"I'll carry you over here, and fix you as comfortably as I can. Then I'll go to the nearest house and get a wagon to take you home."

Prudence was not shy, and realizing that his plan was the wise one, she made no objections when he came to help her across the road. "I think I can walk if you lift me up."

But the first movement sent such a twinge of pain through the wounded ankle that she clutched him frantically, and burst into tears. "It hurts," she cried, "don't touch me."

Without speaking, he lifted her as gently as he could and carried her to the place he had prepared for her. "Will you be warm enough?" he asked, after he had stood looking awkwardly down upon the sobbing girl as long as he could endure it.

"Yes," nodded Prudence, gulping down the big soft rising in her throat.

"I'll run. Do you know which way is nearest to a house? It's been a long time since I passed one coming this way."

"The way I came is the nearest, but it's two miles, I think."

"I'll go as fast as I can, and you will be all right This confounded cross-cut is so out of the way that no one will pass here for hours, I suppose. Now lie as comfortably as you can, and do not worry. I'm going to run."

Off he started, but Prudence, left alone, was suddenly frightened. "Please, oh, please," she called after him, and when he came back she buried her face in shame, deep in the linen towel.

"I'm afraid," she whispered, crying again. "I do not wish to be left alone here. A snake might come, or a tramp."

He sat down beside her. "You're nervous. I'll stay with you until you feel better. Some one may come this way, but it isn't likely. A man I passed on the road a ways back told me to cut through the hickory grove and I would save a mile of travel. That's how I happened to come through the woods, and find you." He smiled a little, and Prudence, remembering the nature of her accident, flushed. Then, being Prudence, she laughed.

"It was my own fault. I had no business to go coasting down like that. But the mule was so stationary. It never occurred to me that he contemplated moving for the next century at least. He was a bitter disappointment." She looked down the roadside where the mule was contentedly grazing, with never so much as a sympathetic glance toward his victim.

"I'm afraid your bicycle is rather badly done up."

"Oh,—whatever will Mattie Moore say to me? It's borrowed. Oh, I see now, that it was just foolish pride that made me unwilling to ride during decent hours. What a dunce I was,—as usual."

He looked at her curiously. This was beyond his comprehension.

"The bicycle belongs to Mattie Moore. She lives across the street from the parsonage, and I wanted to ride. She said I could. But I was ashamed to ride in the daytime, for fear some of the members would think it improper for a girl of the parsonage, and so I got up at six o'clock this morning to do it on the sly. Somehow I never can remember that it is just as bad to do things when you aren't seen as when you are. It doesn't seem so bad, does it? But of course it is. But I never think of that when I need to be thinking of it. Maybe I'll remember after this." She was silent a while. "Fairy'll have to get breakfast, and she always gets father's eggs too hard." Silence again. "Maybe papa'll worry. But then, they know by this time that something always does happen to me, so they'll be prepared."

She turned gravely to the young man beside her. He was looking down at her, too. And as their eyes met, and clung for an instant, a slow dark color rose in his face. Prudence felt a curious breathlessness,—caused by her hurting ankle, undoubtedly.

"My name is Prudence Starr,—I am the Methodist minister's oldest daughter."

"And my name is Jerrold Harmer." He was looking away into the hickory grove now. "My home is in Des Moines."

"Oh, Des Moines is quite a city, isn't it? I've heard quite a lot about it. It isn't so large as Chicago, though, of course. I know a man who lives in Chicago. We used to be great chums, and he told me all about the city. Some day I must really go there,—when the Methodists get rich enough to pay their ministers just a little more salary." Then she added thoughtfully, "Still, I couldn't go even if I had the money, because I couldn't leave the parsonage. So it's just as well about the money, after all. But Chicago must be very nice. He told me about the White City, and the big parks, and the elevated railways, and all the pretty restaurants and hotels. I love pretty places to eat. You might tell me about Des Moines. Is it very nice? Are there lots of rich people there?—Of course, I do not really care any more about the rich people than the others, but it always makes a city seem grand to have a lot of rich citizens, I think. Don't you?"

So he told her about Des Moines, and Prudence lay with her eyes half-closed, listening, and wondering why there was more music in his voice than in most voices. Her ankle did not hurt very badly. She did not mind it at all. In fact, she never gave it a thought. From beneath her lids, she kept her eyes fastened on Jerrold Harmer's long brown hands, clasped loosely about his knees. And whenever she could, she looked up into his face. And always there was that curious catching in her breath, and she looked away again quickly, feeling that to look too long was dangerous.

"I have talked my share now," he was saying, "tell me all about yourself, and the parsonage, and your family. And who is Fairy? And do you attend the college at Mount Mark? You look like a college girl."

"Oh, I am not," said Prudence, reluctant to make the admission for the first time in her life. "I am too stupid to be a college girl. Our mother is not living, and I left high school five years ago and have been keeping house for my father and sisters since then. I am twenty years old. How old are you?"

"I am twenty-seven," and he smiled.

"Jerrold Harmer," she said slowly and very musically. "It is such a nice name. Do your friends call you Jerry?"

"The boys at school called me Roldie, and sometimes Hammie. But my mother always called me Jerry. She isn't living now, either. You call me Jerry, will you?"

"Yes, I will, but it won't be proper. But that never makes any difference to me,—except when it might shock the members! You want me to call you Jerry, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. And when we are better acquainted, will you let me call you Prudence?"

"Call me that now.—I can't be too particular, you see, when I am lying on your coat and pillowed with your belongings. You might get cross, and take them away from me.—Did you go to college?"

"Yes, to Harvard, but I was not much of a student. Then I knocked around a while, looking at the world, and two years ago I went home to Des Moines. I have been there ever since except for little runs once in a while."

Prudence sighed. "To Harvard!—I am sorry now that I did not go to college myself."

"Why? There doesn't seem to be anything lacking about you. What do you care about college?"

"Well, you went to college," she answered argumentatively. "My sister Fairy is going now. She's very clever,—oh, very. You'll like her, I am sure,—much better than you do me, of course." Prudence was strangely downcast.

"I am sure I won't," said Jerrold Harmer, with unnecessary vehemence. "I don't care a thing for college girls. I know a lot of them, and—aw, they make a fellow tired. I like home girls,—the kind that stay at home, and keep house, and are sweet, and comfortable, and all that." Jerrold flipped over abruptly, and lay on the grass, his face on his arms turned toward her face. They were quiet for a while, but their glances were clinging.

"Your eyes are brown, aren't they?" Prudence smiled, as though she had made a pleasant discovery.

"Yes. Yours are blue. I noticed that, first thing."

"Did you? Do you like blue eyes? They aren't as—well, as strong and expressive as brown eyes. Fairy's are brown."

"I like blue eyes best. They are so much brighter and deeper. You can't see clear to the bottom of blue eyes,—you have to keep looking." And he did keep looking.

"Did you play football at college? You are so tall. Fairy's tall, too. Fairy's very grand-looking. I've tried my best to eat lots, and exercise, and make myself bigger, but—I am a fizzle."

"Yes, I played football.—But girls do not need to be so tall as men. Don't you remember what Orlando said about Rosalind,—'just as tall as my heart'? I imagine you come about to my shoulder. We'll measure as soon as you are on your feet again."

"Are you going to live in Mount Mark now? Are you coming to stay?" Prudence was almost quivering as she asked this. It was of vital importance.

"No, I will only be there a few days, but I shall probably be back every week or so. Is your father very strict? Maybe he would object to your writing to me."

"Oh, he isn't strict at all. And he will be glad for me to write to you, I know. I write to two or three men when they are away. But they are—oh, I do not know exactly what it is, but I do not really like to write to them. I believe I'll quit. It's such a bother."

"Yes, it is, that's so. I think I would quit, if I were you. I was just thinking how silly it is for me to keep on writing to some girls I used to know. Don't care two cents about 'em. I'm going to cut it out as soon as I get home. But you will write to me, won't you?"

"Yes, of course." Prudence laughed shyly. "It seems so—well, nice,—to think of getting letters from you."

"I'll bet there are a lot of nice fellows in Mount Mark, aren't there?"

"Why, no. I can't think of any real nice ones! Oh, they are all right. I have lots of friends here, but they are—I do not know what! They do not seem very nice. I wouldn't care if I never saw them again. But they are good to me."

"Yes, I can grasp that," he said with feeling.

"Is Des Moines just full of beautiful girls?"

"I should say not. I never saw a real beautiful girl in Des Moines in my life. Or any place else, for that matter,—until I came—You know when you come right down to it, there are mighty few girls that look—just the way you want them to look."

Prudence nodded. "That's the way with men, too. Of all the men I have seen in my life, I never saw one before that looked just the way I wanted him to."

"Before?" he questioned eagerly.

"Yes," said Prudence frankly. "You look just as I wish you to."

And in the meanwhile, at the parsonage, Fairy was patiently getting breakfast. "Prudence went out for an early bicycle ride,—so the members wouldn't catch her," she explained to the family. "And she isn't back yet. She'll probably stay out until afternoon, and then ride right by the grocery store where the Ladies have their Saturday sale. That's Prudence, all over. Oh, father, I did forget your eggs again, I am afraid they are too hard. Here, twins, you carry in the oatmeal, and we will eat. No use to wait for Prudence,—it would be like waiting for the next comet."

