A Jersey cow or a naughty red car
A Jersey cow—or a naughty red car!
When the girls came clamoring in from school Mr. Artman had not appeared, so Doris served them with hands that trembled, and finally, when she saw that father would not come in time to break his own good news, she said:
"Mr. Davison left a will and father gets a Jersey cow or the red car—which?"
There was no more dinner after that—for the girls all began talking at once—except Treasure, who looked volumes, but never had an opportunity to break into the conversation—and how cross they were at father for not coming home to share the excitement. But maybe he was learning to drive the red car, or—
"Milk the cow," faltered Rosalie. "You don't suppose father would let them talk him into taking the silly old cow, do you?"
"Absolutely not," said Doris imperturbably. "Father knows better than to decide such a thingby himself. He will come straight home—and I choose the car."
So the girls reluctantly went off to school again.
At one o'clock a neighbor ran in. "Well, what do you think of that? Did you ever hear of such a thing? Would anybody but old Davison ever think of leaving a preacher anything in his will?"
"Mr. Davison was very thoughtful in many ways," said Doris with dignity.
"Yes, I suppose so. Well, it certainly is wonderful luck for you folks. It is a good cow, one of the best in the county. Everybody says so. Worth two hundred dollars, and only three years old. And think of the nice milk and cream and butter and—"
"You don't mean to say father took the cow," gasped Doris.
"Why, I don't know—I suppose so—I should think he would. Whatever would your poor father do with that devilish little red car? Of course he will take the cow."
"You scared me for a minute. I thought maybefather had a mental aberration and did it! No, he will not take the cow—not by any means. He will take the car, and take it just as fast as ever he can, and—and—and—"
Of course, the neighbor lady was sure dear Doris was quite daft, but Doris was tranquilly confident. Her faith in her father's wisdom remained unshaken—he would come to her, and she had already chosen the car. It certainly was a General's prerogative—choosing things.
At four o'clock he came, smiling, his face flushed, his eyes bright and boyish.
"Most fun I've had in ten years," he said, mopping his brow. "I think if the parishioners knew how much fun it is, more of them would die, and remember me in their wills."
"You mean—"
"Never mind what I mean. I am not sure I know myself. Well, as I told you, Davison says it is for my own personal use and pleasure, mine and my family's—not for the church under any consideration—either the cow or the car. Probably, he says, in his outspoken way, I shall be foolenough to take the cow, and in that case the car is to go to his great-grand-nephew up in New London. And great-grand-nephew greatly prefers the car, so he took me out to show me the cow, and explain what a bargain she is, and how easy to milk, and how creamy the milk is, and he figured up how many pounds of milk and gallons of— No, I mean it the other way, gallons of milk and pounds of butter I will get per year, at so much per gallon and per pound, and that will mean a clear profit of—"
"Father, you poor dear, shall I call a doctor?"
"So, after seeing the cow, and she is a beauty—I said, 'How about the car? Let's give her the once-over, too, while we are at it.' He says it isn't much of a car, in terrible condition, would take a hundred dollars to put it in shape, and fairly eats gasoline—gas going up, too. And he says it is a bad car to handle, quite dangerous, in fact, has a habit of running into telephone poles and trains and things. But we backed her out of the garage, and great-grand-nephew and Folsom and I had a ride. Which do you want?"
"Mercy, father, how abrupt you are. I thought it was settled long ago. We want the car, of course."
"All right, my dear, all right, but I have a hunch that great-grand-nephew will not be particularly pleased. Lucky he lives in New London instead of here—Congregationalist, too, that's good. And when I consider that I got Davison out of jail twice for speeding the thing, I think after all it is my just deserts. All right, call Folsom up and tell him we take the car."
Doris ecstatically did, and the lawyer said he would deliver the car at their door in person the next morning at nine o'clock.
"Can't you make it eight?" pleaded Doris. "I think the children ought to be here, and they are in school, you know."
Very obligingly Mr. Folsom consented to the change of time, and the entire family sat up until eleven o'clock that night figuring out how to make motor bonnets of left-over coats and planning vacation motor trips for ten years in advance.
At five-thirty the next morning Treasure andZee made a tour of the house, wakening every member of the family in no idle manner.
"Going to sleep all day?" Zee demanded in a peevish voice when she had shaken Rosalie four times. "Get up, so you'll be ready for the car."
"Zee Artman, you go right back to bed, and let me sleep," protested Rosalie. "Do I have to sit up all night just because the car is coming to-morrow?"
"You get out, or we'll pull you out. Treasure and I are all dressed. We're not going to have things held up at the last minute because somebody isn't down yet. Are you going to get up— Have you got the water, Treasure?"
In the face of such persistence the others were helpless, so they rushed down and had a feverish breakfast, with Zee dashing away from the table every three minutes to see if the car had come, and at seven-thirty they were grouped impatiently at the front window.
"Keep behind the curtains," Rosalie urged, "or he will think we never had a car before in our lives."
"We must call it the machine," said Zee. "Machine sounds so unconcerned."
"Motor, you little goose," said Rosalie. "Machine is what the business men call it. The highbrows say, 'The motor will be here at six.'"
"We must give it a name," said Treasure. "Let's call it the Shooting Star."
"Let's call it the Divine Spark— It is the only divine thing old Davison ever did."
"Girls," said Doris firmly, "don't you ever let me hear you speak disrespectfully of poor Mr. Davison again. He certainly had a kind and generous heart and he must have sympathized with dear father, walking all over town in all kinds of weather, and—"
"Pretty good sort, after all, wasn't he, Doris?" laughed Mr. Artman. "One post-mortem virtue like this will cover a lifetime of delirium tremens, won't it?"
"Here she comes," shouted Zee, and the family forgot its ministerial dignity and rushed pell-mell down the stone walk.
It was a pretty car, giddy and gaudy as tocolor, which fascinated Zee, with a softly whirring motor that reminded Treasure of a happy little kitten, and with long low lines that Rosalie declared were very smart indeed.
"Get in, folks," said Mr. Folsom gaily, "we must give her a trial run."
