"HAVE you seen Mrs. Harbert lately, Carol?"
"Yes, she's better, father. I was there a few minutes yesterday."
"Yesterday? You were there Tuesday, weren't you?"
Carol looked uncomfortable. "Why, yes, I was, just for a second."
"She tells me you've been running in nearly every day since she took sick."
Carol bent sharply inquiring eyes upon her father. "What else did she tell you?"
"She said you were an angel."
"Y-yes,—she seems somehow to think I do it for kindness."
"And don't you?"
"Why, no, father, of course I don't. It's only two blocks out of my way and it's such fun to popin on sick folks and show them how disgustingly strong and well I am."
"Where did you get the money for that basket of fruit?"
"I borrowed it from Aunt Grace." Carol's face was crimson with mortification. "But it'll be a sweet time before Mrs. Harbert gets anything else from me. She promised she wouldn't tell."
"Did any of the others know about the fruit?"
"Why—not—exactly."
"But she thinks it was from the whole family. She thanked me for it."
"I—I made her think that," Carol explained. "I want her to think we're the nicest parsonage bunch they've ever had in Mount Mark. Besides, it really was from the family. Aunt Grace loaned me the money and I'll have to borrow it from you to pay her. And Lark did my dusting so I could go on the errand, though she did not know what it was. And I—er—accidentally took one of Connie's ribbons to tie it with. Isn't that a family gift?"
"Mr. Scott tells me you are the prime mover in the Junior League now," he continued.
"Well, goodness knows our Junior League needs a mover of some sort."
"And Mrs. Davies says you are a whole Mercy and Help Department all by yourself."
"What I can't understand," said Carol mournfully, "is why folks don't keep their mouths shut. I know that sounds very inelegant, but it expresses my idea perfectly. Can't I have a good time in my own way without the whole church pedaling me from door to door?"
The twinkle in her father's eyes deepened. "What do you call it, Carol, 'sowing seeds of kindness'?"
"I should say not," came the emphatic retort. "I call it sowing seeds of fun. It's a circus to go around and gloat over folks when they are sick or sorry, or—"
"But they tell me you don't gloat. Mrs. Marling says you cried with Jeanie half a day when her dog died."
"Oh, that's my way of gloating," said Carol, nothing daunted, but plainly glad to get away without further interrogation.
It was a strange thing that of all the parsonagegirls, Carol, light-hearted, whimsical, mischievous Carol, was the one most dear to the hearts of her father's people. Not the gentle Prudence, nor charming Fairy, not clever Lark nor conscientious Connie, could rival the "naughty twin" in Mount Mark's affections. And in spite of her odd curt speeches, and her openly-vaunted vanity, Mount Mark insisted she was "good." Certainly she was willing! "Get Carol Starr,—she'll do it," was the commonest phrase in Mount Mark's vocabulary. Whatever was wanted, whatever the sacrifice involved, Carol stood ready to fill the bill. Not for kindness,—oh, dear no,—Carolstaunchlydisclaimed any such niceness as that. She did it for fun, pure and simple. She said she liked to show off. She insisted that she liked to feel that she was the pivot on which little old Mount Mark turned. But this was only when she was found out. As far as she could she kept her little "seeds of fun" carefully up her sleeve, and it was only when the indiscreet adoration of her friends brought the budding plants to light, that she laughingly declared "it was a circus to go and gloat over folks."
Once in the early dusk of a summer evening, she discovered old Ben Peters, half intoxicated, slumbering noisily on a pile of sacks in a corner of the parsonage barn. Carol was sorry, but not at all frightened. The poor, kindly, weak, old man was as familiar to her as any figure in Mount Mark. He was always in a more or less helpless state of intoxication, but also he was always harmless, kind-hearted and generous. She prodded him vigorously with the handle of the pitch-fork until he was aroused to consciousness, and then guided him into the woodshed with the buggy whip. When he was seated on a chunk of wood she faced him sternly.
"Well, you are a dandy," she said. "Going into a parsonage barn, of all places in the world, to sleep off an odor like yours! Why didn't you go down to Fred Greer's harness shop, that's where you got it. We're such an awfully temperance town, you know! But the parsonage! Why, if the trustees had happened into the barn and caught a whiff of that smell, father'd have lost his job. Now you just take warning from me, and keep away from this parsonage until you can develop a goodMethodist odor. Oh, don't cry about it! Your very tears smell rummy. Just you hang on to that chunk of wood, and I'll bring you some coffee."