Indeed, it was nearly noon when a small, one-horse spring wagon drove into the parsonage yard. Mr. Starr was in his study with a book, but he heard a piercing shriek from Connie, and a shrill "Prudence!" from one of the twins. He was downstairs in three leaps, and rushing wildly out to the little rickety wagon. And there was Prudence!

"Don't be frightened, father. I've just sprained my ankle, and it doesn't hurt hardly any. But the bicycle is broken,—we'll have to pay for it. You can use my own money in the bank. Poor Mr. Davis had to walk all the way to town, because there wasn't any room for him in the wagon with me lying down like this. Will you carry me in?"

Connie's single bed was hastily brought downstairs, and Prudence deposited upon it. "There's no use to put me up-stairs," she assured them. "I won't stay there. I want to be down here where I can boss the girls."

The doctor came in, and bandaged the swollen purple ankle. Then they had dinner,—they tried to remember to call it luncheon, but never succeeded! After that, the whole parsonage family grouped about the little single bed in the cheery sitting-room.

"Whose coat is this, Prudence?" asked Connie.

"And where in the world did you get these towels and silk shirts?" added Fairy.

Prudence blushed most exquisitely. "They are Mr. Harmer's," she said, and glanced nervously at her father.

"Whose?" chorused the family. And it was plain to be seen that Lark was ready to take mental notes with an eye to future stories.

"If you will sit down and keep still, I will tell you all about it. But you must not interrupt me. What time is it, Fairy?"

"Two o'clock."

"Oh, two. Then I have plenty of time. Well, when I got to that little cross-cut through the hickory grove, about four miles out from town, I thought I would coast down the long hill. Do you remember that hill, father? There was no one in sight, and no animals, except one hoary old mule, grazing at the bottom. It was irresistible, absolutely irresistible. So I coasted. But you know yourself, father, there is no trusting a mule. They are the most undependable animals." Prudence looked thoughtfully down at the bed for a moment, and added slowly, "Still, I have no hard feelings against the mule. In fact, I kind of like him.—Well, anyway, just as I got to the critical place in the hill, that mule skipped right out in front of me. It looked as though he did it on purpose. I did not have time to get out of his way, and it never occurred to him to get out of mine, and so I went Bang! right into him. And it broke Mattie Moore's wheel, and upset me quite a little. But that mule never budged! Jerry—er Harmer,—Mr. Harmer, you know,—said he believed an earthquake could coast downhill on to that mule without seriously inconveniencing him. I was hurt a little, and couldn't get up. And so he jumped over the fence,—No, Connie, not the mule, of course! Mr. Harmer! He jumped over the fence, and put his coat on the ground, and made a pillow for me with the shirts and towels in his bag, and carried me over. Then he wanted to go for a wagon to bring me home, but I was too nervous and scared, so he stayed with me. Then Mr. Davis came along with his cart, and Jerry—er—Harmer, you know, helped put me in, and the cart was so small they both had to walk."

"Where is he now?" "Is he young?" "Is he handsome?" "Did he look rich?"

"Don't be silly, girls. He went to the hotel, I suppose. Anyhow, he left us as soon as we reached town. He said he was in a hurry, and had something to look after. His coat was underneath me in the wagon, and he wouldn't take it out for fear of hurting my ankle, so the poor soul is probably wandering around this town in his shirt-sleeves."

Already, in the eyes of the girls, this Jerry—er—Harmer, had taken unto himself all the interest of the affair.

"He'll have to come for his coat," said Lark. "We're bound to see him."

"Where does he live? What was he doing in the hickory grove?" inquired Mr. Starr with a strangely sinking heart, for her eyes were alight with new and wonderful radiance.

"He lives in Des Moines. He was just walking into town, and took a short cut through the grove."

"Walking! From Des Moines?"

Prudence flushed uncomfortably. "I didn't think of that," she said. "But I do not see why he should not walk if he likes. He's strong and athletic, and fond of exercise. I guess he's plenty able to walk if he wants to. I'm sure he's no tramp, father, if that is what you are thinking."

"I am not thinking anything of the kind, Prudence," he said with dignity. "But I do think it rather strange that a young man should set out to walk from Des Moines to Mount Mark. And why should he be at it so early in the morning? Doesn't he require sleep, as the rest of us do?"

"How should I know? I guess if he likes to be but in the morning when it is fresh and sweet, it is all right. I like the morning myself. He had as much right out early as I had. His clothes were nice, and he is a Harvard graduate, and his shoes were dusty, but not soiled or worn. Anyhow, he is coming at four o'clock. If you want to ask if he is a tramp, you can do it." And Prudence burst into tears.

Dramatic silence in the cheerful sitting-room! Then Fairy began bustling about to bathe the face and throat of "poor little Prudence," and her father said sympathetically:

"You're all nervous and wrought up, with the pain and excitement, Prudence. I'm glad he is coming so we can thank him for his kindness. It was mighty lucky he happened along, wasn't it? A Harvard graduate! Yes, they are pretty strong on athletics at Harvard. You'd better straighten this room a little and have things looking nice when he gets here," said Father Starr, with great diplomacy. And he was rewarded, and startled, by observing that Prudence brightened wonderfully at his words.

"Yes, do," she urged eagerly. "Get some of the roses from the corner bush, and put them on the table there. And when you go up-stairs, Fairy, you'd better bring down that little lace spread in the bottom drawer of our dresser. It'll look very nice on this bed.—Work hard, girls, and get everything looking fine. He'll be here at four, he said. You twins may wear your white dresses, and Connie must put on her blue and wear her blue bows.—Fairy, do you think it would be all right for you to wear your silk dress? Of course, the silk is rather grand for home, but you do look so beautiful in it. Father, will you put on your black suit, or are you too busy? And don't forget to wear the pearl cuff buttons Aunt Grace sent you."

He went up-stairs to obey, with despair in his heart. But to the girls, there was nothing strange in this exactness on the part of Prudence. Jerrold Harmer was the hero of the romance, and they must unite to do him honor. He was probably a prince in disguise. Jerrold Harmer was a perfectly thrilling name. It was really a shame that America allows no titles,—Lord Jerrold did sound so noble, and Lady Prudence was very effective, too. He and Prudence were married, and had a family of four children, named for the various Starrs, before one hour had passed.

"I'll begin my book right away," Lark was saying. She and Carol were in the dining-room madly polishing their Sunday shoes,—what time they were not performing the marriage ceremony of their sister and The Hero.

"Yes, do! But for goodness' sake, don't run her into a mule! Seems to me even Prudence could have done better than that."

"I'll have his automobile break down in the middle of the road, and Prudence can run into it. The carbureter came off, and of course the car wouldn't run an inch without it."

"Yes, that's good," said Carol approvingly. "It must be a sixty cylinder, eight horsepower—er—Ford, or something real big and costly."

"Twins! You won't be ready," warned Prudence, and this dire possibility sent them flying upstairs in a panic.

While the girls, bubbling over with excitement, were dressing for the great event, Mr. Starr went down-stairs to sit with Prudence. Carol called to him on his way down, and he paused on the staircase, looking up at her.

"Lark and I are going to use some of Fairy's powder, father," she said. "We feel that we simply must on an occasion like this. And for goodness' sake, don't mention it before Him! It doesn't happen very often, you know, but to-day we simply must. Now, don't you say anything about falling in the flour barrel, or turning pale all of a sudden, whatever else you do. We'd be so mortified, father."

Mr. Starr was concerned with weightier matters, and went on down to Prudence with never so much as a reproving shake of the head for the worldly-minded young twins.

"Father," began Prudence, her eyes on the lace coverlet, "do you think it would be all right for me to wear that silk dressing-gown of mother's? I need something over my nightgown, and my old flannel kimono is so ugly. You know, mother said I was to have it, and—I'm twenty now. Do you think it would be all right? But if you do not want me to wear it——"

"I do want you to," was the prompt reply. "Yes, it is quite time you were wearing it. I'll get it out of the trunk myself, and send Fairy down to help you." Then as he turned toward the door, he asked carelessly, "Is he very good-looking, Prudence?"

And Prudence, with a crimson face, answered quickly, "Oh, I really didn't notice, father."

He went on up-stairs then, and presently Fairy came down with the dainty silk gown trimmed with fine soft lace. "I brought my lavender ribbon for your hair, Prudence. It will match the gown so nicely. Oh, you do look sweet, dearest. I pity Jerrold Harmer, I can tell you that. Now I must hurry and finish my own dressing."

But with her foot on the bottom stair, she paused. Her sister was calling after her. "Send father down here, quick, Fairy."

Father ran down quickly, and Prudence, catching hold of his hands, whispered wretchedly, "Oh, father, he—he is good-looking. I—I did notice it. I didn't really mean to lie to you."

"There, now, Prudence," he said, kissing her tenderly, "you mustn't get excited again. I'm afraid you are too nervous to have callers. You must lie very quietly until he comes. That was no lie, child. You are so upset you do not know what you are saying to-day. Be quiet now, Prudence,—it's nearly time for him to come."

"You are a dear good father," she cried, kissing his hands passionately, "but it was a lie. I did know what I was saying. I did it on purpose."

And Mr. Starr's heart was heavy, for he knew that his fears were realized.



CHAPTER XII

ROUSED FROM HER SLUMBER

At twenty minutes to four, the parsonage family clustered excitedly in the sitting-room, which the sunshine flooded cheerily. They were waiting for the hero of Prudence's romance.