So the three older girls stepped loftily into the tonneau, and Zee snuggled up between her father and Mr. Folsom in front—there may have been bigger, more wonderful, more luxurious cars—but the Artmans could not be convinced of it, and Mr. Davison improved steadily with every turn of the motor.
Mr. Folsom, enjoying their passionate delight, volunteered to spend the morning giving the minister his first lesson, and a near panic ensued.
"Oh, Doris!"
"Do we have to go to school?"
"Oh, dear, sweet, darling General, it never happened before since we were born."
"What do you think, father?" said Doris slowly.
"You are the General," came the quick response.
"Then," said Doris, in a clear triumphant voice, "step on it! What do we care for school, and work, and mending, and dishes, and— Begin, Mr. Folsom. We'll see the morning through."
It was lovely to see precious old father take that gay young interest in bolts and screws—how readily his laughter sounded—how deep and pleased his voice rang out. Poor, dear Mr. Davison—well, we preachers are only to lead, and not to judge, and Doris was very, very sure the angels in Heaven must know many good and tender things about the man who did this kindness to her father.
Some of the people of the fold thought the family had mentally run amuck. Whoever heard of an impecunious minister taking an expensive auto in preference to a money-making cow? It was incomprehensible. But even those who wondered, smiled with loving sympathy when thefamily bundled joyously into the motor "just to have a good time for an hour."
"But wherever in the world we are going to scare up money for gas is more than I can figure out," said Mr. Artman, looking at the girls with sober eyes. "We've got the car—but it won't run itself. It costs twenty-five cents a gallon, and we only get about eighteen miles to the gallon—"
"Don't do figures, father, it makes my head ache," pleaded Doris. "We must concentrate. Where is the money for gas? Everybody think now."
After a painful silence Treasure came forward with the first sacrifice. "I will give half of my allowance—but it is only a dollar."
Zee frowned at her. "That's a poor idea," she said. "Now I have to live up to your precedent, and give half of mine. That is another dollar." And then, with a truly herculean effort she added, "And, Doris, I will go ahead wearing stogies to school, and you can have the price of the fine shoes for gas, too."
"That is just fine for a starter," said Doris. "And since you little ones have set the example, I know I can cut down on the expense of cooking—we must use less butter, and less sugar, and other rich things. I am sure I can save a few dollars every month, and you will never notice the difference. It will take a little more planning, and a little more work preparing the food—but I am willing to do that. Put me down for at least three dollars."
Rosalie sighed. "What can I do? I have my winter clothes already, and my allowance—I can't give it up, for if I haven't any money the other girls will pay my share of things, and I can not sponge on my friends, you know." Then she added slowly, "But father gave me the money to join the Golf Club—and I only wanted to join because it is so smart—I get plenty of exercise without it. It is five dollars to join and two-fifty a month. That goes into the gas."
"Rosalie, that is lovely—and so sweet and unselfish. Now we can use the car with clear consciences, and we will enjoy it all the more becausewe are making a sacrifice to pay for our pleasure."
"How can I help?" asked their father suddenly. "I should like to follow your lead. Is there anything I can give up, or go without? How do men economize, anyhow? I shave and shine myself already. Cigars—I never use. Theater tickets—never even saw them. What can I give up?"
"Oh, father, I never thought of that. You do not have any money for yourself at all, do you? You always turn it right over to me. Are—we—as poor as that?"
There was tragedy in the young voice, and she broke over the words.
"Why, Doris, I did not mean it that way. I have everything I want, of course. Fortunately, a minister's clothes do not go out of style—and it saves me trouble and worry to let you spend the family fund instead of doing it myself."
"Then you shall be treasurer of the gasoline money. It will make you feel like a millionaire, you poor old soul." She ran to her desk and brought out the box of household funds. "Hereis my three dollars— And don't you get reckless and spend it for tires and rugs and things."
Laughing gaily, the other girls brought out their hoarded dollars and thrust them into his hands.
"I have not felt so affluent for lo, these many years," he declared. "Let's go out for a spin in the motor, shall we? And we'd better run by the garage and fill her up—the tank is nearly empty."
Mr. Artman looked up from his mail, frowning gently, and Doris, always quick to note his changing moods even in the midst of directing Treasure about the proper distance from the table for her chair, and admonishing Zee to eat her oatmeal from the side of her spoon, was prompt to voice a query.
"Don't frown, father, it isn't ministerial. Has somebody else left you a will?"
"No such luck. I was not frowning at the letter—I have a headache."
"Oh, father," cried Zee. "It is because the girls make such a racket. Go to bed, won't you, and I myself will stand on guard and keep peace in the family."
"Zee's spirit is willing to be quiet, but her voice and her heels give it no support," smiled Rosalie.
"It is not the noise. I like to hear the incessant chatter and chase below stairs when I am working. This fellow—"
"Fellow, father?"
"Minister," he amended quickly. "He is a minister, but he is tired of pastoral work and wants to try his skill in evangelism, and insists on coming here to practise on us during his vacation. But we aren't ready for evangelistic meetings—and personally I should prefer another— Anyhow—" he frowned gently at the letter again.
"Tell him so," advised Doris.
"I did. But he says he is coming for a visit anyhow, and he insists it is a direct guidance of Providence."
"Direct guidance of his bank-account, probably," said Rosalie. "Don't let him work you, father."
He shook his head at her reprovingly. "If it should really prove a guidance— Anyhow, as he says, he is coming and will be with us a few days to think it over."
"Then I can not go to the country to-morrow,"said Doris. "Rosalie is no fit person to cook dinner for a visiting minister."
"I am sorry, dear."
"Yes, of course you are. I can see quite plainly that you do not want him any more than I do. But never mind. The country will remain forever, but—"
"Some visiting ministers do, too, if they get a chance," chimed Rosalie.
"Rosalie! I dare say he is very nice, and we shall all enjoy him immensely. Shan't we, father?"
"I hope so—I think so. He is—I do not know him very well."
"Evidently he did not make a special hit with you," said Zee shrewdly.
"Oh, girls, how prying you are. He is very active and enthusiastic. That I was not personally drawn to him is rather my fault than his, no doubt."