Like a thief in the night she sneaked into the house, and presently returned with a huge tin of coffee, steaming hot. He drank it eagerly, but kept a wary eye on the haughty twin, who stood above him with the whip in her hand.
"That's better. Now, sit down and listen to me. If you would come to the parsonage, you have to take your medicine. Silver and gold have we none, but such as we have we give to you. And religion's all we've got. You're here, and I'm here. We haven't any choir or any Bible, but parsonage folks have to be adaptable. Now then, Ben Peters, you've got to get converted."
The poor doddering old fellow, sobered by this awful announcement, looked helplessly at the window. It was too small. And slender active Carol, with the buggy whip, stood between him and the door.
"No, you can't escape. You're done for this time,—it's the straight and narrow from this on. Now listen,—it's really very simple. And you needit pretty badly, Ben. Of course you don't realize it when you're drunk, you can't see how terribly disgusting you are, but honestly, Ben, a pig is a ray of sunshine compared to a drunk man. You're a blot on the landscape. You're a—you're a—" She fished vainly for words, longing for Lark's literary flow of language.
"I'm not drunk," he stammered.
"No, you're not, thanks to the buggy whip and that strong coffee, but you're no beauty even yet. Well now, to come down to religion again. You can't stop drinking—"
"I could," he blustered feebly, "I could if I wanted to."
"Oh, no, you couldn't. You haven't backbone enough. You couldn't stop to save your life. But," Carol's voice lowered a little, and she grew shy, but very earnest, "but God can stop you, because He has enough backbone for a hundred thousand—er, jellyfishes. And—you see, it's like this. God made the world, and put the people in it. Now listen carefully, Ben, and I'll make it just as simple as possible so it can sink through the smell and get at you. God made the world, and put the people in it.And the people sinned, worshiped idols and went back on God, and—did a lot of other mean things. So God was in honor bound to punish them, for that's the law, and God's the judge that can't be bought. He had to inflict punishment. But God and Jesus talked it over, and they felt awfully bad about it, for they kind of liked the people anyhow." She stared at the disreputable figure slouching on the chunk of wood. "It's very hard to understand, very. I should think they would despise us,—some of us," she added significantly. "I'm sure I should. But anyhow they didn't. Are you getting me?"
The bleary eyes were really fastened intently on the girl's bright face, and he hung upon her words.
"Well, they decided that Jesus should come down here and live, and be perfectly good, so He would not deserve any punishment, and then God would allow Him to receive the punishment anyhow, and the rest of us could go free. That would cover the law. See? Punishing Him when He deserved no punishment. Then they could forgive us heathens that didn't deserve it. Do you get that?" She looked at him anxiously. "It all hinges on that, you know. I'm not a preacher myself, but that'sthe idea. So Jesus was crucified, and then God said, 'There He is! Look on Him, believe in Him, worship Him, and in His name you stand O. K.' See? That means, if we give Him the chance, God'll let Jesus take our share of the punishment. So we've just got to let go, and say, 'All right, here I am. I believe it, I give up, I know I don't amount to a hill of beans—and you can say it very honestly—but if you want me, and will call it square, God knows I'm willing.' And there you are."
"Won't I drink any more?"
"No, not if you let go hard enough. I mean," she caught herself up quickly, "I mean if you let clear go and turn the job over to God. But you're not to think you can keep decent by yourself, for you can't—it's not born in you, and something else is—just let go, and stay let go. After that, it's God's job, and unless you stick in and try to manage yourself, He'll see you through."
"All right, I'll do it."
Carol gasped. She opened her lips a few times, and swallowed hard. She didn't know what to do next. Wildly she racked her brain for the next step in this vital performance.
"I—think we ought to pray," she said feebly.
"All right, we'll pray." He rolled curiously off the stick of wood, and fell, as if by instinct, into the attitude of prayer.
Carol gazed about her helplessly. But true to her training, she knelt beside him. Then came silence.
