPTER IX

PRACTISING ECONOMY

It was a dull dreary day early in December. Prudence and Fairy were sewing in the bay window of the sitting-room.

"We must be sure to have all the scraps out of the way before Connie gets home," said Prudence, carefully fitting together pieces of a dark, warm, furry material. "It has been so long since father wore this coat, I am sure she will not recognize it."

"But she will ask where we got it, and what shall we say?"

"We must tell her it is goods we have had in the house for a long time. That is true. And I made this fudge on purpose to distract her attention. If she begins to ask questions, we must urge her to have more candy. Poor child!" she added very sympathetically. "Her heart is just set on a brand-new coat. I know she will be bitterly disappointed. If the members would just pay up we could get her one. November and December are such bad months for parsonage people. Coal to buy, feed for the cow and the horse and the chickens, and Carol's sickness, and Larkie's teeth! Of course, those last are not regular winter expenses, but they took a lot of money this year. Every one is getting ready for Christmas now, and forgets that parsonage people need Christmas money, too. November and December are always my bitter months, Fairy,—bitter months!"

Fairy took a pin from her mouth. "The velvet collar and cuffs will brighten it up a good bit. It's really a pretty material. I have honestly been ashamed of Connie the last few Sundays. It was so cold, and she wore only that little thin summer jacket. She must have been half frozen."

"Oh, I had her dressed warmly underneath, very warmly indeed," declared Prudence. "But no matter how warm you are underneath, you look cold if you aren't visibly prepared for winter weather. It's a fortunate thing the real cold weather was so slow in coming. I kept hoping enough money would come in to buy her a coat for once in her life."

"She has been looking forward to one long enough," put in Fairy. "This will be a bitter blow to her. And yet it is not such a bad-looking coat, after all." And she quickly ran up a seam on the machine.

"Here comes Connie!" Prudence hastily swept a pile of scraps out of sight, and turned to greet her little sister with a cheery smile.

"Come on in, Connie," she cried, with a brightness she did not feel. "Fairy and I are making you a new coat. Isn't it pretty? And so warm! See the nice velvet collar and cuffs. We want to fit it on you right away, dear."

Connie picked up a piece of the goods and examined it intently.

"Don't you want some fudge, Connie?" exclaimed Fairy, shoving the dish toward her hurriedly.

Connie took a piece from the plate, and thrust it between her teeth. Her eyes were still fastened upon the brown furry cloth.

"Where did you get this stuff?" she inquired, as soon as she was able to speak.

"Oh, we've had it in the house quite a while," said Prudence, adding swiftly, "Isn't it warm, Connie? Oh, it does look nice, doesn't it, Fairy? Do you want it a little shorter, Connie, or is that about right?"

"About right, I guess. Did you ever have a coat like this, Prudence? I don't seem to remember it.'"

"Oh, no, it wasn't mine. Take some more candy, Connie. Isn't it good?—Let's put a little more fullness in the sleeves, Fairy. It's more stylish this year.—The collar fits very nicely. The velvet gives it such a rich tone. And brown is so becoming to you."

"Thanks," said Connie patiently. "Was this something of yours, Fairy?"

"Oh, no, we've just had it in the house quite a while. It comes in very handy right now, doesn't it? It'll make you such a serviceable, stylish coat. Isn't it about time for the twins to get here, Prudence? I'm afraid they are playing along the road. Those girls get more careless every day of their lives."

"Well, if this didn't belong to one of you, whose was it?" demanded Connie. "I know the twins never had anything like this. It looks kind of familiar to me. Where did it come from?"

"Out of the trunk in the garret, Connie. Don't you want some more fudge? I put a lot of nuts in, especially on your account."

"It's good," said Connie, taking another piece. She examined the cloth very closely. "Say, Prudence, isn't this that old brown coat of father's?"

Fairy shoved her chair back from the machine, and ran to the window. "Look, Prue," she cried. "Isn't that Mrs. Adams coming this way? I wonder——"

"No, it isn't," answered Connie gravely. "It's just Miss Avery getting home from school.—Isn't it, Prudence? Father's coat, I mean?"

"Yes, Connie, it is," said Prudence, very, very gently. "But no one here has seen it, and it is such nice cloth,—just exactly what girls are wearing now."

"But I wanted a new coat!" Connie did not cry. She stood looking at Prudence with her wide hurt eyes.

"Oh, Connie, I'm just as sorry as you are," cried Prudence, with starting tears. "I know just how you feel about it, dearest. But the people didn't pay father up last month, and nothing has come in for this month yet, and we've had so much extra expense.—I will have to wear my old shoes, too, Connie, and you know how they look! The shoemaker says they aren't worth fixing, so I must wear them as they are.—But maybe after Christmas we can get you a coat. They pay up better then."

"I think I'd rather wear my summer coat until then," said Connie soberly.

"Oh, but you can't, dearest. It is too cold. Won't you be a good girl now, and not make sister feel badly about it? It really is becoming to you, and it is nice and warm. You know parsonage people just have to practise economy, Connie,—it can't be helped. Take some more fudge, dear, and run out-of-doors a while. You'll feel better about it presently, I'm sure."