"We are going to be very nice to him," said Doris. "And Rosalie can take him in hand, so he won't bother you every minute."
"Oh, he is married. And I must say his wife is nice enough to make up for—"
"Father!"
"Excuse me, dear, I mean his wife is—very nice indeed."
So the visiting minister came, the Reverend Andrew Boltman, a nervous energetic man with dark eyes, and hair just tinged with gray, and he settled down for a visit in the manse, trying, meanwhile, to effect arrangements for the services, which Mr. Artman still insisted were not desirable at the time.
On the second day of his visit, when Mr. Artman announced his intention of going to a lecture at the college, Mr. Boltman said he preferred to stay quietly at home and read if he might be excused, and his host went away alone, seeming almost relieved to be free to follow his own desires for the afternoon. Doris went serenely about her housework, and Mr. Boltman picked out a comfortable corner in the living-room with his book.
But late in the afternoon, when her fatherreturned, he found Doris alone at the window, impatiently tapping her foot on the floor.
"Where is Mr. Boltman?"
"Gone down-town. Something is wrong with Rosalie. She is up-stairs, crying. It must be pretty bad, for she would not tell me about it."
So Mr. Artman went up-stairs to Rosalie, slowly but without delay, feeling that vague helplessness that comes to men when there is trouble in the family.
She was lying face down on the bed, rigid, her hands clenched tightly, but her shoulders rose and fell with heavy sobs.
Something in her attitude told him that this was vital, not just a little tempestuous outburst that could be readily brushed aside. He sat down close by her on the bed, and laid his arm across her shoulders tenderly.
"Rosalie," he whispered, and as she flung herself upon him he caught a glimpse of a white face and stormy eyes, quickly hidden from his searching gaze.
Very gently he caressed her, asking noquestion, patting and fondling her as he would have done to a little hurt or frightened child. And then when the sobs came more easily, she stood up away from him suddenly and looked straight into his face, and her eyes were hard.
"I do not intend to be a Christian any more—not ever any more. It is all over. I hate them. I think they are horrible. Christianity is nothing—it is a cheat—and ministers are the worst of all."
"Rosalie, my little girl, have I—done something?" he cried in a startled voice, for this was new even to him, who had coped with the moods of daughters for many years.
"Oh, father, not you—how can you think that? Listen. It is that wicked, abominable old married Boltman. What do you suppose he did? I came in from school, and Doris was at the store. He said I was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, and I said, 'Thanks,' very curtly, for I thought it was downright impudence, that's what I thought. And before I could even dream of such a thing, he put his arms around me and kissedme twice—kissed me—right on the lips. He did."
She had spoken in a low voice, but every word fell so clearly, so distinctly, that it was almost as if she had shouted aloud.
"Rosalie!" said her father in a hoarse whisper, and Rosalie could see that his hands shook.
"He did. He kissed me—twice. Is that all the ministry stands for? And he is married, and has children of his own—and he is in our home, and I—why, I am only a kid."
"And can one—man—kill your faith in the sanctity of the ministry—one man, Rosalie?"
"There may be some other decent ones besides you—but how can I tell which ones they are? How can anybody tell?" she wailed. "They all come praying, and saying sweet and gentle things—how can you tell which ones are true and which ones—are like Boltman?"
"We have always had the wolves inside the fold, dear. And of old, you know, they had their false prophets teaching error."
Rosalie drooped her head against his arm, anddid not speak. The gentle, so dearly loved voice, seemed to comfort her.
"I had hoped—I have tried—to keep my life so clean before you girls that if ever a time should come, like this, when your faith was put to the test, you could look at me and say, 'But there is father.' I have always felt it was a part of fatherhood, to be a living proof before the children of the home. I must have failed you some time."
Rosalie clung to him, shaking her head in violent denial.
"He ought to be put out of the church," she whispered.
"We are human, Rosalie, as well as ministers. And human flesh is not invincible. God is very, very reasonable with us. David betrayed his trust, but God forgave him. Peter denied his Lord, but was restored to favor. I think that God forgives us when we fail Him even yet—even we ministers—if we go to Him for purging."
"But, father, if the ministry can't keep a man good—what can?"
"Nothing but the spirit of the Lord, working in us, nothing else, Rosalie. And have you lost all confidence in the ministry?"
Rosalie squirmed. "Not in you, dearest. Just in the rest of it."
"Oh, Rosalie, is your faith so small? People on whom I counted have failed me many times, yet I trust the next one just the same."
"You have more trust to begin with than I have. And he looked so—ugly, father—in his eyes. I hate to think that women have to sit in the church and look up to him in the pulpit—God's pulpit, that is sacred."
"Rosalie, I want to talk to you just a minute, and then I shall go down and leave you alone to think it over by yourself. Of all the ministers we have had in our home, he is the first to betray our trust. Only one, out of the dozens we have had. I put it to your sense of justice, to your belief in fair play. Your finger is pricked by the thorn on the stem of the rose, but you do not turn your eyes from all the lovely roses forever after. The dog goes mad and bites the handthat has petted him, but you do not say all dogs must suffer death. One girl who has been your friend is false to the friendship and betrays your confidence, but you do not deny yourself the friendship of other girls on that account. Many a woman has been deceived by her lover, but she does not shut her heart to love and truth the rest of her life because of that. And many parents have been cut to the quick by the ingratitude and the disloyalty of a much-loved child, but they do not turn deaf ears to the claims of other children. It may beconsistent, Rosalie, to say that if one of a species betrays you none of that species can be trusted—it may be consistent, but it is not generous, it is not kind, it is not womanly. Think it over, dearest, and I shall come to you again after while."
Then he went down-stairs, and stood grimly at the window waiting until Mr. Boltman turned in at the gate of the manse, and went out the stone walk to meet him.
"Have you decided about the meetings yet,Brother?" asked Mr. Boltman eagerly, not noting the white lines on the face of his host.
"Yes, I have decided. I am going out to the garage—come along, will you?"