"I—well, I'll pray," she said with grim determination. "Dear Father in Heaven," she began weakly, and then she forgot her timidity and her fear, and realized only that this was a crisis in the life of the drunken man.
"Oh, God, he'll do it. He'll let go, and turn it over to you. He isn't worth anything, God, none of us are, but You can handle him, for You've had worse jobs than this, though it doesn't seem possible. You'll help him, God, and love him, and show him how, for he hasn't the faintest idea what to do next, and neither have I. But You brought him into our barn to-night, and You'll see him through. Oh, God, for Jesus' sake, help Ben Peters. Amen.
"Now, what shall I do?" she wondered.
"What's your father for?" She looked quickly at Ben Peters. He had not spoken, but something certainly had asked, "What's your father for?"
"You stay here, Ben, and pray for yourself, and I'll send father out. I'm not just sure what to say next, and father'll finish you up. You pray for all you're worth."
She was gone in a flash, through the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs two at a time, and her arm thrown closely about her father's shoulder.
"Oh, father, I got stuck," she wailed. "I'm so ashamed of myself. But you can finish him off, can't you? I honestly believe he's started."
He took her firmly by the arms and squared her around on his lap. "One, two, three, ready, go. Now, what?"
"Ben Peters. He was drunk in the barn and I took him into the woodshed and gave him some hot coffee,—and some religion, but not enough to hurt him. I told him he had to get converted, and he said he would. So I told him about it, but you'd better tell him again, for I'm afraid I made quite a mess of it. And then we prayed, and I was stuck for fair, father, for I couldn't think what to do next. But I do believe it was God who said, 'What's your father for?' And so I left him praying for himself, and—you'd better hurry, or he mayget cold feet and run away. Be easy with him, father, but don't let him off. This is the first chance we've ever had at Ben Peters, and God'll never forgive us if we let him slip through our fingers."
Carol was dumped off on to the floor and her father was half-way down the stairs before she caught her breath. Then she smiled. Then she blushed.
"That was one bad job," she said to herself sadly. "I'm a disgrace to the Methodist church. Thank goodness the trustees'll never hear of it. I'll bribe Ben Peters to eternal silence if I have to do it with kisses." Then her face grew very soft. "Poor old man! Oh, the poor old man!" A quick rush of tears blinded her eyes, and her throat throbbed. "Oh, why do they,—what makes men like that? Can't they see, can't they know, how awful they are, how—" She shuddered. "I can't see for the life of me what makes God treat us decently at all." Her face brightened again. "I was a bad job, all right, but I feel kind of pleased about it. I hope father won't mention it to the girls."
And Ben Peters truly had a start, incredible asit seemed. Yes, as Carol had warned him, he forgot sometimes and tried to steer for himself, and always crashed into the rocks. Then Carol, with angry eyes and scornful voice, berated him for trying to get hold of God's job, and cautioned him anew about "sticking in when it was not his affair any more." It took time, a long time, and hard work, and many, many prayers went up from Carol's bedside, and from the library at the head of the stairs, but there came a time when Ben Peters let go for good and all, and turned to Carol, standing beside the bed with sorry frightened eyes, and said quietly:
"It's all right, Carol. I've let go. You're a mighty nice little girl. I've let go for good this time. I'm just slipping along where He sends me,—it's all right," he finished drowsily. And fell asleep.
MR. STARR was getting ready to go to conference, and the girls hovered about him with anxious eyes. This was their fifth conference since coming to Mount Mark,—the time limit for Methodist ministers was five years. The Starrs, therefore, would be transferred, and where? Small wonder that the girls followed him around the house and spoke in soft voices and looked with tender eyes at the old parsonage and the wide lawn. They would be leaving it next week. Already the curtains were down, and laundered, and packed. The trunks were filled, the books were boxed. Yes, they were leaving, but whither were they bound?
"Get your ecclesiastical dander up, father," Carol urged, "don't let them give us a church fight, or a twenty-thousand-dollar debt on a thousand-dollar congregation."
"We don't care for a big salary or a stylish congregation," Lark added, "but we don't want to go back to washpans and kerosene lamps again."
"If you have to choose between a bath tub, with a church quarrel, and a wash basin with peace and harmony, we'll take the tub and settle the scrap!"