"Oh, Larkie, will you run up-stairs and bring my lace handkerchief? It's on our dresser, in the burnt-wood box." And after Lark had departed, she went on, "The flowers are not quite in the center of the table, Fairy,—a little to the right.—If you would move the curtains the least little bit, those torn places would not show." Then she sighed. "How nice you all look. Oh, Connie, won't you turn the clock a little this way, so I can see it? That's better, thank you, precious. Thank you, Lark,—isn't it a pretty handkerchief? I've only carried it three times, and I have never really used it. Would you keep these pearls on, Fairy, or would you take them off?"

"I would keep them on, Prue,—they catch the color of the gown a little, and are just beautiful. You do look so sweet, but your face is very flushed. I am afraid you are feverish. Maybe we had better not let him see Prue to-day, father. Perhaps he can come back to-morrow."

"Fairy!" exclaimed Prudence. "Besides, he must come in to get his coat. We can't expect him to go coatless over Sunday. Listen,—listen, girls! Look, Fairy, and see if that is he! Yes, it is, I know,—I can tell by his walk." Warm rich color dyed her face and throat, and she clasped her hands over her heart, wondering if Connie beside her could hear its tumult.

"I'll go to the door," said Father Starr, and Prudence looked at him beseechingly.

"I—I am sure he is all right, father. I—you will be nice to him, won't you?"

Without answering, Mr. Starr left the room. He could not trust his voice.

"Listen, girls, I want to hear," whispered Prudence. And she smiled as she heard her father's cordial voice.

"You are Mr. Harmer, aren't you? I am Prudence's father. Come right in. The whole family is assembled to do you honor. The girls have already made you a prince in disguise. Come back this way. Prudence is resting very nicely."

When the two men stepped into the sitting-room, Prudence, for once, quite overlooked her father. She lifted her eyes to Jerrold Harmer's face, and waited, breathless. Nor was he long in finding her among the bevy of girls. He walked at once to the bed, and took her hand.

"My little comrade of the road," he said gaily, but with tenderness, "I am afraid you are not feeling well enough for callers to-day."

"Oh, yes, I am," protested Prudence with strange shyness.

He turned to the other girls, and greeted them easily. He was entirely self-possessed. "Miss Starr told me so much about you that I know you all to begin with." He smiled at Fairy as he added, "In fact, she predicted that I am to fall in love with you. And so, very likely, I should,—if I hadn't met your sister first."

They all laughed at that, and then he walked back and stood by Prudence once more. "Was it a bad sprain? Does it pain you very badly? You look tired. I am afraid it was an imposition for me to come this afternoon."



"Oh, don't worry about that," put in Connie anxiously. "She wanted you to come. She's been getting us ready for you ever since the doctor left. I think it was kind of silly for me to wear my blue just for one caller."

The twins glared at her, realizing that she was discrediting the parsonage, but Jerrold Harmer laughed, and Prudence joined him.

"It is quite true," she admitted frankly. "The mule and I disgraced the parsonage this morning, and I wanted the rest of you to redeem it this afternoon." She looked at him inquiringly. "Then you had another coat?"

"No, I didn't. I saw this one in a window this morning, and couldn't resist it. Was the ride very hard on your ankle?"

Mr. Starr was puzzled. Evidently it was not lack of funds which brought this man on foot from Des Moines to Mount Mark,—half-way across the state! He did not look like a man fleeing from justice. What, then, was the explanation?

"You must have found it rather a long walk," he began tentatively, his eyes on the young man's face.

"Yes, I think my feet are a little blistered. I have walked farther than that many times, but I am out of practise now. Sometimes, however, walking is a painful necessity."

"How long did it take you coming from Des Moines to Mount Mark?" inquired Carol in a subdued and respectful voice,—and curious, withal.

"I did not come directly to Mount Mark. I stopped several places on business. I hardly know how long it would take coming straight, through. It would depend on one's luck, I suppose."

"Well," said Lark, "taking it a little at a time it might be done, but for myself, I should never dream of undertaking so much exercise."

"Could you walk from here to Burlington at one stretch?" asked Connie.

He looked rather surprised. "Why, perhaps I could if I was in shape, but—seven miles was all I cared about this morning."

"Well, I think it was mighty brave of you to walk that far,—I don't care why you did it," announced Connie with emphasis.

"Brave!" he repeated. "I have walked three times seven miles, often, when I was in school."

"Oh, I mean the whole thing—clear from Des Moines," explained Connie.

"From Des Moines," he gasped. "Good heavens! I did not walk from Des Moines! Did you—" He turned to Prudence questioningly. "Did you think I walked clear from Des Moines?"

"Yes." And added hastily, "But I did not care if you did. It did not make any difference how you came."

For a moment he was puzzled. Then he burst out laughing. "I am afraid we had too much to talk about this morning. I thought I had explained my situation, but evidently I did not. I drove from Des Moines in the car, and——"

"The automobile!" gasped Carol, with a triumphant look at Lark.

"Yes, just so. I stopped several places on business as I came through. I drove from Burlington this morning, but I got off the road. The car broke down on me, and I couldn't fix it,—broke an axle. So I had to walk in. That is what I was seeing about to-day,—sending a man out for the car and arranging about the repairs." He smiled again. "What in the world did you think I would walk from Des Moines for?" he asked Prudence, more inquisitive than grammatical.

"I did not think anything about it until they asked, and—I did not know about the car. You did not mention it."

"No. I remember now. We were talking of other things all the time." He turned frankly to Mr. Starr. "Perhaps you have heard of the Harmer Automobile Company, of Des Moines. My father was Harvey Harmer. Two years ago, when I was running around in Europe, he died. It was his desire that I should personally take charge of the business. So I hurried home, and have had charge of the company since then. We are establishing sales agencies here, and in Burlington, and several other towns. I came out for a little trip, and took advantage of the opportunity to discuss the business with our new men. That's what brought me to Mount Mark." To Connie he added laughingly, "So I must sacrifice myself, and do without your praise. I did not walk until the car broke down and compelled me to do so."

For the first time in her life, Prudence distinctly triumphed over her father. She flashed him the glance of a conqueror, and he nodded, understandingly. He liked Jerrold Harmer,—as much as he could like any man who stepped seriously into the life of Prudence. He was glad that things were well. But—they would excuse him, he must look after his Sunday's sermons.

A little later the twins and Connie grew restless, and finally Connie blurted out, "Say, Prue, don't you think we've upheld the parsonage long enough? I want to get some fresh air." The twins would never have been guilty of such social indiscretion as this, but they gladly availed themselves of Connie's "break," and followed her out-of-doors. Then Fairy got up, laughing. "I have done my share, too. I think we'll leave the parsonage in your hands now, Prue. I want to write to Aunt Grace. I'll be just at the head of the stairs, and if Prudence wants me, you will call, won't you, Mr. Harmer? And won't you stay for dinner with us? I'm sure to disgrace the parsonage again, for I am no cook, but you can get along for once, surely. We spend more time laughing when the food is bad, and laughter is very healthful. You will stay, won't you?"

Jerrold Harmer looked very eager, and yet he looked somewhat doubtfully at Prudence. Her eyes were eloquent with entreaties. Finally he laughed, and said, "I should certainly like to stay, but you see I want to come back to-morrow. Now, will I dare to come back to-morrow if I stay for dinner to-night? Wouldn't Connie say that was disgracing the parsonage?"

Fairy laughed delightedly. "That is very good," she said. "Then you will stay. I'll try to fix it up with Connie to save the reputation of the house. Now, do not talk too much, Prue, and—what shall we have for dinner? We only say dinner when we have company, Mr. Harmer. What we have is supper."

Prudence contracted her brows in the earnest endeavor to compose a menu suitable for this occasion. "Mashed potatoes, and—use cream, Fairy. You'd better let Lark do the mashing, for you always leave lumps. And breaded veal cutlet," with a significant glance, "and creamed peas, and radishes, and fruit. Will that be enough for you, Mr. Harmer?"

"Oceans," he said contentedly.

"Well, I'll collect the twins and Connie and we will try to think up a few additions. Where's the money?"

"In the dungeon, and the key is on the nail above the door. And the silverware is there, too," with another significant glance.

After that, Prudence lay back happily on the pillows and smoothed the lace on her mother's silk dressing gown.

"Talk to me," she said, "tell me about where you live, and what you do,—your work, you know, and how you amuse yourself. I want you to amuse me now, Mr. Harmer."

"You called me Jerry this morning."

"Yes, I know. Do you want me to call you Jerry still?"

"Yes, Prudence, I do. Do you mind if I move my chair a little closer?"

"No, put it right here. Now, I am ready."

"But there's nothing interesting about me. Let's talk of——"

"It's interesting to me. Tell me about your business."

"You don't care anything about business, I am sure."

"I care about your business."

"Do you, Prudence?—You look so sweet this afternoon. I nearly blurted it out before the whole family. Wouldn't the twins have laughed? It would have disgraced the parsonage. I think Mr. Starr is awfully lucky to have five girls, and all of them pretty. But isn't it strange that the prettiest and dearest one of them all should be the oldest daughter?"

"Oh, but I'm not really—" Prudence began earnestly. Then she stopped, and added honestly, "But I am glad you think so."