Connie stood solemnly beside the table, her eyes still fastened on the coat, cut down from her father's. "Can I go and take a walk?" she asked finally.

"May I, you mean," suggested Fairy.

"Yes, may I? Maybe I can reconcile myself to it."

"Yes, do go and take a walk," urged Prudence promptly, eager to get the small sober face beyond her range of vision.

"If I am not back when the twins get home, go right on and eat without me. I'll come back when I get things straightened out in my mind."

When Connie was quite beyond hearing, Prudence dropped her head on the table and wept. "Oh, Fairy, if the members just knew how such things hurt, maybe they'd pay up a little better. How do they expect parsonage people to keep up appearances when they haven't any money?"

"Oh, now, Prue, you're worse than Connie! There's no use to cry about it. Parsonage people have to find happiness in spite of financial misery. Money isn't the first thing with folks like us."

"No, but they have pledged it," protested Prudence, lifting her tear-stained face. "They must know we are counting on the money. Why don't they keep their pledges? They pay their meat bills, and grocery bills, and house rent! Why don't they pay for their religion?"

"Now, Prue, you know how things go. Mrs. Adams is having a lot of Christmas expense, and she thinks her four dollars a month won't really be missed. She thinks she will make it up along in February, when Christmas is over. But she forgets that Mrs. Barnaby with two dollars, and Mrs. Scott with five, and Mr. Walter with seven, and Mr. Holmes with three, and about thirty others with one dollar each, are thinking the same thing! Each member thinks for himself, and takes no account of the others. That's how it happens."

Prudence squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. "I wish you wouldn't mention names, Fairy," she begged. "I do not object to lumping them in a body and wondering about them. But I can't feel right about calling them out by name, and criticizing them.—Besides, we do not really know which ones they are who did not pay."

"I was just giving names for illustrative purposes," said Fairy quickly. "Like as not, the very ones I named are the ones who did pay."

"Well, get this stuff out of the way, and let's set the table. Somehow I can't bear to touch it any more. Poor little Connie! If she had cried about it, I wouldn't have cared so much. But she looked so—heartsick, didn't she, Fairy?"

Connie certainly was heartsick. More than that, she was a little disgusted. She felt herself aroused to take action. Things had gone too far! Go to church in her father's coat she could not! But they hadn't the money. If Connie's father had been at home, perhaps they might have reasoned it out together. But he had left town that morning, and would not be home until Saturday evening,—too late to get a coat in time for Sunday, and Prudence had said that Connie must be coated by Sunday! She walked sturdily down the street toward the "city,"—ironically so called. Her face was stony, her hands were clenched. But finally she brightened. Her lagging steps quickened. She skipped along quite cheerfully. She turned westward as she reached the corner of the Square, and walked along that business street with shining eyes. In front of the First National Bank she paused, but after a few seconds she passed by. On the opposite corner was another bank. When she reached it, she walked in without pausing, and the massive door swung behind her. Standing on tiptoe, she confronted the cashier with a grave face.

"Is Mr. Harold in?" she asked politely.

Mr. Harold was the president of the bank! It was a little unusual.

"Yes, he is in," said the cashier doubtfully, "but he is very busy."

"Will you tell him that Constance Starr wishes to speak to him, privately, and that it is very important?"

The cashier smiled. "The Methodist minister's little girl, isn't it? Yes, I will tell him."

Mr. Harold looked up impatiently at the interruption.

"It's the Methodist minister's little daughter, and she says it is important for her to speak to you privately."

"Oh! Probably a message from her father. Bring her in."

Mr. Harold was one of the trustees of the Methodist church, and prominent among them. His keen eyes were intent upon Connie as she walked in, but she did not falter.

"How do you do, Mr. Harold?" she said, and shook hands with him in the good old Methodist way.

His eyes twinkled, but he spoke briskly. "Did your father send you on an errand?"

"No, father is out of town. I came on business,—personal business, Mr. Harold. It is my own affair."

"Oh, I see," and he smiled at the earnest little face. "Well, what can I do for you, Miss Constance?"

"I want to borrow five dollars from the bank, Mr. Harold?"

"You—did Prudence send you?"

"Oh, no, it is my own affair as I told you. I came on my own account. I thought of stopping at the other bank as I passed, but then I remembered that parsonage people must always do business with their own members if possible. And of course, I would rather come to you than to a perfect stranger."

"Thank you,—thank you very much. Five dollars you say you want?"

"I suppose I had better tell you all about it. You see, I need a winter coat, very badly. Oh, very badly, indeed! The girls were ashamed of me last Sunday, I looked so cold outside, though I was dressed plenty warm enough inside. I've been looking forward to a new coat, Mr. Harold. I've never had one yet. There was always something to cut down for me, from Prudence, or Fairy, or the twins. But this time there wasn't anything to hand down, and so I just naturally counted on a new one." Connie paused, and looked embarrassed.

"Yes?" His voice was encouraging.