The conference was held in Fairfield, and he informed the girls casually that he would be home on the first train after the assignments were made. He said it casually, for he did not wish them to know how perturbed he was over the coming change. During the conference he tried in many and devious ways to learn the will of the authorities regarding his future, but he found no clue. And at home the girls were discussing the matter very little, but thinking of nothing else. They were determined to be pleased about it.
"It really doesn't make any difference," Lark said. "We've had one year in college, we can get along without any more. Or maybe father would let us borrow the money and stay at the dorm. And Connie's so far along now that she's all right. Any good high school will do for her. It doesn't make any difference at all."
"No, we're so nearly grown up that one place will do just as well as another," agreed Carol unconcernedly.
"I'm rather anxious to move, myself," said Connie. "I'm afraid some of the ladies might carry out their designs on father. They've had five years of practise now, you know."
"Don't be silly, Con. Isn't Aunt Grace here on purpose to chaperon him and keep the ladies off? I'd hate to go to New London,orMediapolis, or—but after all it doesn't make a bit of difference."
Just the same, on Wednesday evening, the girls sat silent, with intensely flushed faces and painfully shining eyes, watching the clock, listening for the footstep. They had deliberately remained away from the station. They thought they could face it better within the friendly walls of the parsonage. It was all settled now, father knew where they were going. Oh, why hadn't he wired? It must be terribly bad then, he evidently wanted to break it to them gently.
Maybe it was a circuit! There was the whistle now! Only a few minutes now. Suppose his salary were cut down,—good-by to silk stockingsand kid gloves,—cheap, but kid, just the same! Suppose the parsonage would be old-fashioned! Suppose there wasn't any parsonage at all, and they would have to pay rent! Sup—Then the door slammed.
Carol and Lark picked up their darning, and Connie bent earnestly over her magazine. Aunt Grace covered a yawn with her slender fingers and looked out of the window.
"Hello!"
"Why, hello, papa! Back already?"
They dropped darning and magazine and flew to welcome him home.
"Come and sit down!" "My, it seemed a long time!" "We had lots of fun, father." "Was it a nice conference?" "Mr. James sent us two bushels of potatoes!" "We're going to have chicken to-morrow—the Ladies' Aiders sent it with their farewell love." "Wasn't it a dandy day?"
"Well, it's all settled."
"Yes, we supposed it would be. Was the conference good? We read accounts of it every day, and acted stuck-up when it said nice things about you."
"We are to—"
"Ju-just a minute, father," interrupted Connie anxiously. "We don't care a snap where it is, honestly we don't. We're just crazy about it, wherever it is. We've got it all settled. You needn't be afraid to tell us."
"Afraid to tell us!" mocked the twins indignantly. "What kind of slave-drivers do you think we are?"
"Of course we don't care where we go," explained Lark. "Haven't we been a parsonage bunch long enough to be tickled to death to be sent any place?"
"Father knows we're all right. Go on, daddy, who's to be our next flock?"
"We haven't any, we—"
The girls' faces paled. "Haven't any? You mean—"
"I mean we're to stay in Mount Mark."
"Stay in—What?"
"Mount Mark. They—"
"They extended the limit," cried Connie, springing up.
"No," he denied, laughing. "They made me a presiding elder, and we're—"
"A presiding elder! Father! Honestly? They—"
"They ought to have made you a bishop," cried Carol loyally. "I've been expecting it all my life. That's where the next jump'll land you. Presiding elder! Now we can snub the Ladies' Aid if we want to."
"Do you want to?"
"No, of course not, but it's lots of fun to know we could if we did want to."
"I pity the next parsonage bunch," said Connie sympathetically.
"Why? There's nothing the matter with our church!"
"Oh, no, that isn't what I mean. But the next minister's family can't possibly come up to us, and so—"
The others broke her sentence with their laughter.
"Talk about me and my complexion!" gasped Carol, wiping her eyes. "I'm nothing to Connieand her family pride. Where will we live now, father?"
"We'll rent a house—any house we like—and live like white folks."
"Rent! Mercy, father, doesn't the conference furnish the elders with houses? We can never afford to pay rent! Never!"