No, they did not quote poetry, they did not discuss the psychological intricacies of spontaneous attraction, they did not say anything deep, or wise, or learned. But they smiled at each other, with pleased investigating eyes. He put his hand on the coverlet, just near enough to touch the lace on the sleeve of her silk dressing gown. And together they found Paradise in the shabby sitting-room of the old Methodist parsonage that afternoon.

"Must you prepare meat for breading half an hour before cooking, or when?" demanded Fairy, from the dining-room door.

"What?—Oh!—Fifteen minutes before. Don't forget to salt and pepper the crumbs, Fairy."

"Perhaps some time your father will let you and a couple of the others come to Des Moines with me in the car. You would enjoy a few days there, I know. I live with my aunt, a dear, motherly little old soul. She will adore you, Prudence, and you will like her, too. Would your father let you spend a week? We can easily drive back and forth in the car."

"Maybe he will,—but who will keep the parsonage while I am away?"

"Fairy, to be sure. She must be a good fairy once in a while. We can take the twins with us, Connie, too, if you like, and then Fairy will only have to mother your father. Do you like riding in a car?"

"Oh, I love it. But I have not ridden very much. Willard Morley took me quite often when he was here, but he is in Chicago now."

"When's he coming back?" suspiciously.

"Prudence, shall we have tea or coffee?" This was Lark from the doorway. "Fairy wants to know."

"What?—Oh!—Which do you want, Jerry?"

"Which does your father prefer?"

"He doesn't drink either except for breakfast."

"I generally drink coffee, but I do not care much for it, so do not bother——"

"Coffee, Lark."

"When's that Morley chap coming back?"

"I do not know." And then, "He is never coming back as far as I am concerned."

Jerrold relented promptly. "You are why he went away, I suppose."

"At any rate, he is gone."

"Did you ever have a lover, Prudence? A real lover, I mean."

"No, I, never did."

"I'm awfully glad of that. I'll——"

"Prudence, do you use half milk and half water for creamed tomato soup, or all milk?"

"What?—Oh!—All milk, Connie, and tell Fairy not to salt it until it is entirely done, or it may curdle."

"What in the world would they ever do without you, Prudence? You are the soul of the parsonage, aren't you?"

"No, I am just the cook and the chambermaid," she answered, laughing. "But don't you see how hard it will be for me to go away?"

"But it isn't fair! Vacation is coming now, and Fairy ought to take a turn. What will they do when you get married?"

"I have always said I would not get married."

"But don't you want to get married,—some time?"

"Oh, that isn't it. I just can't because I must take care of the parsonage, and raise the girls. I can't."

"But you will," he whispered, and his hand touched hers for just a second. Prudence did not answer. She lifted her eyes to his face, and caught in her breath once more.

A little later he said, "Do you mind if I go upstairs and talk to your father a few minutes? Maybe I'd better."

"But do not stay very long," she urged, and she wondered why the brightness and sunshine vanished from the room when he went out. "First door to the right," she called after him.

Mr. Starr arose to greet him, and welcomed him to his combination study and bedroom with great friendliness. But Jerrold went straight to the point.

"Mr. Starr, it's very kind of you to receive a perfect stranger as you have me. But I understand that with a girl like Prudence, you will want to be careful. I can give you the names of several prominent men in Des Moines, Christians, who know me well, and can tell you all about me."

"It isn't necessary. We are parsonage people, and we are accustomed to receiving men and women as worthy of our trust, until we find them different. We are glad to count you among our friends."

"Thank you, but—you see, Mr. Starr, this is a little different. Some day, Prudence and I will want to be married, and you will wish to be sure about me."

"Does Prudence know about that?"

"No," with a smile, "we haven't got that far yet. But I am sure she feels it. She hasn't—well, you know what I mean. She has been asleep, but I believe she is waking up now."

"Yes, I think so. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"No, indeed. Anything you like."

"Well, first, are you a Christian?"

"Not the kind you are, Mr. Starr. My parents were Christians, but I've never thought much about it myself because I was young and full of fun. I have never been especially directed to religion. I go to church, and I believe the Bible,—though I don't know much about it. I seldom read it. But I'll get busy now, if you like, and really study it and—try to come around your way. I know Prudence would make me do that." And he smiled again.

"Do you drink?"

"I did a little, but I promised Prudence this morning I would quit it. I never got—drunk, and I have not formed the habit. But sometimes with the boys, I drink a little. But I do not care for it, and I swore off this morning.—I smoke, too,—not cigarettes, of course. Prudence knows it, but she did not make me promise to quit that?" His voice was raised, inquiringly.

"Would you have promised, if she had asked it?" This was sheer curiosity.

"I suppose I would." He flushed a little. "I know I was pretty hard hit, and it was such a new experience that I would have promised anything she asked. But I like smoking, and—I don't think it is wicked."

"Never mind the smoking. I only asked that question out of curiosity. We're not as strait-laced as we might be perhaps. The only things I would really object to, are those things that might seriously menace your happiness, yours and hers, if the time does come. But the next question,—can you pass a strict physical examination?"

"Yes, I can. I'll go with you to your physician to-night if you like. I'm all right physically, I know."

"Tell me about your relations with your mother when she was living."

"She has been dead four years." Jerrold spoke with some emotion. "We were great chums, though her health was always poor. I wrote her three times a week when I was away from home, and she wrote me a note every day. When I was in school, I spent all my vacations at home to be with her. And I never went abroad until after her death because she did not like the idea of my going so far from her."

"Jerrold, my boy, I do not want to seem too severe, but—tell me, has there been anything in your life, about women, that could come out and hurt Prudence later on?"

Jerrold hesitated. "Mr. Starr, I have been young, and headstrong, and impulsive. I have done some things I wish now I hadn't. But I believe there is nothing that I could not explain to Prudence so she would understand. If I had thought beforehand of a girl like her, there are things I would not have done. But there is nothing, I think, that would really hurt, after I had a chance to talk it over with her."

"All right. If you are the man, God bless you. I don't suppose you are worthy of Prudence, for she is a good, pure-hearted, unselfish girl,—there could be none better. But the real point is just whether you will love each other enough!—I like your coming up here like this. I think that was very decent and manly of you. And, do you mind if I just suggest that you go a little slow with Prudence? Remember that she has been sound asleep, until this morning. I do not want her awakened too rudely."

"Neither do I," said Jerrold quickly. "Shall I go down now? The girls have invited me to stay for supper, and Prudence says I am to come back to-morrow, too. Is that all right? Remember, I'll be going home on Monday!"

"It is all right, certainly. Spend as much time here as you like. You will either get worse, or get cured, and—whichever it is, you've got to have a chance. I like you, Jerrold. Prudence judges by instinct, but it does not often fail her."

Prudence heard him running down the stairs boyishly, and when he came in, before she could speak, he whispered, "Shut your eyes tight, Prudence. And do not scold me, for I can't help it." Then he put his hands over hers, and kissed her on the lips. They were both breathless after that. Prudence lifted her lashes slowly, and gazed at him seriously. It was she who spoke first.

"I was never really kissed before," she whispered, "not really."

Then they sat in silence until Fairy announced that supper was ready. "But I won't promise it is eatable," she assured them, laughing.

"I wish I could go to the table, too," said Prudence, looking at her father wistfully, "I could lie on the old lounge out there."

"And have your supper on a tray, of course. Can you carry her, father?"

"I can!" volunteered Jerrold promptly. "I have done it."

"I think between us we can manage. We'll try it." And Prudence heroically endured the pain of being moved, for the sake of seeing Jerrold at the table with her parsonage family. For to her surprise, she realized that she could not bear that even a few minutes should pass, when she could not see the manly young face with the boyish mouth and the tender eyes!

Prudence, at last, was aroused from her slumber.



CHAPTER XIII

SHE ORDERS HER LIFE

"Prudence, are you going to Aunt Grace's early in the summer, or late?" demanded Fairy.

"Oh, let's not talk of that now. There's plenty of time."

"No, there isn't. School will be out in a week, and Babbie wants to give a house party and have our little bunch at his home for a few days this summer. He wants to set the date, and I can't tell him when because I do not know when you are going to auntie's."

They sat around the breakfast table, Prudence and Fairy and their father, talking of the summer. The twins and Connie had long since excused themselves, and even now could be heard shouting gaily in the field beyond the old red barn.

Prudence looked restlessly from one to the other, when her sister insisted upon an answer.

"Why," she began, "I've about decided not to go to Aunt Grace's this summer."

Fairy rapped on the table with the spoon she held in her hand. "Don't be silly! You have to go. You've never had a vacation in your life, and father promised Aunt Grace on his reputation as a minister, didn't you, papa?"

"Yes, I promised all right."

"But, papa! I do not have to go, do I? A whole month,—oh, honestly, I do not want to."

"Why don't you? Last fall you were wild about it. Don't you remember dreaming——"

"Oh, but that was last fall," said Prudence, smiling softly, and unconsciously she lifted one hand to where a bulky letter nestled inside her dress. "I didn't know I was going to sprain my ankle, and be so useless. It may be two weeks yet before I can walk on it."

"What has that got to do with it?"

"Do you really prefer to stay at home, Prudence?" queried her father. "The whole summer?"