After a while Rosalie came down-stairs looking for her father, and she hovered close to Doris as if enjoying the protection of her nearness, but offering no explanations, and Doris asked no questions. So the two were together when the kitchen door banged open, and Zee and Treasure, trembling and pallid, rushed in upon them.
"What is it?" cried Doris nervously. "What is the matter? Did something happen?"
"Oh, awful," cried Zee, quivering. "Father and Mr. Boltman had a fight."
"What?"
"They came into the barn—we were in the haymow, and father asked if he was going to explain something, and Boltman laughed kind of funny and said, 'Oh, be reasonable, Artman, you know we are all human.' And father said, and his voice sounded very grim and—like anarchangel, or something, and he said, 'Yes, thank God, we are, but some of us have manhood enough to make us good to children and loyal to our friends.' And father said, 'There is something in the Bible about the man who puts a stumbling block in the way of one of His little ones— And you have put a block in the path of faith for one of the children of the church.' And Boltman said, 'Won't you pray with me, Brother?' And father said, 'Yes, in a minute. But first I have to let you know what I think of you.' And father knocked him down— He did that very thing, we were peeking through the cracks, and Boltman's nose bled something awful. Then father got a piece of waste out of the car, and wet it at the hydrant and gave it to Boltman to wipe the blood off, and then he said, 'Now we will pray.' And they knelt down— What did father say in his prayer, Treasure? I was so scared I couldn't hear good."
"He said, 'Oh, God, wash the heart of this man who professes to be thy minister, and teach him loyalty, teach him tenderness, teach him purity!'or something like that. And he said, 'And, dear God, help me to remove that stumbling block from the path of Thy little one.' And then father said, 'Now get out. I will pack your bag and send it to the train for you.'"
"And father struck out through the meadow as fast as he could go, and Boltman wiped the rest of the blood off, and went toward town, and—"
"Whatever in the world do you suppose—"
"We must not ask any questions, girls," said Doris quickly, without glancing at Rosalie's face. "It is something connected with the ministry, and you know those things are sacred to father. So we must not ask about it, but let it pass."
Rosalie's eyes were suddenly very bright, and she turned and ran breathlessly up the stairs. She knew that when her father was ready, he would come to her. And after a time, came father, with a little of shame in his eyes, and a flush on his face.
"And how is the Problem now?" he asked gently.
"All solved," she cried. "A fatherly blow from a strong right arm was the answer."
"I—You—How—"
"The girls were in the haymow, but they do not know what it is all about, and Doris said we preachers must not ask questions in a case like that."
"Rosalie," he said, "some people say that God does not watch over us, and guard us. Yet Providence certainly kept that man out of the house when you first told me,—I am afraid I could have killed him—there was hate in my heart—not now, dear. And believe this, dear, I did not strike him in anger. I thought it over carefully and decided it would do him good. But I did not hit him furiously, or wildly—it was deliberate."
"Then you do not always believe in—turning the other cheek?"
"I do not believe in carrying it to the point of offering another daughter to the man who offends," he said quickly.
"I think," she said thoughtfully—"I believe—a false prophet was probably the Serpent in theGarden of Eden. They are very upsetting, you know—I am sure it was nothing less than a bad minister that overcame Eve's scruples."
"Perhaps." And then he added wistfully, "Do you still have that feeling of abhorrence for—us preachers?"
"Oh, father, nobody could lose confidence in the ministry when you emphasize your argument with your muscle. It is all over. Isn't it a good thing I know you? For you could cancel a dozen bad preachers, for me at least. I'm sorry for the way I talked. It was very foolish, and very wicked. Why, do you know, for a while, I actually held God responsible for that creature? I thought, 'How can God allow such a monster to go about preaching His gospel?' And then, after you talked to me, I saw that he was only the serpent trying to despoil God's vineyard."
"Oh, Rosalie, how many of us do that very thing. Instead of thanking God for the lovely vineyard He has given us, we blame Him for the serpent curling at the roots. Yet the serpent is not all powerful—even we have strength to drivehim away—God saw to that. But no, instead of using our strength as it was intended, we say, 'God should not allow the serpent in the vineyard!' Then it is all over, and you are still glad and proud to be one of 'Us Preachers,' are you?"
"Gladder and prouder than ever," she said warmly, but her father saw in her eyes a little dark shadow of disillusionment that had never been in Rosalie's bright eyes before.
"Oh, we had a perfectly glorious time, Doris," cried Rosalie, skipping into the manse with her face fairly glowing. "It is such a lovely crowd, and we have such laughing times together—and we got whole sacks full of hickory nuts, and Bert gave me his share, too. Is supper ready? I am so hungry. We thought we had twice too much lunch, but we ate it all, and were tempted to raid the orchards coming home, we were so ravenous. Do hurry along, there's a nice General. Do we have to wait for anybody?"
"Oh, Rosalie, how young you are when you are hungry," cried Doris affectionately. "It isn't nearly time for dinner, but we'll eat as soon as the girls come. Father won't be here to-night, and we only have cream potato soup, but you love it, and I made heaps. Aren't the girls in sight? They promised to come early and—"
"Yes, here they come. You dish up the soup, and I'll carry it in."
So with a great deal of chattering and laughter, and endless running back and forth, Rosalie pulled up the chairs and carried the plates of soup to the table, waltzing Doris to her place just as the younger girls came in.
"Hurry, hurry," begged Rosalie. "Father isn't here to-night, so you needn't take time to brush. For once I am glad we don't have to wait for the blessing."
So the girls rushed to the table, and when Rosalie was happily immersed in her soup, Doris said, rather shyly:
"I am glad you spoke of the blessing, Rosalie, for—I want to say something about that myself, and I haven't had the nerve, though I have been thinking of it for quite a while. I think it is a shame for us preachers to sit down and eat without giving thanks, just because father is not here to do the talking for us."
Rosalie paused, spoon lifted in mid-air. "Mercy, General, are you brave enough to tackle that?"
"I agree with you, Doris," said Zee promptly. "I feel like a heathen when we eat without the blessing. And I think you and Rosalie ought to be ashamed of yourselves."
"I am willing to take my turn," said Treasure, "if you won't be critical."