"Oh, we have a salary of twenty-five hundred a year now," he said, with apparent complacence, but careful to watch closely for the effect of this statement. It gratified him, too, much as he had expected. The girls stood stock-still and gazed at him, and then, with a violent struggle for self-composure Carol asked:
"Did you get any of it in advance? I need some new slippers."
So the packing was finished, a suitable house was found—modern, with reasonable rent—on Maple Avenue where the oaks were most magnificent, and the parsonage family became just ordinary "folks," a parsonage household no longer.
"You must be very patient with us if we still try to run things," Carol said apologetically to the president of the Ladies' Aid. "We've been a parsonage bunch all our lives, you know, and it's got to be a habit. But we'll be as easy on you as we can. We know what it would mean to leave two ministers' families down on you at once."
Mr. Starr's new position necessitated long and frequent absences from home, and that was a drawback to the family comradeship. But the girls' pride in his advancement was so colossal, and their determination to live up to the dignity of the eldership was so deep-seated, that affairs ran on quite serenely in the new home.
"Aren't we getting sensible?" Carol frequently asked her sisters, and they agreed enthusiastically that they certainly were.
"I don't think we ever were so bad as we thought we were," Lark said. "Even Prudence says now that we were always pretty good. Prudence ought to think so. She got most of our spending money for a good many years, didn't she?"
"Prudence didn't get it. She gave it to the heathen."
"Well, she got credit for it on the Lord's accounts, I suppose. But she deserved it. It was no joke collecting allowances from us."
One day this beautiful serenity was broken in upon in a most unpleasant way. Carol looked up fromDe Senectuteand flung out her arms in an all-relieving yawn. Then she looked at her aunt, asleep on the couch. She looked at Lark, who was aimlessly drawing feathers on the skeletons of birds in her biology text. She looked at Connie, sitting upright in her chair, a small book close to her face, alert, absorbed, oblivious to the world. Connie was wide awake, and Carol resented it.
"What are you reading, Con?" she asked reproachfully.
Connie looked up, startled, and colored a little. "Oh,—poetry," she stammered.
Carol was surprised. "Poetry," she echoed. "Poetry? What kind of poetry? There are many poetries in this world of ours. 'Life is real, life is earnest.' 'There was a young lady from Bangor.' 'A man and a maiden decided to wed.' 'Sunset and, evening star,'—oh, there are lots of poetries. What's yours?" Her senseless dissertation had put her in good humor again.
Connie answered evasively. "It is by an oldOriental writer. I don't suppose you've ever read it. Khayyam is his name."
"Some name," said Carol suspiciously. "What's the poem?" Her eyes had narrowed and darkened. By this time Carol had firmly convinced herself that she was bringing Connie up,—a belief which afforded lively amusement to self-conducting Connie.
"Why, it'sThe Rubaiyat. It's—"
"The Rubaiyat!" Carol frowned. Lark looked up from the skeletons with sudden interest. "The Rubaiyat?By Khayyam? Isn't that the old fellow who didn't believe in God, and Heaven, and such things—you know what I mean,—the man who didn't believe anything, and wrote about it? Let me see it. I've never read it myself, but I've heard about it." Carol turned the pages with critical disapproving eyes. "Hum, yes, I know about this." She faced Connie sternly. "I suppose you think, Connie, that since we're out of a parsonage we can do anything we like. Haven't we any standards? Haven't we any ideals? Are we—are we—well, anyhow, what business has a minister's daughter reading trash like this?"
"I don't believe it, you know," Connie said coolly. "I'm only reading it. How can I know whether it's trash or not, unless I read it? I—"
"Ministers' daughters are supposed to keep their fingers clear of the burning ends of matches," said Carol neatly. "We can't handle them without getting scorched, or blackened, at least. We have to steer clear of things folks aren't sure about. Prudence says so."
"Prudence," said Connie gravely, "is a dear sweet thing, but she's awfully old-fashioned, Carol; you know that."
Carol and Lark were speechless. They would as soon have dreamed of questioning the catechism as Prudence's perfection.
"She's narrow. She's a darling, of course, but she isn't up-to-date. I want to know what folks are talking about. I don't believe this poem. I'm a Christian. But I want to know what other folks think about me and what I believe. That's all. Prudence is fine, but I know a good deal more about some things than Prudence will know when she's a thousand years old."