Prudence blushed most gloriously. "Oh, well," she began slowly. Then she took the plunge recklessly. "Why, you see, father, Jerry lives with his aunt in Des Moines,—he told you that, didn't he? And they have quite a big house, and—he wants to take me and the twinnies to Des Moines in the car for a week or ten days. And Fairy will take care of you and Connie. And—if I can do that—I do not want any more vacation. I couldn't bear to stay at auntie's a whole month, away from you and the parsonage." She felt very guilty, for she did not add, as she was thinking, "Besides, Jerry is coming every two weeks, and if I were away, we would miss a visit!"

Fairy laughed in an irritating, suggestive way, but Mr. Starr only nodded.

"I am sure you will not mind that, will you father? His aunt must be a perfectly good and nice woman, and—such a long drive in the auto, and—to see all over Des Moines." But Prudence paused guiltily, for she did not add, "With Jerry!" although the words were singing in her heart.

"That will be very nice indeed, and of course I do not object. It will be a forty years' delight and wonder to the twins! Yes, I will be glad to have you go. But you can still have your month at Grace's if you wish."

"But I do not wish," protested Prudence promptly. "Honestly, father, I'll write her the sweetest kind of a letter, but—oh, please do not make me go!"

"Of course, we won't make you go, you goose," said Fairy, "but I think you are very foolish."

"And you can go, Fairy," cried Prudence hospitably. "Aunt Grace loves you so, and you've worked so hard all year, and,—oh, yes, it will be just the thing for you." Prudence wished she might add, "And that will let me out," but she hardly dare say it.

"Well, when does your Des Moines tour come off? I must know, so I can tell Babbie about the house party."

"Let Babbie choose his own date. Jerry says we shall go whenever I say—I mean whenever you say, father,—and we can decide later on. Give Babbie first choice, by all means."

That was the beginning of Prudence's golden summer. She was not given to self-analysis. She did what seemed good to her always,—she did not delve down below the surface for reasons why and wherefore. She hadn't the time. She took things as they came. She could not bear the thought of sharing with the parsonage family even the least ardent and most prosaic of Jerrold's letters. But she never asked herself the reason. It seemed a positive sacrilege to leave his warm, life-pulsing letters up-stairs in a bureau drawer. It was only natural and right to carry them in her dress, and to sleep with them under her pillow. But Prudence did not wonder why. The days when Jerry came were tremulously happy ones for her,—she was all aquiver when she heard him swinging briskly up the ramshackle parsonage walk, and her breath was suffocatingly hot. But she took it as a matter of course. The nights when Jerry slept in the little spare bedroom at the head of the stairs, Prudence lay awake, staring joyously into the darkness, hoping Jerry was sound asleep and comfortable. But she never asked herself why she could not sleep! She knew that Jerry's voice was the sweetest voice in the world. She knew that his eyes were the softest and brightest and the most tender. She knew that his hands had a thrilling touch quite different from the touch of ordinary, less dear hands. She knew that his smile lifted her into a delirium of delight, and that even the thought of sorrow coming to him brought stinging tears to her eyes. But why? Ah, Prudence never thought of that. She just lived in the sweet ecstatic dream of the summer, and was well and richly content.

So the vacation passed, and Indian summer came. And the girls went back to their studies once more, reluctantly, yet unaccountably glad even in their reluctance. It is always that way with students,—real students. They regret the passing of vacation days, but the thought of "going back to school" has its own tingling joys of anticipation.

It was Saturday evening. The early supper at the parsonage was over, the twins had washed the dishes, and still the daylight lingered. Prudence and Jerry sat side by side, and closely, on the front porch, talking in whispers. Fairy had gone for a stroll with the still faithful Babbie. Connie and the twins had evidently vanished. Ah—not quite that! Carol and Lark came swiftly around the corner of the parsonage.

"Good evening," said Lark politely, and Prudence sat up abruptly. The twins never wasted politeness! They wanted something.

"Do you mind if we take Jerry around by the woodshed for a few minutes, Prue?"

"I'll come along," said Prudence, rising.

"Oh, no," protested Lark, "we do not want you,—just Jerry, and only for a little while."

Prudence sniffed suspiciously. "What are you going to do to him?" she demanded.

"We won't hurt him," grinned Carol impishly. "We had intended to tie him to a stake and burn him alive. But since you have interceded on his behalf, we'll let him off with a simple scalping."

"Maybe he's afraid to come," said Lark, "for there are two of us, and we are mighty men of valor."

"That's all right," Prudence answered defensively. "I'd sooner face a tribe of wild Indians any day than you twins when you are mischief-bent."

"Oh, we just want to use him a few minutes," said Carol impatiently. "Upon our honor, as Christian gentlemen, we promise not to hurt a hair of his head."

"Oh, come along, and cut out the comedy," Jerry broke in, laughing. "I'll be back in two minutes, Prue. They probably want me to shoo a chicken out of their way. Or maybe the cat has been chasing them."

Once safely around the corner, the twins changed their tactics.

"We knew you weren't afraid," said Lark artistically, "we were just teasing Prudence. We know we couldn't hurt you."

"Of course," emphasized Carol. "We want to ask a favor of you, that's all. It's something we can't do ourselves, but we knew you could do it, all right."

Jerry perceived the drift of this argument. "I see! I'm paid in advance for my service. What's the job?"

Then the twins led him to the woodshed. This woodshed stood about twenty feet from the back door of the parsonage, and was nine feet high in front, the roof sloping down at the back. Close beside the shed grew a tall and luxuriant maple. The lower limbs had been chopped off, and the trunk rose clear to a height of nearly twelve feet before the massive limbs branched out. The twins had discovered that by climbing gingerly on the rotten roof of the woodshed, followed by almost superhuman scrambling and scratching, they could get up into the leafy secrecy of the grand old maple. More than this, up high in the tree they found a delightful arrangement of branches that seemed positively made for them. These branches must be utilized, and it was in the act of utilizing them that they called upon their sister's friend for help.

"Do you see this board?" began Lark, exhibiting with some pride a solid board about two feet in length.

"My eyesight is quite unimpaired," answered Jerry, for he knew his twins.

"Well, we found this over by the Avery barn. They have a big scrap pile out there. We couldn't find anything around here that would suit, so we looked, over there. It's just a pile of rubbish, and we knew they wouldn't mind."

"Else you would not have taken it, eh? Anything like apples, for instance, is quite under the ban."

"Yes, indeed," smiled Lark. "We're too old to steal apples."

"Of course," added Carol. "When we need our neighbor's apples, we send Connie. And get nicely punished for it, too, I promise you."

"Quite so! And this exquisite board?"

"Well, we've found a perfectly gorgeous place up in the old tree where we can make a seat. It's quite a ways out from the trunk, and when the wind blows it swings splendidly. But it isn't very comfortable sitting on a thin limb, and so we want a seat. It's a fine place, I tell you. We thought you could nail this securely on to the limbs,—there are two right near each other, evidently put there on purpose for us. See what dandy big nails we have!"

"From the Avery's woodshed, I suppose," he suggested, smiling again.

"Oh, they are quite rusty. We found them in a sack in an old barrel. It was in the scrap heap. We're very good friends with the Averys, very good, indeed," she continued hastily. "They allow us to rummage around at will—in the barn."

"And see this rope," cried Carol. "Isn't it a dandy?"

"Ah! The Avery barn must be inexhaustible in its resources."

"How suspicious you are, Jerry," mourned Lark.

"I wish we were that way, instead of innocent and bland and trustful. Maybe we would get rich, too. This is the first time I ever really understood how you came to be a success in business."

"But you are quite wrong this time," said Lark seriously. "Old Mr. Avery gave me this rope."

"Yes, he did! Lark told him she was looking for a rope just exactly like this one, and then he gave it to her. He caught the idea of philanthropy right away. He's a very nice old gentleman, I tell you. He's so trusting and unsuspicious. I'm very fond of people like that."

"We thought when you had the board nicely nailed on, you might rope it securely to the limbs above. They are in very good position, and that will make it absolutely safe. Do you suppose you can do that, Jerry? Do you get seasick when you climb high?"

"Oh, no, high altitudes never make me seasick. I've a very good head for such purposes."

"Then suppose you get busy before it grows dark. We're in a great hurry. And we do not want Connie to catch us putting it up. It'll be such fun to sit up there and swing when the wind blows, and have poor Connie down beneath wondering how we manage to stick on. She can't see the seat from the ground. Won't it be a good joke on her?"

"Oh, very,—-yes, indeed.—Well, let's begin.—Now, observe! I will just loop this end of the rope lightly about my—er—middle. The other end will dangle on the ground to be drawn up at will. Observe also that I bestow the good but rusty nails in this pocket, and the hammer here. Then with the admirable board beneath my arm, I mount to the heights of—Say, twins, didn't I see an old buggy seat out in the barn to-day? Seems to me——"

"Oh, Jerry!" The twins fairly smothered him. "Oh, you darling. You are the nicest old thing.—Now we can understand why Prudence seems to like you. We never once thought of the old buggy seat! Oh, Jerry!"

Then they hastily brought the discarded seat from the barn, and with the help of Jerry it was shoved up on the woodshed. From there, he lifted it to the lowest limb of the old maple, and a second later he was up himself. Then it was lifted again, and again he followed,—up, and up, and up,—the loose end of the donated rope trailing loose on the ground below. The twins promptly,—as promptly as possible, that is,—followed him into the tree.