"Why, Treasure, you dear little thing. Then is it all settled that we take turns giving thanks when father is away? For I believe father thinks we do it right along, and I should be ashamed to let him know we don't."
"I can't—I am too young," said Zee bashfully.
"You aren't too young to thank father when he gives you a nickel."
"Well, I will try it once, but I speak for the last turn. And if Rosalie so much as smiles I'll never do it—"
"Say, do you think I am an infidel?" demanded Rosalie indignantly. "Of course I shall not smile. Go ahead, then, General, begin." She dropped her spoon and shut her eyes.
"Maybe—shall we—do you think I ought to—"
"Let's draw cuts to see who takes the first plunge," cried Zee. "I'll hold the straws while the rest of you draw."
"Zee, sit down. I am surprised at you. We must not draw cuts about the blessing. I will begin." Doris looked anxiously about the table, scanning her sisters' faces for signs of amusement, but they were preternaturally grave and earnest.
So in a meek and lowly voice, in a manner that spoke of anything but a pharisaical blasting of trumpets, Doris asked a blessing on their food. And the girls sighed with satisfaction when she said Amen, proclaiming their comfort in having conformed to the ministerial proprieties, and kept the sanctity of the manse intact.
"We had a perfectly ducky time to-day," said Rosalie, while Doris was refilling her plate with soup. "We got a half a bushel of nuts apiece, and Bert gave me his besides, on condition that I invite him to help eat them once a week."
"By the way, who went nutting to-day, anyhow?" asked Zee suddenly.
"We did—our college bunch."
"It was not your Sunday-school class, was it?"
Rosalie flashed a questioning look at her sister. "No, it was not the class—exactly," she said reluctantly. "The girls are in my class, though."
"Was it the whole class?" persisted Zee.
"Why are you asking so many questions? What difference does it make to you who went? Whatever made you think of the Sunday-school class anyhow?"
"We met little Nora Gordon on the street to-day, and she asked if you went nutting, and who went along, and I said Mabel and Frances and Gloria and Annabelle and Sara and the college boys. And she said, 'Then it was their Sunday-school class, and they didn't invite my sister and she feels awful.'"
"Oh, mercy," said Rosalie, "we tried to keep it from her—that is, we didn't suppose she would find out—anyhow, it was a college crowd, and Alicia Gordon does not go to college."
"Did all the rest of the class go except Alicia?" asked Doris.
"Well, yes, it isn't a very big class, you know, and we all go to college, except Alicia. She works. But is was a regular college crowd—and the boys don't like Alicia, she never has a date with anybody. She is kind of poky."
"You knew it would hurt her feelings if she found it out, didn't you?"
"Well, perhaps, but we didn't intend she should find it out. I wonder who told her? It was a nasty little trick, and if you did it, Miss Zee—"
"I didn't. What did I know about your old picnic? And when I saw how Nora felt, I told her over and over it was a college affair, didn't I, Treasure?"
"Yes, but their feelings are hurt, anyhow."
"Now, of course, you are blaming me, Doris, but we couldn't take her along. The boys don't care for her, and she can't expect us to make dates for her."
"What is the matter with her?"
"Nothing, but she sits around like a stick and never says boo. Boys make her nervous. I like her well enough myself, though she never saysmuch and clams up completely when a man heaves in sight. A pretty enough girl, and dresses well—but what could we do with her on a nutting party?"
"I think it was a very un-manse-like thing to do, and I am sorry."
"I am sorry she found it out myself. But I hardly know her."
"Why don't you know her, if she is in your class?"
"She never goes where we go, and—you just can't get acquainted with her."
"Did you ever try?"
"Um, not very hard, I suppose. She ought to meet one half-way."
"Some people can't, and you know it. That is why they have us preachers, to go the whole way to meet those who can't, or won't, come a step toward us. I'm afraid—you ought to be disciplined, Rosalie."
Zee leaped up, clapping her hands. "Good. Whip her, Doris. Go on, give her a good one, for once, the bad thing."
"Oh, Zee, Doris can't whip a big thing like Rosalie," protested Treasure anxiously.
"Don't be silly, girls," said Rosalie. "I see what you mean, Doris, and I am quite willing. Pronounce the sentence, General."
"Well, Alicia works on Saturday morning, but she is off in the afternoon, isn't she? So the punishment is that you must have her come and spend the afternoon and stay for supper and all night and go to Sunday-school with us the next morning. Then you will have a good chance to get regularly acquainted with her."
Rosalie went directly to the telephone. "Well, now is the— Oh, Doris, not this week. We are going to stay all night at Adele's you know, and make taffy."
"I am sorry," said Doris gently.
Rosalie soberly searched her sister's face a moment, then without comment, called the number, and asked for Alicia. She gave the invitation in a friendly cordial voice, showing no hint of perturbation or coercion, and after a moment's pause, Alicia accepted.
"But whatever in the world we are going to do with that solemn Alicia Gordon for eighteen hours, I do not know. You'll have to do most of the talking, Doris."
"Oh, no, indeed; she is your guest. We put her in your hands absolutely and you alone will be responsible for her comfort."
"But, General—"
"If she is my company, you won't get much punishment out of it, will you?"
Rosalie sighed heavily. "Eighteen hours—she will come right from work—that means luncheon. Oh, Doris, you do not know what a blow she is. And a nice enough girl, too—but whatever can we talk about for eighteen hours?"
Doris had no suggestions forthcoming, and to make the affliction greater, on Saturday she made unexpected arrangements to drive to the country with her father.
"And you can get lunch for yourself and the girls, can't you, Rosalie dear?"
"But Alicia Gordon—"
"Oh, she won't mind. I'll be home in time tohave a nice dinner for you. Bye, Rosalie; good luck."
Alicia arrived from her work almost as soon as Rosalie came in from a business meeting of the Literary Society, and a heated discussion of menus was immediately in progress.
"You must help us, Alicia. We are trying to get up a fashionable company luncheon in your honor, and we can't think of anything fashionable that I have brains enough to cook."
Zee watched closely, but Alicia never so much as smiled, though any one might know Rosalie had meant to be funny.