The twins still sat silent.
"Of course, some folks wouldn't approve of parsonage girls reading things like this. But I approve of it. I want to know why I disagree with this poetry, and I can't until I know where we disagree. It's beautiful, Carol, really. It's kind of sad. It makes me want to cry. It's—"
"I've a big notion to tell papa on you," said Carol soberly and sadly.
Connie rose at once.
"What's the matter?"
"I'm going to tell papa myself."
Carol moved uneasily in her chair. "Oh, let it go this time. I—I just mentioned it to relieve my feelings. I won't tell him yet. I'll talk it over with you again. I'll have to think it over first."
"I think I'd rather tell him," insisted Connie.
Carol looked worried, but she knew Connie would do as she said. So she got up nervously and went with her. She would have to see it through now, of course. Connie walked silently up the stairs, with Carol following meekly behind, and rapped at her father's door. Then she entered, and Carol, in a hushed sort of way, closed the door behind them.
"I'm reading this, father. Any objections?" Connie faced him calmly, and handed him the little book.
He examined it gravely, his brows contracting, a sudden wrinkling at the corners of his lips that might have meant laughter, or disapproval, or anything.
"I thought a parsonage girl should not read it," Carol said bravely. "I've never read it myself, but I've heard about it, and parsonage girls ought to read parsonage things. Prudence says so. But—"
"But I want to know what other folks think about what I believe," said Connie. "So I'm reading it."
"What do you think of, it?" he asked quietly, and he looked very strangely at his baby daughter. It was suddenly borne in on him that this was one crisis in her growth to womanhood, and he felt a great yearning tenderness for her, in her innocence, in her dauntless courage, in her reaching ahead, always ahead! It was a crisis, and he must be very careful.
"I think it is beautiful," Connie said softly, and her lips drooped a little, and a wistful pathos crept into her voice. "It seems so sad. I keep wishing I could cry about it. There's nothing really sad in it, I think it is supposed to be rather jovial, but—it seems terrible to me, even when it is the most beautiful. Part of it I don't understand very well."
He held out a hand to Connie, and she put her own in it confidently. Carol, too, came and stood close beside him.
"Yes," he said, "it is beautiful, Connie, and it is very terrible. We can't understand it fully because we can't feel what he felt. It is a groping poem, a struggling for light when one is stumbling in darkness." He looked thoughtfully at the girls. "He was a marvelous man, that Khayyam,—years ahead of his people, and his time. He was big enough to see the idiocy of the heathen ideas of God, he was beyond them, he spurned them. But he was not quite big enough to reach out, alone, and get hold of our kind of a God. He was reaching out, he was struggling, but he couldn't quite catch hold. It is a wonderful poem. It shows the weakness, the helplessness of a gifted man whohas nothing to cling to. I think it will do you good to read it, Connie. Read it again and again, and thank God, my child, that though you are only a girl, you have the very thing this man, this genius, was craving. We admire his talent, but we pity his weakness. You will feel sorry for him. You read it, too, Carol. You'll like it. We can't understand it, as I say, because we are so sure of our God, that we can't feel what he felt, having nothing. But we can feel the heart-break, the fear, the shrinking back from the Providence that he called Fate,—of course it makes you want to cry, Connie. It is the saddest poem in the world."
Connie's eyes were very bright. She winked hard a few times, choking back the rush of tears. Then with an impulsiveness she did not often show, she lifted her father's hand and kissed it passionately.
"Oh, father," she whispered, "I was so afraid—you wouldn't quite see." She kissed his hand again.
Carol looked at her sister respectfully. "Connie," she said, "I certainly beg your pardon. I just wanted to be clever, and didn't know what I was talking about. When you have finished it, give itto me, will you? I want to read it, too; I think it must be wonderful."
She held out a slender shapely hand and Connie took it quickly, chummily, and the two girls turned toward the door.
"The danger in reading things," said Mr. Starr, and they paused to listen, "the danger is that we may find arguments we can not answer; we may feel that we have been in the wrong, that what we read is right. There's the danger. Whenever you find anything like that, Connie, will you bring it to me? I think I can find the answer for you. If I don't know it, I will look until I come upon it. For we have been given an answer to every argument. You'll come to me, won't you?"