"Oh, yes, we'll come along. We're used to climbing and we're very agile. And you will need us to hold things steady while you hammer."

And Jerry smiled as he heard the faithful twins, with much grunting and an occasional groan, following in his wake.

It was a delightful location, as they had said. So heavy was the leafy screen that only by lifting a branch here or there, could they see through it. The big seat fitted nicely on the two limbs, and Jerry fastened it with the rusty nails. The twins were jubilant, and loud in their praises of his skill and courage.

"Oh, Jerry," exclaimed Carol, with deep satisfaction, "it's such a blessing to discover something really nice about you after all these months!"

"Now, we'll just——"

"Hush!" hissed Lark. "Here comes Connie. Hold your breath, Jerry, and don't budge."

"Isn't she in on this?" he whispered. He could hear Connie making weird noises as she came around the house from the front. She was learning to whistle, and the effect was ghastly in the extreme. Connie's mouth had not been designed for whistling.

"Sh! She's the band of dark-browed gypsies trying to steal my lovely wife."

"I'm the lovely wife," interrupted Carol complacently.

"But Connie does not know about it. She is so religious she won't be any of the villain parts. When we want her to be anything real low-down, we have to do it on the sly. She would no more consent to a band of dark-browed gypsies than she would——"

Connie came around the corner of the parsonage, out the back walk beneath the maple. Then she gave a gleeful scream. Right before her lay a beautiful heavy rope. Connie had been yearning for a good rope to make a swing. Here it lay, at her very feet, plainly a gift of the gods. She did not wait to see where the other end of the rope was. She just grabbed what she saw before her, and started violently back around the house with it yelling, "Prudence! Look at my rope!"

Prudence rushed around the parsonage. The twins shrieked wildly, as there was a terrific tug and heave of the limb beside them, and then—a crashing of branches and leaves. Jerry was gone!

It did look horrible, from above as well as below. But Jerry, when he felt the first light twinge as Connie lifted the rope, foresaw what was coming and was ready for it. As he went down, he grabbed a firm hold on the branch on which he had stood, then he dropped to the next, and held again. On the lowest limb he really clung for fifteen seconds, and took in his bearings. Connie had dropped the rope when the twins screamed, so he had nothing more to fear from her. He saw Prudence, white, with wild eyes, both arms stretched out toward him.

"O. K., Prue," he called, and then he dropped. He landed on his feet, a little jolted, but none the worse for his fall.

He ran at once to Prudence. "I'm all right," he cried, really alarmed by the white horror in her face. "Prudence! Prudence!" Then her arms dropped, and with a brave but feeble smile, she swayed a little. Jerry took her in his arms. "Sweetheart!" he whispered. "Little sweetheart! Do—do you love me so much, my dearest?"

Prudence raised her hands to his face, and looked intensely into his eyes, all the sweet loving soul of her shining in her own. And Jerry kissed her.

The twins scrambled down from the maple, speechless and cold with terror,—and saw Prudence and Jerry! Then they saw Connie, staring at them with interest and amusement.

"I think we'd better go to bed, all three of us," declared Lark sturdily. And they set off heroically around the house. But at the corner Carol turned.

"Take my advice and go into the woodshed," she said, "for all the Averys are looking out of their windows."

Prudence did not hear, but he drew her swiftly into the woodshed. Now a woodshed is a hideously unromantic sort of place. And there was nothing for Prudence to sit on, that Jerry might kneel at her feet. So they dispensed with formalities, and he held her in his arms for a long time, and kissed her often, and whispered sweet meaningless words that thrilled her as she listened. It may not have been comfortable, but it was evidently endurable, for it is a fact that they did not leave that woodshed for over an hour. Then they betook themselves to the darkest corner of the side porch,—and history repeated itself once more!

At twelve, Jerry went up-stairs to bed, his lips tingling with the fervent tenderness of her parting kiss. At one o'clock, he stood at his window, looking soberly out into the moonlit parsonage yard. "She is an angel, a pure, sweet, unselfish little angel," he whispered, and his voice was broken, and his eyes were wet, "and she is going to be my wife! Oh, God, teach me how to be good to her, and help me make her as happy as she deserves."

At two o'clock he lay on his bed, staring into the darkness, thinking again the soft shy words she had whispered to him. And he flung his arms out toward his closed door, wanting her. At three o'clock he dropped lightly asleep and dreamed of her. With the first pale streaks of daylight stealing into his room, he awoke. It was after four o'clock. A little later,—just a few minutes later,—he heard a light tap on his door. It came again, and he bounded out of bed.

"Prudence! Is anything wrong?"

"Hush, Jerry, not so loud!" And what a strange and weary voice. "Come down-stairs, will you? I want to tell you something. I'll wait at the foot of the stairs. Be quiet,—do not wake father and the girls. Will you be down soon?"

"In two minutes!"

And in two minutes he was flown, agonizingly anxious, knowing that something was wrong. Prudence was waiting for him, and as he reached the bottom step she clutched his hands desperately.

"Jerry," she whispered, "I—forgive me—I honestly— Oh, I didn't think what I was saying last night. You were so dear, and I was so happy, and for a while I really believed we could belong to each other. But I can't, you know. I've promised papa and the girls a dozen times that I would never marry. Don't you see how it is? I must take it back."

Jerry smiled a little, it must be admitted. This was so like his conscientious little Prudence!

"Dearest," he said gently, "you have said that because you were not awake. You did not love. But you are awake now. You love me. Your father would never allow you to sacrifice yourself like that. The girls would not hear of it. They want you to be happy. And you can't be happy without me, can you?"

Suddenly she crushed close to him. "Oh, Jerry," she sobbed, "I will never be happy again, I know. But—it is right for me to stay here, and be the mother in the parsonage. It is wicked of me to want you more than all of them. Don't you see it is? They haven't any mother. They haven't any one but me. Of course, they would not allow it, but they will not know anything about it. I must do it myself. And father especially must never know. I want you to go away this morning before breakfast, and—never come again."

She clung to him as she said this, but her voice did not falter. "And you must not write to me any more. For, oh, Jerry, if I see you again I can never let you go, I know it. Will you do this for me?"

"You've been up all night, haven't you, dearest?"

"Yes,—I remembered, and then I couldn't sleep."

"What have you been doing all night? It is morning now."

"I walked up and down the floor, and pounded my hands together," she admitted, with a mournful smile.

"You are nervous and excited," he said tenderly. "Let's wait until after breakfast. Then we'll talk it all over with your father, and it shall be as he says. Won't that be better?"

"Oh, no. For father will say whatever he thinks will make me happy. He must not know a thing about it. Promise, Jerry, that you will never tell him one word."

"I promise, of course, Prudence. I will let you tell him."

But she shook her head. "He will never know. Oh, Jerry! I can't bear to think of never seeing you again, and never getting letters from you, and— It seems to kill me inside, just the thought of it."

"Sit down here in my lap. Put your head on my shoulder, like that. Let me rub your face a little. You're feverish. You are sick. Go to bed, won't you, sweetheart? We can settle this later on."

"You must go right away, or I can not let you go at all!"

"Do you mean you want me to get my things, and go right now?"

"Yes." She buried her face in his shoulder. "If—if you stay in your room until breakfast time, I will lock you in, so you can not leave me again. I know it. I am crazy to-day."

"Don't you think you owe me something, as well as your father and sisters? Didn't God bring us together, and make us love each other? Don't you think He intended us for each other? Do you wish you had never met me?"

"Jerry!"

"Then, sweetheart, be reasonable. Your father loved your mother, and married her. That is God's plan for all of us. You have been a wonderfully brave and sweet daughter and sister, I know. But surely Fairy is old enough to take your place now."

"Fairy's going to be a professor, and—the girls do not mind her very well. And she isn't as much comfort to father as I am.—It's just because I am most like mother, you see. But anyhow, I promised. I can't leave them."

"Your father expects you to marry, and to marry me. I told him about it myself, long ago. And he was perfectly willing. He didn't say a word against it."

"Of course he wouldn't. That's just like father. But still, I promised. And what would the girls say if I should go back on them? They have trusted me, always. If I fail them, will they ever trust anybody else? If you love me, Jerry, please go, and stay away." But her arm tightened about his neck. "I'll wait here until you get your things, and we can—say good-by. And don't forget your promise."

"Oh, very well, Prudence," he answered, half irritably, "if you insist on ordering me away from the house like this, I can only go. But——"

"Let's not talk any more about it, Jerry. Please. I'll wait until you come down."

When he came down a little later, with his suitcase, his face was white and strained.

She put her arms around his neck. "Jerry," she whispered, "I want to tell you that I love you so much that—I could go away with you, and never see any of them any more, or papa, or the parsonage, and still feel rich, if I just had you! You—everything in me seems to be all yours. I—love you."

Her tremulous lips were pressed against his.

"Oh, sweetheart, this is folly, all folly. But I can't make you see it. It is wrong, it is wickedly wrong, but——"

"But I am all they have, Jerry, and—I promised."

"Whenever you want me, Prudence, just send. I'll never change. I'll always be just the same. God intended you for me, I know, and—I'll be waiting."

"Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" she whispered passionately, sobbing, quivering in his arms. It was he who drew away.

"Good-by, sweetheart," he said quietly, great pity in his heart for the girl who in her desire to do right was doing such horrible wrong. "Good-by, sweetheart. Remember, I will be waiting. Whenever you send, I will come."