"Well, I'll tell you the rest, but I hope you won't say anything about it, for I'd feel pretty cheap if I thought all the Sunday-school folks knew about it.—You see, the members need such a lot of money now just before Christmas, and so they didn't pay us up last month, and they haven't paid anything this month. And we had to get coal, and feed, and Larkie's teeth had to be fixed, and Carol was sick, you remember. Seems to me Lark's teeth might have been put off until after Christmas, but Prudence says not.—And so there isn't any money left, and I can't have a coat. But Prudence and Fairy are making me one,—out of an old coat of father's!"

Constance paused dramatically. Mr. Harold never even smiled. He just nodded understandingly. "I don't think I could wear a coat of father's to church,—it's cut down of course, but—there's something painful about the idea. I wouldn't expect father to wear any of my clothes! You can see how it is, Mr. Harold. Just imagine how you would feel wearing your wife's coat!—I don't think I could listen to the sermons. I don't believe I could be thankful for the mercy of wearing father's coat! I don't see anything merciful about it. Do you?"

Mr. Harold did not speak. He gazed at Connie sympathetically, and shook his head.

"It's too much, that's what it is. And so I thought I'd just have to take things into my own hands and borrow the money. I can get a good coat for five dollars. But if the bank is a little short right now, I can get along with four, or even three. I'd rather have the cheapest coat in town, than one made out of father's. Do you think you can let me have it?"

"Yes, indeed we can." He seemed to find his voice with an effort. "Of course we can. We are very glad to lend our money to responsible people. We are proud to have your trade."

"But I must tell you, that it may take me quite a while to pay it back. Father gives me a nickel a week, and I generally spend it for candy. There's another nickel, but it has to go in the collection, so I can't really count that. I don't believe father would let me neglect the heathen, even to pay for a winter coat! But I will give you the nickel every week, and at that rate I can pay it back in a couple of years easy enough. But I'd rather give the nickels as fast as I get them. It's so hard to keep money when you can get your hand on it, you know. Sometimes I have quite a lot of money,—as much as a quarter at a time, from doing errands for the neighbors and things like that. I'll pay you as fast as I can. Will that be all right? And the interest, too, of course. How much will the interest be on five dollars?"

"Well, that depends on how soon you repay the money, Connie. But I'll figure it out, and tell you later."

"All right. I know I can trust you not to cheat me, since you're a trustee. So I won't worry about that."

Mr. Harold drew out a bulky book from his pocket, and handed Connie a crisp new bill. Her eyes sparkled as she received it.

"But, Connie," he continued, "I feel that I ought to give you this. We Methodists have done a wicked thing in forgetting our November payments, and I will just give you this bill to make up for it."

But Connie shook her head decidedly. "Oh, no! I'll have to give it back, then. Father would not stand that,—not for one minute. Of course, parsonage people get things given to them, quite a lot. And it's a good thing, too, I must say! But we don't hint for them, Mr. Harold. That wouldn't be right." She held out the bill toward him, with very manifest reluctance.

"Keep it,—we'll call it a loan then, Connie," he said. "And you may pay me back, five cents at a time, just as is most convenient."

The four older girls were at the table when Connie arrived. She exhaled quiet satisfaction from every pore. Prudence glanced at her once, and then looked away again. "She has reconciled herself," she thought. Dinner was half over before Constance burst her bomb. She had intended waiting until they were quite through, but it was more than flesh and blood could keep!

"Are you going to be busy this afternoon, Prudence?" she asked quietly.

"We are going to sew a little," said Prudence. "Why?"

"I wanted you to go down-town with me after school."

"Well, perhaps I can do that. Fairy will be able to finish the coat alone."

"You needn't finish the coat!—I can't wear father's coat to church, Prudence. It's a—it's a—physical impossibility."

The twins laughed. Fairy smiled, but Prudence gazed at "the baby" with tender pity.

"I'm so sorry, dearest, but we haven't the money to buy one now."

"Will five dollars be enough?" inquired Connie, and she placed her crisp new bill beside her plate. The twins gasped! They gazed at Connie with new respect. They were just wishing they could handle five-dollar bills so recklessly.

"Will you loan me twenty dollars until after Christmas, Connie?" queried Fairy.

But Prudence asked, "Where did you get this money, Connie?"

"I borrowed it,—from the bank," Connie replied with proper gravity. "I have two years to pay it back. Mr. Harold says they are proud to have my trade."

Prudence was silent for several long seconds. Then she inquired in a low voice, "Did you tell him why you wanted it?"

"Yes, I explained the whole situation."

"What did he say?"

"He said he knew just how I felt, because he knew he couldn't go to church in his wife's coat.—No, I said that myself, but he agreed with me. He did not say very much, but he looked sympathetic. He said he anticipated great pleasure in seeing me in my new coat at church next Sunday."

"Go on with your luncheon, twins," said Prudence sternly. "You'll be late to school.—We'll see about going down-town when you get home to-night, Connie. Now, eat your luncheon, and don't talk about coats any more."

When Connie had gone back to school, Prudence went straight to Mr. Harold's bank. Flushed and embarrassed, she explained the situation frankly. "My sympathies are all with Connie," she said candidly. "But I am afraid father would not like it. We are dead set against borrowing. After—our mother was taken, we were crowded pretty close for money. So we had to go in debt. It took us two years to get it paid. Father and Fairy and I talked it over then, and decided we would starve rather than borrow again. Even the twins understood it, but Connie was too little. She doesn't know how heartbreaking it is to keep handing over every cent for debt, when one is just yearning for other things.—I do wish she might have the coat, but I'm afraid father would not like it. She gave me the five dollars for safekeeping, and I have brought it back."