"Let's not be fashionable," she said evenly. "Let's figure out what is easiest to prepare, and have it."
"Wouldn't be proper," insisted Rosalie. "Doris always wants us to be proper when we have company."
"French fried potatoes are fashionable," said Zee.
"Too much work."
"Corn fritters are nice," said Treasure.
"I do not like corn," said Alicia.
They looked at one another soberly. "I tell you what," said Rosalie at last. "Let's go to the pantry and see what we can find."
The four ran pell-mell to the pantry, and looked over the shelves hastily, but with thoroughness.
"A custard pie, thank goodness," said Rosalie. "That settles the dessert."
"I am going to have this apple sauce and bread and butter," said Treasure suddenly. "You folks can get what you like."
"Oh, I'm going to have toast and milk," cried Zee. "I'll toast it myself—and—"
"I'd like a fried egg sandwich," said Alicia, "if you do not mind. And I want to fix it myself. I just love them, and mother never has time to make them for our big family."
"I'll have one, too," decided Rosalie. "Suppose you fix mine when you do yours, and I'll be making hot chocolate for all of us. And we'll have some sweet pickles if Zee will bring them from the cellar."
In the confusion of getting four separate luncheons on one gas stove at the same minute, one could not find time for much formality. Zee stepped on Alicia's toes, and Alicia splashed hot butter on Treasure's hand, and Rosalie let the chocolate boil over on the eggs. But finally they were seated companionably about the table, and by that time they were fairly well acquainted.
When luncheon was over, Zee and Treasure set about the dishes, and Rosalie and Alicia disappeared. But when Rosalie came into the kitchen on an errand a little later, Zee said:
"She seems all right, I think. I bet she needs a beau."
"What makes you think that?"
"Well, you say you need them to keep your soul in—to—to—I forgot just what you do say, but anyhow you always declare you can't be normal without a beau. And I guess all girls are alike, so Alicia needs one, too."
Rosalie went out of the kitchen, thinking hard. "I wonder—" she said. "I believe I can—" She went directly to the telephone, and called Bert.
"I have a friend spending the night with me," she said. "A town girl. You know I told you I was busy and could not keep our date. But I wonder if you can't get another man and come and help us make candy?"
Bert was desolated, but since Rosalie had said she was busy, he had made other arrangements—he didn't care two cents about the girl they picked out for him—wasn't it beastly luck— He would break the date, that's what he'd do.
Rosalie would not hear of it, and she stopped the conversation abruptly and looked at Alicia.
"Men are all alike, aren't they? Here he has been telling me for two months that I am the only girl in college—I shall get even with him. I'll just have a senior, and that will make him wild. Bob Harton is always asking me for dates, but is always just too late. So I can ask him perfectly all right, and we'll have him bring—let me see—I know—Arthur Gooding, a 'post'—and terribly sensible."
So she ran to the telephone again, in spite of Alicia's protests, and called the second number.
"Oh, Bob," she began, "this is Rosalie Artman. I am always taken when you try to make a date with me, so I thought I would try my hand on you. I have a town girl staying all night, and we want you to come and help us celebrate. And can't you ask Arthur Gooding to come? I do not know him very well myself, but he is so sensible, and this is a very sensible girl, so they ought to get on wonderfully. Will you see? Oh, that is just lovely."
"I do not know how to talk to men, Rosalie, I never had a date in my life. I can't think of things to say."
"Leave it to me," cried Rosalie blithely. "I can do most of the talking. And Arthur is so sensible you won't have to talk. Just sit back and look wise, and he will think you are wonderful. And Bob is lots of fun, and—oh, it will be easy."
The rest of the afternoon passed comfortably enough getting ready for the evening, and the girls had told the boys good night, and gone up-stairs before Rosalie remembered that Alicia was a bore.
When they went into their room for the night, she turned Alicia's face to the light and scrutinized the bright quiet eyes, and the flushed but still placid face.
"Marvels will never cease," she said solemnly. "I am not sensible, I don't want to be sensible, I don't even believe in sense, and I talk all the time, and the silliest talk I can think of—but that perfectly dignified sober Arthur Gooding, who is a 'post,' fell for me like a flash, head over heels. And he was invited for you! And you sat back in a corner saying as near nothing as possible, but that irrepressible Bob Harton could not keep three feet away from you all evening, and never took his eyes off your face once. Come now, 'fess up. Did he make a date with you?"
"Three—one for to-morrow, and two for next week," admitted Alicia, smiling softly. "Isn't he funny and bright?"
Rosalie turned her back, and stared up at the ceiling. "Well," she said at last, "I always have thought you quiet girls were dangerous, if you ever get started."
Alicia came over to her suddenly, and said, "Thank you for getting me started. I had a lovely time. I thought you did not like me, Rosalie. You'll forgive me, won't you?"
Rosalie flung her arms impulsively around Alicia's shoulders. "I had a lovely time myself. And I do like you—but I shall try to forgive you, if you never do it again," she said virtuously. But as they were getting into bed, she said suddenly, "Isn't that Zee the shrewd one, though?" And Alicia wondered what Zee had to do with the question in hand.
Doris went to bed very early in the first place, a thing she firmly resolved never to do again under any circumstances. Zee and Treasure were soundly and sweetly sleeping. Father had gone, in the car, to some very formal and dignified affair where there were to be two college presidents and a Methodist bishop, and no one ever knows when to expect folks home if there is a bishop in it. Rosalie was spending the evening with one of her friends, and just an hour ago had telephoned that she was going to spend the night, and Doris should not wait up for her.
So in the face of all that, there was nothing for Doris to do but go to bed. But she could not sleep. She tossed and tumbled, and finally, after counting both sheep and stars long and persistently, and after repeating to herself all thesoothing and sleep-provoking poetry she could think of, she did fall into a troubled slumber.
A long time afterward she became conscious of vague unrest. It must be terribly late, yet Doris was acutely certain that some one was moving around—doing something—things evidently were not right.