He stepped outside, and closed the door. Prudence stood motionless, her hands clenched, until she could no longer hear his footsteps. Then she dropped on the floor, and lay there, face downward, until she heard Fairy moving in her room up-stairs. Then she went into the kitchen and built the fire for breakfast.



CHAPTER XIV

SHE COMES TO GRIEF

Fairy was one of those buoyant, warm-blooded girls to whom sleep is indeed the great restorer. She slept soundly, sweetly, dreamlessly. And every morning she ran down-stairs so full of animation and life that she seemed all atingle to her finger-tips. Now she stood in the kitchen door, tall, cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, and smiled at her sister's solemn back.

"You are the little mousey, Prue," she said, in her full rich voice. "I didn't hear you come to bed last night, and I didn't hear you getting out this morning. I am an abominably solid sleeper, am I not? Shall I get the maple sirup for the pancakes? I wonder if Jerry knows we only use maple sirup when he is here. I'm constantly expecting Connie to give it away. Why am I always so ravenously hungry in the morning? Goodness knows I eat enough—Why, what is the matter?" For Prudence had turned her face toward her sister, and it was so white and so unnatural that Fairy was shocked.

"Prudence! You are sick! Go to bed and let me get breakfast. Why didn't you call me? I'm real angry at you, Prudence Starr! Here, get out of this, and I will——"

"There's nothing the matter with me. I had a headache, and did not sleep, but I am all right now. Yes, bring the sirup, Fairy. Are the girls up yet?"

Fairy eyed her suspiciously. "Jerry is out unusually early, too, isn't he? His door is open. I didn't hear him coming down so he must have quite outdone himself to-day. He generally has to be called twice."

"Jerry has gone, Fairy." Prudence's back was presented to view once more, and Prudence was stirring the oatmeal with vicious energy. "He left early this morning,—I suppose he is half-way to Des Moines by now."

"Oh!" Fairy's voice was non-committal.

"Will you get the sirup now?"

"Yes, of course.—When is he coming back?"

"He isn't coming back. Please hurry, Fairy, and then call the others. The oatmeal is ready."

Fairy went soberly down cellar, and brought up the golden sirup. Then, ostensibly to call her sisters, she hurried up the stairs.

"Girls," she began, carefully closing the door of their room behind her. "Jerry has gone, and isn't coming back any more. And for goodness' sake, don't keep asking questions about it. Just eat your breakfast as usual, and have a little tact."

"Gone!"

"Yes."

"A lovers' quarrel," suggested Lark, and her eyes glittered greedily.

"Nothing of the sort. And don't keep staring at Prue, either. And do not keep talking about Jerry all the time. You mind me, or I will tell papa."

"That's funny," said Carol thoughtfully. "We left them kissing each other like mad in the back yard last night,—and this morning he has gone to return no more. They are crazy."

"Kissing! In the back yard! What are you talking about?"

Carol explained, and Fairy looked still more thoughtful and perturbed.

She opened the door, and called out to them in a loud and breezy voice, "Hurry, girls, for breakfast is ready, and there's no time to waste in a parsonage on Sunday morning." Then she added in a whisper, "And don't you mention Jerry, and don't ask Prudence what makes her so pale, or you'll catch it!"

Then she went to her father's door. "Breakfast is ready, papa," she called clearly. She turned the knob softly, and peeped in. "May I come in a minute?" Standing close beside him, she told him all she knew of what had happened.

"Prudence is ghastly, father, just ghastly. And she can't talk about it yet, so be careful what you say, will you?"

And it was due to Fairy's kindly admonitions that the parsonage family took the departure of Jerry so calmly.

"Fairy says Jerry took the morning train," said Mr. Starr, as they were passing the cream and sugar for the oatmeal. "That is too bad! But it is just the worst of being a business man,—one never knows when one must be up and away. And of course, one can not neglect business interests.—The oatmeal is unusually good this morning, Prudence." This was nothing short of heroic on his part, for her eyes upon her father's face were so wide and dark that the lump in his throat would not stay down.

That was the beginning of Prudence's bitter winter, when the brightest sunshine was cheerless and dreary, and when even the laughter of her sisters smote harshly upon her ears. She tried to be as always, but in her eyes the wounded look lingered, and her face grew so pale and thin that her father and Fairy, anxiously watching, were filled with grave concern. She remained almost constantly in the parsonage, reading very little, sitting most of her leisure time staring out the windows.

Fairy had tried to win her confidence, and had failed.

"You are a darling, Fairy, but I really do not want to talk about it.—Oh, no, indeed, it is all my own fault. I told him to go, and not come again.—No, you are wrong, Fairy, I do not regret it. I do not want him to come any more."

And Fairy worried. What in the world had happened to separate in the morning these two who had been kissing so frankly in the back yard the evening before?

Mr. Starr, too, had tried. "Prudence," he said gently, "you know very often men do things that to women seem wrong and wicked. And maybe they are! But men and women are different by nature, my dear, and we must remember that. I have satisfied myself that Jerry is good, and clean, and manly. I do not think you should let any foolishness of his in the past, come between you now."

"You are mistaken, father. Jerry is all right, and always was, I am sure. It is nothing like that. I told him to go, and not to come again. That is all."

"But if he should come back now——"

"It would be just the same. Don't worry about it, father. It's all right."

"Prudence," he said, more tenderly, "we have been the closest of friends and companions, you and I, from the very beginning. Always you have come to me with your troubles and worries. Have I ever failed you? Why, then, do you go back on me now, when you really need me?"

Prudence patted his shoulder affectionately, but her eyes did not meet his. "I do not really need you now, father. It is all settled, and I am quite satisfied. Things are all right with me just as they are."

Then he took a serious step, without her knowledge. He went to Des Moines, and had a visit with Jerry. He found him thinner, his face sterner, his eyes darker. When the office boy announced "Mr. Starr," Jerry ran quickly out to greet him.

"Is she all right?" he cried eagerly, almost before he was within hailing distance.

Mr. Starr did not mince matters. "Jerry," he said abruptly, "did you and Prudence have a quarrel? She declines to tell me anything about it, and after the conversations you and I have had, I think I have a right to know what has happened."

"Does she miss me? Does she seem sorry that I am away? Does——" His voice was so boyish and so eager there was no mistaking his attitude toward Prudence.

"Look here, Jerry, I want to know. Why are you staying away?"

"Won't Prudence tell you?"

"No."

"Then I can not. She made me promise not to tell you a word. But it is not my fault, Mr. Starr. I can tell you that. It is nothing I have done or said. She sent me away because she thinks it was right for her to do so, and—you know Prudence! It is wrong, I know. I knew it all the time. But I couldn't make her see it. And she made me promise not to tell."

In the end Mr. Starr went back to the parsonage no wiser than he left, save that he now knew that Jerry was really not to blame, and that he held himself ready to return to her on a moment's notice.

The Ladies of the Methodist church were puzzled and exasperated. They went to the parsonage, determined to "find out what's what." But when they sat with Prudence, and looked at the frail, pathetic little figure, with the mournful eyes,—-they could only sigh with her and go their ways.

The twins continued to play in the great maple, even when the leaves were fallen, "It's a dandy place, I tell you, Prudence," cried Carol. "Jerry didn't have time to put up the rope before Connie pulled him down, but we've fixed it ourselves, and it is simply grand. You can go up and swing any time you like,—unless your joints are too stiff! It's a very serious matter getting up there,—-for stiff joints, of course, I mean. Lark and I get up easy enough."

For a moment, Prudence sat silent with quivering lips. Then she burst out with unusual passion, "Don't you ever dare climb up in that tree again as long as you live, twins! Mind what I say!"

Lark looked thoughtfully out of the window, and Carol swallowed hard. It was she who said gently, "Why, of course, Prue,—just as you say."

For the first time, Prudence had dealt with them harshly and unfairly. They knew it. There was neither sense nor justice in her command. But they did not argue the point. They kept their eyes considerately away from her, and buried themselves in Julius Caesar,—it must be remembered the twins are sophomores now. Five minutes later Prudence spoke again, humbly.

"I beg you pardon, twins,—that was a perfectly idiotic thing for me to say. Of course, you may play in the maple whenever you like. But be careful. You couldn't save yourselves in falling as—as men can."

"We won't play there if you want us not to," said Carol kindly.

"I do want you to play there," she answered. "It's a very nice place, and great fun, I know. I might try it myself if—my joints weren't so stiff! Now, go on with your Latin."

But Prudence did not pass under the maple for many weeks without clenching her hands, and shuddering.

The twins were not satisfied. They marveled, and wondered, and pondered over the subject of Jerry's disappearance. Finally they felt it was more than human flesh could stand. They would approach Prudence on the subject themselves. But they bided their time. They must wait until Fairy was safely out of the house. Fairy these days had an infuriating way of saying, "That will do, twins. You'd better go and play now." It enraged and distracted the twins almost to the point of committing crime.

They had made several artistic moves already. Professor Duke, of their freshman biology class, had written Carol a gay long letter. And Carol was enthusiastic about it. She and Lark talked of "dear old Duck" for two weeks, almost without pausing for sleep.

"I'm sure you would fall in love with him on the spot," Carol had said to Prudence suggestively.

Prudence had only smiled, evidently in sarcasm!