Mr. Harold shook his head. "No, Connie must have her coat. This will be a good lesson for her. It will teach her the bitterness of living under debt! Besides, Prudence, I think in my heart that she is right this time. This is a case where borrowing is justified. Get her the coat, and I'll square the account with your father." Then he added, "And I'll look after this salary business myself after this. I'll arrange with the trustees that I am to pay your father his full salary the first of every month, and that the church receipts are to be turned in to me. And if they do not pay up, my lawyer can do a little investigating! Little Connie earned that five dollars, for she taught one trustee a sorry lesson. And he will have to pass it on to the others in self-defense! Now, run along and get the coat, and if five dollars isn't enough you can have as much more as you need. Your father will get his salary after this, my dear, if we have to mortgage the parsonage!"



CHAPTER X

A BURGLAR'S VISIT

"Prue!"

A small hand gripped Prudence's shoulder, and again came a hoarsely whispered:

"Prue!"

Prudence sat up in bed with a bounce.

"What in the world?" she began, gazing out into the room, half-lighted by the moonshine, and seeing Carol and Lark shivering beside her bed.

"Sh! Sh! Hush!" whispered Lark. "There's a burglar in our room!"

By this time, even sound-sleeping Fairy was awake. "Oh, there is!" she scoffed.

"Yes, there is," declared Carol with some heat. "We heard him, plain as day. He stepped into the closet, didn't he, Lark?"

"He certainly did," agreed Lark.

"Did you see him?"

"No, we heard him. Carol heard him first, and she spoke, and nudged me. Then I heard him, too. He was at our dresser, but he shot across the room and into the closet. He closed the door after him. He's there now."

"You've been dreaming," said Fairy, lying down again.

"We don't generally dream the same thing at the same minute," said Carol stormily. "I tell you he's in there."

"And you two great big girls came off and left poor little Connie in there alone with a burglar, did you? Well, you are nice ones, I must say."

And Prudence leaped out of bed and started for the door, followed by Fairy, with the twins creeping fearfully along in the rear.

"She was asleep," muttered Carol.

"We didn't want to scare her," added Lark.

Prudence was careful to turn the switch by the door, so that the room was in full light before she entered. The closet door was wide open. Connie was soundly sleeping. There was no one else in the room.

"You see?" said Prudence sternly.

"I'll bet he took our ruby rings," declared Lark, and the twins and Fairy ran to the dresser to look.

But a sickening realization had come home to Prudence. In the lower hall, under the staircase, was a small dark closet which they called the dungeon. The dungeon door was big and solid, and was equipped with a heavy catch-lock. In this dungeon, Prudence kept the family silverware, and all the money she had on hand, as it could there be safely locked away. But more often than not, Prudence forgot to lock it.

Mr. Starr had gone to Burlington that morning to attend special revival services for three days, and Prudence had fifty whole dollars in the house, an unwonted sum in that parsonage! And the dungeon was not locked. Without a word, she slipped softly out of the room, ran down the stairs, making never a sound in her bare feet, and saw, somewhat to her surprise, that the dungeon door was open. Quickly she flung it shut, pushed the tiny key that moved the "catch," and was rushing up the stairs again with never a pause for breath.

A strange sight met her eyes in the twins' room. The twins themselves were in each other's arms, sobbing bitterly. Fairy was still looking hurriedly through the dresser drawers.

"They are gone," wailed Carol, "our beautiful ruby rings that belonged to grandmother."

"Nonsense," cried Prue with nervous anger, "you've left them in the bathroom, or on the kitchen shelves. You're always leaving them somewhere over the place. Come on, and we'll search the house just to convince you."

"No, no," shrieked the twins. "Let's lock the door and get under the bed."

The rings were really valuable. Their grandmother, their mother's mother, whom they had never seen, had divided her "real jewelry" between her two daughters. And the mother of these parsonage girls, had further divided her portion to make it reach through her own family of girls! Prudence had a small but beautiful chain of tiny pearls. Fairy's share consisted of a handsome brooch, with a "sure-enough diamond" in the center! The twin rubies of another brooch had been reset in rings for Carol and Lark, and were the priceless treasures of their lives! And in the dungeon was a solid gold bracelet, waiting until Connie's arm should be sufficiently developed to do it justice.

"Our rings! Our rings!" the twins were wailing, and Connie, awakened by the noise, was crying beneath the covers of her bed.

"Maybe we'd better phone for Mr. Allan," suggested Fairy. "The girls are so nervous they will be hysterical by the time we finish searching the house."

"Well, let's do the up-stairs then," said Prudence. "Get your slippers and kimonos, and we'll go into daddy's room."

But inside the door of daddy's room, with the younger girls clinging to her, and Fairy looking odd and disturbed, Prudence stopped abruptly and stared about the room curiously.