She slipped out of bed, and drew her flannel kimono about her. In the next room, her younger sisters were sleeping heavily. Her father's door was ajar, and she peered in, noting the humpy outlines of the beautiful blue and white Ladies' Aid quilt over the tall figure. Then a sudden glance from the hall window beside her sent a chill to her very heart.
The door of the barn—the "garage" now, by grace of dear Mr. Davison's red car—was slowly, softly opening. A man stepped out from the shadow and passed inside, the door swinging wide behind him. Then came the whirr of the engine, as he stepped on the starter.
Like a flash Doris leaped into her father's room, and clutched his shoulders.
"Run, run," she shouted lustily. "Run for your life. Some one is stealing the car. Father!"
Under the exertion of her strong arms, the figure rose quickly in the bed, and a long shaft of moonshine rested across his face—and it was a stranger. Doris stared at him in amazement, holding the flannel robe about her throat more tightly, and then she sank back away from him, still staring.
"Who—are—you?"
"I am the bishop, my dear," he answered, too startled to remember he wasn't the only bishop in the world. "Your father brought me home with him to spend the night.—Isn't he here? Why, where is he? He came to bed with me."
"Good night," said Doris, with icy dignity, and she arose and swept haughtily from the room.
At the hall window she heard again the spin of the motor, and the low purr as the engine leaped into action, and the car rolled out of the garage. It was father, of course—and bareheaded, too, in the middle of the night—an idiotic thing for a minister to do, going off for amidnight joy-ride leaving a bishop in his bed— Well, Doris should worry! If a preacher couldn't take care of himself, who could?
She went resolutely back to bed, but not to sleep. Where in the world had father gone? Why had he brought a bishop into their home, and put him to bed, and then sneaked off and left him there? And by every conceivable stretch of the imagination that fellow in father's bed was too young to do any respectable bishoping, she was sure of that. Maybe he had only pretended to be a bishop, and father had discovered the deception, and gone for the sheriff—or—oh, dear!
If he was a bishop, Doris knew that no one on earth but the Methodists would have such a young one. The Presbyterians did not approve of bishops in the first place, but if they did, they would have old ones with gray hair and wrinkles.
When she heard the car run into the garage again she leaped from her bed and hurried down-stairs. Her father and Rosalie were coming in together, laughing as unconcernedly as though bishops were every-day occurrences.
"Oh, Doris, father was so excited about the bishop he forgot me," giggled Rosalie.
"You said you were not coming home," said Doris indignantly.
"I changed my mind. I have a class at eight in the morning, and I was afraid I might not make it. So I just phoned father to call for me in the car, and he told me to wait until he got there, and I did, but he forgot me."
"The bishop came home with me, and—"
"Don't I know it?" interrupted Doris hotly.
"And I forgot Rosalie, and then when we got to bed I remembered. And the bishop was asleep so I slipped out, and—"
"Good night," said Doris curtly, and stalked up the stairs like an offended Lady Macbeth.
"Isn't she dramatic?" laughed Rosalie. "Would it shock the church if we put her on the stage?"
"I wonder what happened? Well, let's go to bed, she'll be all right in the morning."
"Aren't you hungry, 'fath'? Let's raid the pantry, shall we? That will be a good joke on Doris, to pay her for her airs."
After the lunch they crept softly up-stairs to bed, and Rosalie kept up a pleasant chattering conversation which Doris met with unfriendly silence. What in the world would the bishop think of her? Whatever were they going to have for breakfast? Of course, father had always been free to bring people whenever he liked—but a bishop! Oh, well!
The next morning she ran down-stairs very early, and took stock of the stores in the pantry. For the first time she almost wished she had chosen the cow instead of the car—real cream would cover so many breakfast shortages. Fortunately there was one can of peaches in the cellar—they were being saved for a special occasion, but nothing could be any more special than a bishop. They could not have oatmeal, for Rosalie and father had finished off the milk. There were three eggs—she might cook them for the bishop, and tell him the family was on diet—ridiculous! She might make pancakes—that would be ample excuse for Doris to remain in the kitchen, too, and although she was a socialsoul, she did not yearn to appear before that bishop, in spite of wondering whether he could truly be as young as he had looked in the moonlight in the middle of the night.
She stirred up the batter with commendable zeal.
"Doris," came an imperative call from Zee at the head of the stairs. "Oh, Doris!" And Zee's voice was shrill and penetrating. "Do—ris! Make Rosalie give back my blue ribbon—she borrowed it—and she can't!"
"Ummmmmm," muttered Doris grimly. "Wouldn't that be sure to happen on a bishop morning?" She ran to the bottom of the stairs.
"Rosalie, you can't borrow it if Zee won't lend it," she said softly, but in a determined voice. "But I am surprised that Zee would refuse—"
"I didn't refuse," protested Zee. "I am always willing to lend things. But she did not ask. She just snitched it."
"Zee, you must not say snitched."
"She may borrow it, if she asks, and says please," said Zee.
Then Rosalie flashed into the hall and dropped on her knees, both hands outstretched, and cried, "Oh, sweet young sister, for the sake of my immortal beauty, may I—"
"Rosalie!"
"'Scuse me, General. Please, fair Zee, may I borrow this bonny blue ribbon to wear in my golden locks? And you'd better say yes, for I'm going to borrow it anyhow."
Zee promptly pushed her over backward, and Rosalie leaped up and made a whirling rush at Zee, who tore into her own room, where Doris could hear them bouncing into the middle of the bed with a resounding spring—and then came stifled laughter, and squeals, and—
Doris ran breathlessly up the stairs. She looked soberly at the flushed and laughing girls, all tangled up in the bed-clothes on the floor, and then she closed the door.
"Rosalie, what will the bishop think?"
"Oh, mercy, I forgot the bishop," cried Rosalie. "Zee Artman, you bad thing, see what you've done. You've shocked a bishop, and now he willsay we Presbyterians are not orthodox. It was all your fault—"
"Bishop? What bishop? Where's he at? Where'd we get him? You don't mean to say father brought a bishop here without a week's notice? Isn't that like a preacher?"