"Yes, father, I will—I know you'll find the answers."
After the door had closed behind them, Mr. Starr sat for a long time staring straight before him into space.
"The Connie problem," he said at last. And then, "I'll have to be better pals with her. Connie's going to be pretty fine, I believe."
CONNIE was past fifteen when she announced gravely one day, "I've changed my mind. I'm going to be an author."
"An author," scoffed Carol. "You! I thought you were going to get married and have eleven children." Even with the dignity of nineteen years, the nimble wits of Carol and Lark still struggled with the irreproachable gravity of Connie.
"I was," was the cool retort. "I thought you were going to be a Red Cross nurse and go to war."
Carol blushed a little. "I was," she assented, "but there isn't any war."
"Well," even in triumph, Connie was imperturbable, "there isn't any father for my eleven children either."
The twins had to admit that this was an obstacle, and they yielded gracefully.
"But an author, Connie," said Lark. "It's very hard. I gave it up long ago."
"I know you did. But I don't give up very easily."
"You gave up your eleven children."
"Oh, I've plenty of time for them yet, when I find a father for them. Yes, I'm going to be an author."
"Can you write?"
"Of course I can write."
"Well, you have conceit enough to be anything," said Carol frankly. "Maybe you'll make it go, after all. I should like to have an author in the family and since Lark's lost interest, I suppose it will have to be you. I couldn't think of risking my complexion at such a precarious livelihood. But if you get stuck, I'll be glad to help you out a little. I really have an imagination myself, though perhaps you wouldn't think it."
"What makes you think you can write, Con?" inquired Lark, with genuine interest.
"I have already done it."
"Was it any good?"
"It was fine."
Carol and Lark smiled at each other.
"Yes," said Carol, "she has the long-haired instinct. I see it now. They always say it is fine. Was it a masterpiece, Connie?" And when Connie hesitated, she urged, "Come on, confess it. Then we shall be convinced that you have found your field. They are always masterpieces. Was yours?"
"Well, considering my youth and inexperience, it was," Connie admitted, her eyes sparkling appreciatively. Carol's wit was no longer lost upon her, at any rate.
"Bring it out. Let's see it. I've never met a masterpiece yet,—except a dead one," said Lark.
"No—no," Connie backed up quickly. "You can't see it, and—don't ask any more about it. Has father gone out?"
The twins stared at her again. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, but it's my story and you can't see it. That settles it. Was there any mail to-day?"
Afterward the twins talked it over together.
"What made her back down like that?" Carol wondered. "Just when we had her going."
"Why, didn't you catch on to that? She has sentit off to a magazine, of course, and she doesn't want us to know about it. I saw through it right away."
Carol looked at her twin with new interest. "Did you ever send 'em off?"
Lark flushed a little. "Yes, I did, and always got 'em back, too—worse luck. That's why I gave it up."
"What did you do with them when they came back?"
"Burned them. They always burn them. Connie'll get hers back, and she'll burn it, too," was the laconic answer.
"An author," mused Carol. "Do you think she'll ever make it?"
"Well, honestly, I shouldn't be surprised if she did. Connie's smart, and she never gives up. Then she has a way of saying things that—well, it takes. I really believe she'll make it, if she doesn't get off on suffrage or some other queer thing before she gets to it."
"I'll have to keep an eye on her," said Carol.
"You wait until she can't eat a meal, and then you'll know she's got it back. Many's the timePrudence made me take medicine, just because I got a story back. Prudence thought it was tummy-ache. The symptoms are a good bit the same."
So Carol watched, and sure enough, there came a day when the bright light of hope in Connie's eyes gave way to the sober sadness of certainty. Her light had failed. And she couldn't eat her dinner.
Lark kicked Carol's foot under the table, and the two exchanged amused glances.
"Connie's not well," said Lark with a worried air. "She isn't eating a thing. You'd better give her a dose of that tonic, Aunt Grace. Prudence says the first sign of decay is the time for a tonic. Give her a dose."
Lark solemnly rose and fetched the bottle. Aunt Grace looked at Connie inquiringly. Connie's face was certainly pale, and her eyes were weary. And she was not eating her dinner.
"I'm not sick," the crushed young author protested. "I'm just not hungry. You trot that bottle back to the cupboard, Lark, and don't get gay."