"Fairy, didn't father leave his watch hanging on that nail by the table? Seems to me I saw it there this morning. I remember thinking I would tease him for being forgetful."

And the watch was not there.

"I think it was Sunday he left it," answered Fairy in a low voice. "I remember seeing it on the nail, and thinking he would need it,—but I believe it was Sunday."

Prudence looked under the bed, and in the closet, but their father's room was empty. Should they go farther? For a moment, the girls stood looking at one another questioningly. Then—they heard a loud thud down-stairs, as of some one pounding on a door. There was no longer any doubt. Some one was in the house! Connie and the twins screamed again and clung to Prudence frantically. And Fairy said, "I think we'd better lock the door and stay right here until morning, Prue."

But Prudence faced them stubbornly. "If you think I'm going to let any one steal that fifty dollars, you are mistaken. Fifty dollars does not come often enough for that, I can tell you."

"It's probably stolen already," objected Fairy.

"Well, if it is, we'll find out who did it, and have them arrested. I'm going down to telephone to the police. You girls must lock the door after me, and stay right here."

The little ones screamed again, and Fairy said: "Don't be silly, Prue, if you go I'm going with you, of course. We'll leave the kiddies here and they can lock the door. They'll be perfectly safe in here."

But the children loudly objected to this. If Prue and Fairy went, they would go! So down the stairs they trooped, a timorous trembling crowd. Prudence went at once to the telephone, and called up the residence of the Allans, their neighbors across the street. After a seemingly never-ending wait, the kind-hearted neighbor left his bed to answer the insistent telephone. Falteringly Prudence explained their predicament, and asked him to come and search the house. He promised to be there in five minutes, with his son to help.

"Now," said Prudence more cheerfully, "we'll just go out to the kitchen and wait. It's quiet there, and away from the rest of the house, and we'll be perfectly safe." To the kitchen, then, they hurried, and found real comfort in its smallness and secureness. Prudence raked up the dying embers of the fire, and Fairy drew the blinds to their lowest limits. The twins and Connie trailed them fearfully at every step.

When the fire was burning brightly, Prudence spoke with great assurance. "I'll just run in to the dungeon and see for sure if the money is there. I do not honestly believe there is a soul in the house, but I can't rest until I know that money is safe."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Fairy, "you'll stay right here and wait with us. I do not believe there's any one in the house, either, but if there is, you shan't run into him by yourself. You stay right where you are, and don't be silly. Mr. Allan will do the investigating."

Every breath of wind against the windows drew startled cries from the younger girls, and both Fairy and Prudence were white with anxiety when they heard the loud voices of the Allans outside the kitchen door. Prudence began crying nervously the moment the two angels of mercy appeared before her, and Fairy told their tale of woe.

"Well, there now," Mr. Allan said with rough sympathy, "you just got scared, that's all. Everything's suspicious when folks get scared. I told my wife the other day I bet you girls would get a good fright some time left here alone. Come on, Jim, and we'll go over the house in a jiffy."

He was standing near the dining-room door. He lifted his head suddenly, and seemed to sniff a little. There was undoubtedly a faint odor of tobacco in the house.

"Been any men in here to-night?" he asked. "Or this afternoon? Think, now!"

"No one," answered Prudence. "I was alone all afternoon, and there has been no one in this evening."

He passed slowly through the dining-room into the hall, closely followed by his son and the five girls, already much reassured. As he passed the dungeon door he paused for a moment, listening intently, his head bent.

"Oh, Mr. Allan," cried Prudence, "let's look in the dungeon first. I want to see if the money is safe." Her hand was already on the lock, but he shoved her away quickly.

"Is there any way out of that closet besides this door?" he asked.

"No. We call it the dungeon," laughed Prudence, her self-possession quite recovered. "It is right under the stairs, and not even a mouse could gnaw its way out, with this door shut."

"Who shut that door?" he inquired, still holding Prudence's hand from the lock. Then without waiting for an answer, he went on, "Let's go back in the other room a minute. Come on, all of you." In the living-room, he hurried to the telephone, and spoke to the operator in a low voice. "Call the police headquarters, and have them send two or three men to the Methodist parsonage, right away. We've got a burglar locked in a closet, and they'll have to get him out. Please hurry."

At this, the girls crowded around him again in renewed fear.

"Don't be scared," he said calmly, "we're all right. He's in there safe enough and can't get out for a while. Now, tell me about it. How did you get him in the closet? Begin at the beginning, and tell me all about it."

Carol began the story with keen relish. "I woke up, and thought I heard some one in the room. I supposed it was Prudence. I said, 'Prudence,' and nobody answered, and everything was quiet.' But I felt there was some one in there. I nudged Lark, and she woke up. He moved then, and we both heard him. He was fumbling at the dresser, and our ruby rings are gone. We heard him step across the room and into the closet. He closed the door after him, didn't he, Lark?"

"Yes, he did," agreed Lark. "His hand was on the knob."

"So we sneaked out of bed, and went into Prudence's room and woke her and Fairy." She looked at Connie, and blushed. "Connie was asleep, and we didn't waken her because we didn't want to frighten her. We woke the girls,—and you tell the rest, Prudence."