"Oh, girls, please get dressed and come and help me. The house is a sight. Treasure left that sticky stuff—"
"Papier-mâché," said Treasure with dignity. "It is very scholastic, we use it to make maps with. I guess it won't shock a bishop. But don't call it sticky stuff—say papier-mâché."
"I do not care what it is called, dear, it must not be left all over the chairs in the dining-room—not when there is a bishop in the state."
"It is a shame, General, that's what it is," said Rosalie penitently. "We'll just fly now, and help like good preachers. You run back to your pancakes, and don't worry."
They made so much haste after that to atone for their mischief that almost immediately they were down-stairs. Treasure hurriedlystraightened the living-room, Rosalie set the table most irreproachably, and Zee slipped into the back yard and picked some golden glow.
"Oh, the roots were on the Davis side of the fence, but what I picked was on our side," she declared when Doris frowned at her. So Rosalie arranged the flowers in a big blue bowl on the table, and when the bishop and their father came down-stairs laughing agreeably, everything was lovely, and the girls were spotlessly clean, soft as to voice, and gentle as to manner. And although the bishop's eyes twinkled a little, his face was properly grave. He was not even as old as their father—think of that now—and a bishop—and he had a way of telling stories which was quite attractive in regular preachers but seemed a little out of harmony in a bishop—and in a few minutes they were all good friends.
"Is this the whole family?" asked the bishop, smiling on the three girls with approval.
"My oldest daughter, Doris, is getting breakfast. As a special treat, she is giving us pancakes and maple sirup, and she feels they requireher constant presence. She will be in presently, however."
Doris, listening at the door, could have blessed her father for the words. He had spoken of the pancakes as a favor instead of dire necessity—and perhaps the bishop would think that ordinarily they had common things like bacon and eggs, and hot muffins, and strawberry preserves, and grapefruit. More than that, he had offered a half apology for her absence, and Doris flatly refused to appear. She would cook for the bishop, she would wash his dishes and make his bed—but look him in the face she could not.
Presently they went out to the table, and Zee carefully carried the platter of cakes to the table, and later took it back to the kitchen for refilling. And Rosalie chattered, and smiled into the bishop's eyes—for practise, she said afterward, not because she really hoped to dazzle a bishop, and the breakfast went smoothly on.
Doris, in the kitchen, flapped the cakes over, and pulled the griddles back and forth with a fury none the less real because it perforce wassilent, for in spite of her resentment not one sound would she permit to reach the ears of the bishop in her dining-room. And the heat of the stove made her cheeks crimson, and her bad disposition made her eyes like bright sweet stars.
When breakfast was over the bishop seated himself comfortably with a paper in a far corner of the living-room where he was out of the way, and Rosalie ran off to college. After doing up the dishes, the younger girls also hurried to school, and Mr. Artman went out to the garage to look over the motor—not that he knew anything about motors, but because all conscientious owners of autos do it.
Doris was very much ashamed of her childish temper by this time, but after so long an absence she had not the heart to appear properly and humbly before the bishop to welcome him to the manse, and she stuck resolutely to the kitchen getting things ready for dinner. Still the bishop rocked comfortably in the living-room, the door open between him and the dining-room through which Doris must pass to reach the other part ofthe house. And there was so much to be done up-stairs—maybe she could slip out to the barn and make father take the odious bishop for a ride.
Well, did you ever! There came a sudden light knock on the kitchen door, and before Doris had time to slip off the table where she had been swinging her heels in perplexity it opened, and the bishop's friendly face appeared.
"Good morning. May I come in? How busy you are to-day. I am afraid I have caused you extra work. You are Miss Doris, aren't you? I shall never forget the hand that is responsible for those delicious pancakes."
"Can you ever forget the hand that jerked you out of dreamland in the middle of the night?" she asked, laughing, the last trace of her anger vanishing forever.
Then they were friends, and since any one could see plainly there was nothing in the house that needed her particular attention, she took the bishop into the yard and they walked under the bare branches of the maples, dragging their feetthrough the crinkly fallen leaves, and then they visited father in the garage, teasing him for his motor madness. And it was lunch time before one could realize that breakfast was entirely a thing of the past.
Doris could have apologized for her rudeness very easily, for the bishop had a way of helping one to speak. But she knew it was not necessary, for the bishop also had a way of understanding even when words were left unsaid. And Doris wondered how he ever came to be a Methodist!
As Rosalie said afterward, "You ought to know better than to feed a man such pancakes if you want to be enemies with him."
And as Zee pointed out very plainly, "His age has nothing to do with it. He was married once, and you could not expect them to un-bishop him just because his wife died—I suppose bishops' wives can die if they want to, like anybody else."
And as Treasure insisted, "Doris is a lovely thing, in spite of being a general, and why shouldn't the bishop enjoy a manse for a change?"
At all events, the bishop tore himself away from the manse with the most utter and apparent reluctance, and kept coming back now and again in a way that was flattering, as well as unprecedented. And Mr. Artman began to look at his oldest daughter with puzzled wondering eyes, with something of pain in them—and the pancakes got better right along.
"Isn't it funny how regular bishops are, when you get to know them?" Doris said to Rosalie. "Why, I don't see any objection to them at all—we Presbyterians might have a few of our own." Then she said, "But between you and me, I think it is lots more fun to talk to people you don't understand, and do not know, and—perfect strangers, you know, who are very friendly. It is so much more thrilling."
"But how could one be a perfect stranger and still be very friendly?" laughed Rosalie.
"Why, very easily indeed. You don't know him, who he is, or where he lives, or anything—but when you are together you are great friends."
"Who are you talking about?"
"Why, anybody. Just any stranger that you do not know, but who has a way of being very intimate."
"Doris, you are dreaming," cried Rosalie. "Whoever heard of such a thing? If you are intimate, he can't be a stranger. If you are intimate, you'vegotto know each other."
"Oh, not necessarily. Not by any means."
"Well, for my part, I prefer people I know and like—people who sit down in the big chair and read the paper and act human."
Doris laughed gleefully. "I don't," she said. "For once you are more sensible than I am. I like perfect strangers that I do not know a thing about—but can tell from their eyes that they are good—I like people who just flit around, and come and go—like wizards."