"You can see for yourself," insisted Lark. "Look at her. Isn't she sick? Many's the long illnessPrudence staved off for me by a dose of this magic tonic. You'd better make her take it, father. You can see she's sick." The lust of a sweeping family revenge showed in Lark's clear eyes.
"You'd better take a little, Connie," her father decided. "You don't look very well to-day."
"But, father," pleaded Connie.
"A dose in time saves a doctor bill," quoted Carol sententiously. "Prudence says so."
And the aspiring young genius was obliged to swallow the bitter dose. Then, with the air of one who has rendered a boon to mankind, Lark returned to her chair.
After the meal was over, Carol shadowed Connie closely. Sure enough, she headed straight for her own room, and Carol, close outside, heard a crumpling of paper. She opened the door quickly and went in. Connie turned, startled, a guilty red staining her pale face. Carol sat down sociably on the side of the bed, politely ignoring Connie's feeble attempt to keep the crumpled manuscript from her sight. She engaged her sister in a broad-minded and sweeping conversation, adroitly leading it up to the subject of literature. But Connie wouldnot be inveigled into a confession. Then Carol took a wide leap.
"Did you get the story back?"
Connie gazed at her with an awe that was almost superstitious. Then, in relief at having the confidence forced from her, tears brightened her eyes, but being Connie, she winked them stubbornly back.
"I sure did," she said.
"Hard luck," said Carol, in a matter-of-fact voice. "Let's see it."
Connie hesitated, but finally passed it over.
"I'll take it to my own room and read it if you don't mind. What are you going to do with it now?"
"Burn it."
"Let me have it, won't you? I'll hide it and keep it for a souvenir."
"Will you keep it hidden? You won't pass it around for the family to laugh at, will you?"
Carol gazed at her reproachfully, rose from the bed in wounded dignity and moved away with the story in her hand. Connie followed her to the door and said humbly:
"Excuse me, Carol, I know you wouldn't do such a thing. But a person does feel so ashamed of a story—when it comes back."
"That's all right," was the kind answer. "I know just how it is. I have the same feeling when I get a pimple on my face. I'll keep it dark."
More eagerly than she would have liked Connie to know, she curled herself upon the bed to read Connie's masterpiece. It was a simple story, but Connie did have a way of saying things, and—Carol laid it down in her lap and stared at it thoughtfully. Then she called Lark.
"Look here," she said abruptly. "Read this. It's the masterpiece."
She maintained a perfect silence while Lark perused the crumpled manuscript.
"How is it?"
"Why, it's not bad," declared Lark in a surprised voice. "It's not half bad. It's Connie all right, isn't it? Well, what do you know about that?"
"Is it any good?" pursued Carol.
"Why, yes, I think it is. It's just like folks youknow. They talk as we do, and—I'm surprised they didn't keep it. I've read 'em a whole lot worse!"
"Connie's disappointed," Carol said. "I think she needs a little boost. I believe she'll really get there if we kind of crowd her along for a while. She told me to keep this dark, and so I will. We'll just copy it over, and send it out again."
"And if it comes back?"
"We'll send it again. We'll get the name of every magazine in the library, and give 'em all a chance to start the newest author on the rosy way."
"It'll take a lot of stamps."
"That's so. Do you have to enclose enough to bring them back? I don't like that. Seems to me it's just tempting Providence. If they want to send them back, they ought to pay for doing it. I say we just enclose a note taking it for granted they'll keep it, and tell them where to send the money. And never put a stamp in sight for them to think of using up."
"We can't do that. It's bad manners."
"Well, I have half a dollar," admitted Carol reluctantly.
After that the weeks passed by. The twins saw finally the shadow ofdisappointmentleaving Connie's face, and another expression of absorption take its place.
"She's started another one," Lark said, wise in her personal experience.
And when there came the starry rapt gaze once more, they knew that this one, too, had gone to meet its fate. But before the second blow fell, the twins gained their victory. They embraced each other feverishly, and kissed the precious check a hundred times, and insisted that Connie was the cleverest little darling that ever lived on earth. Then, when Connie, with their father and aunt, was sitting in unsuspecting quiet, they tripped in upon her.