"We didn't believe her, of course. We went back into their room and there was no one there. But the rings were gone. While they were looking at the dresser, I remembered that I forgot to lock the dungeon door, where we keep the money and the silverware, and I ran down-stairs and slammed the door and locked it, and went back up. I didn't hear a sound down-stairs."

Mr. Allan laughed heartily. "Well, your burglar was in that closet after the money, no doubt, and he didn't hear you coming, and got locked in. Did you make any noise coming down the stairs?"

"No. I was in my bare feet, and I tried to be quiet because if there was any one in the house, I did not want him coming at me in the dark. I ran back up-stairs, and we looked in father's room. I thought father had forgotten to take his watch with him, but it wasn't there.—Do you really think it was Sunday he forgot it, Fairy?"

"No," said Fairy, "it was there this afternoon. The burglar's got it in the dungeon with him, of course.—I just said it was Sunday to keep from scaring the twins."

In a few minutes, they heard footsteps around the house and knew the officers had arrived. Mr. Allan let them into the house, four of them, and led them out to the hall. There could be no doubt whatever that the burglar was in the dungeon. He had been busy with his knife, and the lock was nearly removed. If the officers had been two minutes later, the dungeon would have been empty. The girls were sent up-stairs at once, with the Allan boy as guard,—as guard, without regard for the fact that he was probably more frightened than any one of them.

The chief officer rapped briskly on the dungeon door. Then he clicked his revolver.

"There are enough of us to overpower three of you," he said curtly. "And we have men outside the house, too. If you make any disturbance, we shall all fire the instant the door is opened. If you put your firearms on the floor, and hold both hands over your head, you'll be well treated. If your hands are not up, we fire on sight. Get your revolvers ready, boys."

Then the officer opened the door. Evidently the burglar was wise enough to appreciate the futility of fighting against odds. Perhaps he did not wish to add the charge of manslaughter to that of robbery. Certainly, he did not feel himself called to sudden death. At any rate, his hands were above his head, and in less than a second he was securely manacled.

The chief officer had been eying him closely. "Say!" he exclaimed. "Aren't you Limber-Limb Grant?" The burglar grinned, but did not answer. "By jove!" shouted the officer. "It is! Call the girls down here," he ordered, and when they appeared, gazing at the burglar with mingled admiration, pity and fear, he congratulated them with considerable excitement.

"It's Limber-Limb Grant," he explained. "There's a reward of five hundred dollars for him. You'll get the money, as sure as you're born." Then he turned again to the burglar. "Say, Grant, what's a fellow like you doing on such a fifth-rate job as this? A Methodist parsonage is not just in your line, is it?"

Limber-Limb laughed sheepishly. "Well," he explained good-naturedly, "Chicago got too hot for me. I had to get out in a hurry, and I couldn't get my hands on any money. I had a fine lot of jewels, but I was so pushed I couldn't use them. I came here and loafed around town for a while, because folks said Mount Mark was so fast asleep it did not even wake up long enough to read the daily papers. I heard about this parsonage bunch, and knew the old man had gone off to get more religion. This afternoon at the station I saw a detective from Chicago get off the train, and I knew what that meant. But I needed some cash, and so I wasn't above a little job on the side. I never dreamed of getting done up by a bunch of preacher's kids. I went upstairs to get those family jewels I've heard about, and one of the little ones gave the alarm. I already had some of them, so I came down at once. I stopped in the dungeon to get that money, and first thing I knew the door banged shut. That's all. You're welcome to the five hundred dollars, ladies. Some one was bound to get it sooner or later, and I'm partial to the ladies, every time."

Limber-Limb Grant was a modern thief of the new class. At that moment, in Chicago, he had in storage, a hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels, which he could not dispose of on the pressure of the moment. The law was crowding him close, and he was obliged to choose between meeting the law, or running away from it. He ran. He reached Mount Mark, and trusted to its drowsiness for concealment for a few weeks. But that afternoon the arrival of a detective gave him warning, and he planned his departure promptly. A parsonage occupied by only five girls held no terrors for him, and with fifty dollars and a few fairly good jewels, a man of his talent could accomplish wonders.

But Mount Mark had aroused from its lethargy. Limber-Limb Grant was in the hands of the law.

Mr. Starr had been greatly interested in the accounts of the evangelistic services being held in Burlington. The workers were meeting with marked success, and Mr. Starr felt he should get in touch with them. So on Thursday morning he took the early east-bound train to Burlington. There he sought out a conveniently located second-class hotel, and took up residence. He attended the services at the tabernacle in the afternoon and evening, and then went to bed at the hotel. He slept late the next morning. When he finally appeared, he noticed casually, without giving it thought, that the clerk behind the desk looked at him with marked interest. Mr. Starr nodded cheerfully, and the clerk came at once from behind the desk to speak to him. Two or three other guests, who had been lounging about, drew near.

"We've just been reading about your girls, sir," said the clerk respectfully. "It's a pretty nervy little bunch! You must be proud of them!"

"My girls!" ejaculated Mr. Starr.

"Haven't you seen the morning paper? You're Mr. Starr, the Methodist minister at Mount Mark, aren't you?"