"Jerry was very nice,—oh, very nice,—but you ought to see our little Duck!" Carol rattled rashly. "I'm sure you wouldn't regret Jerry any more if you could just get hold of Duckie. Of course, his being in New York is an obstacle, but I could introduce you by mail."

"I do not care for Ducks," said Prudence. "Of course, they look very nice swimming around on the water, but when it comes to eating,—I'll take spring chicken every time."

Carol did not mention "Duck" again for three days.

But there came a day when Fairy was out in the country. Connie had gone driving with her father. The moment had arrived. The twins had their plan of campaign memorized, and they sauntered in to Prudence with a nonchalance that was all assumed.

"Prudence," Lark began, "we're writing a book."

"That's nice," said Prudence. Conversation languished. The subject seemed exhausted.

Carol came to the rescue. "It's a very nice book. It's a love-story, and perfectly thrilling. Larkie does the writing, but I criticize and offer suggestions."

"That's kind of you."

A pause.

"I'm going to dedicate it to Carol,—To my beloved sister, to whose kindness and sympathy, I owe all that I am,—or something like that," Lark explained hopefully.

"How proud Carol will be!"

A long pause.

"We're in a very critical place just now, though," Lark seemed to be commencing at the beginning once more. "We have our heroine in a very peculiar situation, and we can't think what to do with her next."

"How sad."

Another pause.

"We thought maybe you could help us out."

"I'm afraid not," Prudence smiled a little. "I haven't any imagination. Ask Fairy. She's strong on love-stories."

"Maybe if we explain the situation to you, you could give us a suggestion. It is like this: The young people have had all kinds of thrilling experiences, but they are not yet betrothed. But they are just on the point of getting there,—and something crops up all of a sudden! The hero goes dashing away, and returns no more. The heroine lies upon her silken couch, weeping, weeping. And no one knows what to do about it, because no one knows what has happened. What do you suppose could have sent the lover away like that?"

"Maybe he hasn't enough money for the heroine."

"Oh, yes,—he's very rich."

"Maybe he is already married."

"No, indeed. He's a bachelor."

"Maybe he didn't love her, after all."

Here Carol chimed in helpfully. "Oh, yes, he did, for we left him kissing her all over the back yard, and he wouldn't have done that if he hadn't loved her, you know."

Prudence's eyes twinkled a little, but her smile was sad.

"Now, what would you advise us to do?" inquired Lark briskly, feeling instinctively that Carol had explained too much.

Prudence rose slowly. "I think," she said very gently, "I think I would burn the book if I were you, and pay a little more attention to my studies."

Then she went up-stairs, and Carol told Lark sympathetically that they did not deserve an authoress in the parsonage when they didn't give her any more encouragement than that!

On the day before Christmas, an insured package was delivered at the parsonage for Prudence. A letter was with it, and she read that first.

"My dearest little sweetheart: I chose this gift for you long before I had the right to do it. I was keeping it until the proper moment. But the moment came, and went again. Still I want you to have the gift. Please wear it, for my sake, for I shall be happy knowing it is where it ought to be, even though I myself am banished. I love you, Prudence. Whenever you send for me, I am ready to come. Entirely and always yours. Jerry."

With trembling fingers she opened the little package. It contained a ring, with a brilliant diamond flashing myriad colors before her eyes. And Prudence kissed it passionately, many times.

Two hours later, she went quietly down-stairs to where the rest of the family were decorating a Christmas tree. She showed the ring to them gravely.

"Jerry sent it to me," she said. "Do you think it is all right for me to wear it, father?"

A thrill of hopeful expectancy ran through the little group.

"Yes, indeed," declared her father. "How beautiful it is! Is Jerry coming to spend Christmas with us?"

"Why, no, father,—he is not coming at all any more. I thought you understood that."

An awkward silence, and Carol came brightly to the rescue. "It certainly is a beauty! I thought it was very kind of Professor Duckie to send Lark and me a five-pound box of chocolates, but of course this is ever so much nicer. Jerry's a bird, I say."

"A bird!" mocked Fairy. "Such language."

Lark came to her twin's defense. "Yes, a bird,—that's just what he is."

Carol smiled. "We saw him use his wings when Connie yanked him out of the big maple, didn't we, Lark?" Then, "Did you send him anything, Prue?"

Prudence hesitated, and answered without the slightest accession of color, "Yes, Carol. I had my picture taken when I was in Burlington, and sent it to him."

"Your picture! Oh, Prudence! Where are they? Aren't you going to give us one?"

"No, Carol. I had only one made,—for Jerry. There aren't any more."

"Well," sighed Lark resignedly, "it's a pretty idea for my book, anyhow."

From that day on, Prudence always wore the sparkling ring,—and the women of the Methodist church nearly had mental paralysis marveling over a man who gave a diamond ring, and never came a-wooing! And a girl who accepted and wore his offering, with nothing to say for the man! And it was the consensus of opinion in Mount Mark that modern lovers were mostly crazy, anyhow!

And springtime came again.

Now the twins were always original in their amusements. They never followed blindly after the dictates of custom. When other girls were playing dolls, the twins were a tribe of wild Indians. When other girls were jumping the rope, the twins were conducting a circus. And when other girls played "catch" with dainty rubber balls, the twins took unto themselves a big and heavy croquet ball,—found in the Avery woodshed. To be sure, it stung and bruised their hands. What matter? At any rate, they continued endangering their lives and beauties by reckless pitching of the ungainly plaything.

One Friday evening after school, they were amusing themselves on the parsonage lawn with this huge ball. When their father turned in, they ran up to him with a sporting proposition.

"Bet you a nickel, papa," cried Carol, "that you can't throw this ball as far as the schoolhouse woodshed!—By the way, will you lend me a nickel, papa?"

He took the ball, and weighed it lightly in his hand. "I'm an anti-betting society," he declared, laughing, "but I very strongly believe it will carry to the schoolhouse woodshed. If it does not, I'll give you five cents' worth of candy to-morrow. And if it does, you shall put an extra nickel in the collection next Sunday."

Then he drew back his arm, and carefully sighted across the lawn. "I'll send it right between the corner of the house and that little cedar," he said, and then, bending low, it whizzed from his hand.

Lark screamed, and Carol sank fainting to the ground. For an instant, Mr. Starr himself stood swaying. Then he rushed across the lawn. For Prudence had opened the front door, and stepped quickly out on the walk by the corner of the house. The heavy ball struck her on the forehead, and she fell heavily, without a moan.



CHAPTER XV

FATE TAKES CHARGE

Four hours Prudence lay unconscious, with two doctors in close attendance. Fairy, alert but calm, was at hand to give them service.

It is a significant thing that in bitter anguish and grief, Christians find comfort and peace in prayer. Outsiders, as well as Christians, pray in times of danger and mental stress. But here is the big difference between the prayers of Christians and the prayers of "others." "Others" pray, and pray, and pray again, and continue still in the agony and passion of grief and fear. And yet they pray. But Christians pray, and find confidence and serenity. Sorrow may remain, but anguish is stilled.

Mount Mark considered this a unique parsonage family. Their liveliness, their gaiety, their love of fun, seemed a little inapropos in the setting of a Methodist parsonage.

"They ain't sanctimonious enough by half," declared old Harvey Reel, the bus driver, "but, by Jings! I tell you they are dandies!"

But as a matter of fact, every one of the family, from Connie up, had a characteristic parsonage heart. When they were worried, or frightened, or grieved, they prayed. Fairy passing up the stairs with hot water for the doctors, whispered to her father as he turned in to his own room, "Keep on praying, father. I can't stop now, because they need me. But I'm praying every minute between errands!" And Mr. Starr, kneeling beside his bed, did pray,—and the stony despair in his eyes died out, and he came from the little room quiet, and confident, and calm.

Connie had been unfortunate. In seeking a secluded corner to "pray for Prudence," she had passed the door of the dungeon, and paused. A fitting place! So she turned in at once, drawing the door after her, but leaving it a couple of inches ajar. Then in the farthest and darkest corner, she knelt on the hard floor, and prayed, and sobbed herself to sleep. Fairy passing through the hall, observed the door ajar, and gave it a slight push. The lock snapped into place, but Connie did not waken.

Lark remained loyally with Carol until consciousness returned to her. As soon as she was able to walk, the two went silently to the barn, and climbed into the much-loved haymow. There they lay flat on the hay, faces downward, each with an arm across the other's shoulder, praying fervently. After a time they rose and crept into the house, where they waited patiently until Fairy came down on one of her numerous errands.

"Is she better?" they whispered. And Fairy answered gently, "I think she is a little better." Then the twins, in no way deceived, went back to the haymow again.

Fairy prepared a hasty supper, and arranged it on the kitchen table. She drank a cup of hot coffee, and went in search of her father. "Go and eat, dadsie," she urged. But he shook his head.

"I am not hungry, but send the girls to the table at once."

On their next trip into the house, Fairy stopped the twins. "Get Connie, and eat your supper. It's just a cold lunch, and is already on the kitchen table. You must help yourselves,—I can't come now."

The twins did not speak, and Fairy went hurriedly up the stairs once more.

"I do not think I can eat," said Carol.

"I know I can't," was Lark's reply.

"Won't Fairy make us? She'll tell papa."

"We'd better take away about half of this food, and hide it. Then she will think we have already eaten."