"I am! But what has happened to my girls? Is anything wrong? Give me the paper!"

Mr. Starr was greatly agitated. He showed it.

But the clerk could not lose this opportunity to create a sensation. It was a chance of a life-time. "Why, a burglar got in the parsonage last night," he began, almost licking his lips with satisfaction. "The twins heard him at their dresser, and when he stepped into the closet they locked him in there, and yelled for the rest of the family. But he broke away from them, and went, down-stairs and climbed down into the dungeon to get the money. Then Prudence, she ran down-stairs alone in the dark, and locked him in the dungeon,—pushed him down-stairs or something like that, I believe,—and then telephoned for the police. And she stayed on guard outside the dungeon until the police got there, so he couldn't get away. And the police got him, and found it was Limber-Limb Grant, a famous gentleman thief, and your girls are going to get five hundred dollars reward for catching him."

Five minutes later, Mr. Starr and his suit-case were in a taxicab speeding toward Union Station, and within eight minutes he was en route for Mount Mark,—white in the face, shaky in the knees, but tremendously proud in spirit.

Arriving at Mount Mark, he was instantly surrounded by an exclamatory crowd of station loungers. "Ride, sir? Glad to take you home for nothing," urged Harvey Reel. Mount Mark was enjoying more notoriety than ever before in the two hundred years of its existence. The name of Prudence was upon every tongue, and her father heard it with satisfaction. In the parsonage he found at least two-thirds of the Ladies' Aid Society, the trustees and the Sunday-school superintendent, along with a miscellaneous assortment of ordinary members, mixed up with Presbyterians, Baptists and a few unclassified outsiders. And Prudence was the center of attraction.

She was telling the "whole story," for perhaps the fifteenth time that morning, but she broke off when her father hurried in and flung her arms about him. "Oh, papa," she cried, "they mustn't praise me. I had no idea there was a burglar in the house when I ran down the stairs, and if I hadn't been careless and left the dungeon unlocked the money would have been in no danger, and if the twins hadn't wakened me I wouldn't have known there was a burglar about the place, and if Fairy hadn't kept me from rushing out to the dungeon to see if the money was safe, he would have got away, and—it took the policemen to get him out. Oh, I know that is not very grammatical, father, but it's just as true as if it were! And I honestly can't see that much credit is due me."

But Mount Mark did not take it so calmly. And as for the Methodist church,—well, the Presbyterian people used to say there was "no living with those Methodists, since the girls caught a burglar in the parsonage." Of course, it was important, from the Methodist point of view. Pictures of the parsonage and the church were in all the papers for miles around, and at their very next meeting the trustees decided to get the piano the Sunday-school had been needing for the last hundred years!

When the five hundred dollars arrived from Chicago, Prudence felt that personally she had no real right to the money. "We must divide it," she insisted, "for I didn't earn it a bit more than any of the others. But it is perfectly glorious to have five hundred dollars, isn't it? Did you ever have five hundred dollars before? Just take it, father, and use it for whatever we need. It's family money."

But he would not hear of this. "No," he said, "put it in the bank, Prudence, for there will come a time when you will want money very badly. Then you will have it."

"Let's divide it then,—a hundred for each of us," she urged.

Neither the younger girls nor their father would consent to this. But when Prudence stood very firm, and pleaded with them earnestly, they decided to divide it.

"I will deposit two hundred and fifty dollars for the four younger ones," he said, "and that will leave you as much."

So it was settled, and Prudence was a happy girl when she saw it safely put away in the bank.

"We can get it whenever we really need it, you know," she told her father joyfully. "It's such a comfort to know it's there! I feel just like a millionaire, I am sure. Do you think it would be all right to send Limber-Limb Grant a letter of thanks for it? We were horribly scared, but—well, I for one am willing to be horribly scared for such a lot of money as that!"



CHAPTER XI

ROMANCE COMES

Sometimes, Methodists, or Presbyterians or heretics, whatever we may be, we are irresistibly impelled to the conclusion that things were simply bound to happen! However slight the cause,—still that cause was predestined from the beginning of time. A girl may by the sheerest accident, step from the street-car a block ahead of her destination,—an irritating incident. But as she walks that block she may meet an old-time friend, and a stranger. And that stranger,—ah, you can never convince the girl that her stepping from the car too soon was not ordered when the foundations of the world were laid.

Even so with Prudence, good Methodist daughter that she was. We ask her, "What if you had not gone out for a ride that morning?" And Prudence, laughing, answers, "Oh, but I had to go, you see." "Well," we continue, "if you had not met him that way, you could have met him some other way, I suppose." "Oh, no," declares Prudence decidedly, "it had to happen just that way."

After all, down in plain ink on plain paper, it was very simple. Across the street from the parsonage was a little white cottage set back among tall cedars. In this cottage lived a girl named Mattie Moore,—a common, unlovely, unexciting girl, with whom Romance could not apparently be intimately concerned. Mattie Moore taught a country school five miles out from town, and she rode to and from her school, morning and evening, on a bicycle.

Years before, when Prudence was young and bicycles were fashionable, she had been intensely fond of riding. But as she gained in age, and bicycles lost in popularity, she discarded the amusement as unworthy a parsonage damsel.

One evening, early in June, when the world was fair to look upon, it was foreordained that Prudence should be turning in at the parsonage gate just as Mattie Moore whirled up, opposite, on her dusty wheel. Prudence stopped to interchange polite inanities with her neighbor, and Mattie, wheeling the bicycle lightly beside her, came across the street and stood beneath the parsonage maples with Prudence. They talked of the weather, of the coming summer, of Mattie's school, rejoicing that one more week would bring freedom from books for Mattie and the younger parsonage girls.

Then said Prudence, seemingly of her own free will, but really directed by an all-controlling Providence, "Isn't it great fun to ride a bicycle? I love it. Sometime will you let me ride your wheel?"

"Why, certainly. You may ride now if you like."

"No," said Prudence slowly, "I am afraid it would not do for me to ride now. Some of the members might see me, and—well, I am very grown up, you know.—Of course," she added hastily, "it is different with you. You ride for business, but it would be nothing but a frolic with me. I want to get up at six o'clock and go early in the morning when the world is fast asleep. Let me take it to-morrow morning, will you? It is Saturday, and you won't be going to school."

"Yes, of course you may," was the hearty answer. "You may stay out as long as you like. I'm going to sew to-morrow. You make take it in the parsonage now and keep it until morning. I always sleep late on Saturdays."

So Prudence delightedly tripped up the parsonage board walk, wheeling the bicycle by her side. She hid it carefully in the woodshed, for the twins were rash and venturesome. But after she had gone to bed, she confided her plan to Fairy.

"I'm going at six o'clock, and I'll be back in time to get breakfast. But as you know, Fairy, my plans do not always work out as I intend, so if I am a little late, you'll get breakfast for papa and the girls, like a dear, won't you?"

Fairy promised. And early the next morning, Prudence, in a plain gingham house dress, with the addition of a red sweater jacket and cap for warmth, set out upon her secret ride. It was a magnificent morning, and Prudence sang for pure delight as she rode swiftly along the country roads. The country was simply irresistible. It was almost intoxicating. And Prudence rode farther than she had intended. East and west, north and south, she went, apparently guided only by her own caprice. She knew it was growing late, "but Fairy'll get breakfast," she thought comfortably.

Finally she turned in a by-road, leading between two rich hickory groves. Dismounting at the top of a long hill, she gazed anxiously around her. No one was in sight. The nearest house was two miles behind, and the road was long, and smooth, and inviting, and the hill was steep. Prudence yearned for a good, soul-stirring coast, with her feet high up on the framework of the wheel, and the pedals flying around beneath her skirts. This was not the new and modern model of bicycle. The pedals on Mattie Moore's wheel revolved, whether one worked them or not.

It seemed safe. The road sloped down gradually at the bottom, with an incline on the other side. What more could one desire. The only living thing in sight besides birds gossiping in the leafy branches and the squirrel scolding to himself, was a sober-eyed serious mule peacefully grazing near the bottom of the hill.

Prudence laughed gleefully, like a child. She never laughed again in exactly that way. This was the last appearance of the old irresponsible Prudence. The curtain was just ready to drop.

"Here goes!" she cried, and leaping nimbly into the saddle, she pedaled swiftly a few times, and then lifted her feet to the coveted position. The pedals flew around beneath her, just as she had anticipated, and the wind whistled about her in a most exhilarating way.

But as she neared the bottom, a disastrous and totally unexpected thing happened. The placid mule, which had been righteously grazing beside the fence, suddenly stalked into the middle of the road. Prudence screamed, jerked the handle-bar to the right, then to the left, and then, with a sickening thud, she landed head first upon some part of the mule's anatomy. She did not linger there, however. She bounced on down to the ground, with a little cry of pain. The bicycle crashed beside her, and the mule, slightly startled, looked around at her with ears raised in silent questioning. Then he ambled slowly across the road, and deliberately continued his grazing.

Prudence tried to raise herself, but she felt sharp pain. She heard some one leaping over the fence near her, and wondered, without moving her head, if it could be a tramp bent on highway robbery. The next instant, a man was leaning over her. "It's not a tramp," she thought, before he had time to speak.

"Are you hurt?" he cried. "You poor child!"

Prudence smiled pluckily. "My ankle is hurt a little, but I am not a child."

The young man, in great relief, laughed aloud, and Prudence joined him rather faintly.

"I'm afraid I can not walk," she said. "I believe I've broken my ankle, maybe my whole leg, for all I know. It—hurts—pretty badly!"

"Lie down like this," he said, helping her to a more comfortable position, "do not move. May I examine your foot?"

She shook her head, but he removed the shoe regardless of her head-shake. "I believe it is sprained. I am sure the bone is not broken. But how in the world will you get home? How far is it to Mount Mark? Is that where you live?"

"Yes," considering, "yes, I live there, and it must be four miles, anyhow. What shall I do?"

In answer, he pulled off his coat, and arranged it carefully by the side of the road on the grass. Then jerking open the bag he had carried, he took out a few towels, and three soft shirts. Hastily rolling them together for a pillow, he added it to the bed pro tem. Then he turned again to Prudence.