"It's perfectly disgusting, I admit, father," said Prudence sweetly, "but you know yourself that it very seldom happens. And I am sure the kitchen is perfectly clean, and the soup is very nice indeed,—if it is canned soup! Twins, this is four slices of bread apiece for you! You see, father, I really feel that this is a crisis in the life of the parsonage——"
"How long does a parsonage usually live?" demanded Carol.
"It wouldn't live long if the ministers had many twins," said Fairy quickly.
"Ouch!" grinned Connie, plagiarizing, for that expressive word belonged exclusively to the twins, and it was double impertinence to apply it to one of its very possessors.
"And you understand, don't you, father, that if everything does not go just exactly right, I shall feel I am disgraced for life? I know the Ladies disapprove of me, and look on me with suspicion. I know they think it wicked and ridiculous to leave the raising of four bright spirits in the unworthy hands of a girl like me. I know they will all sniff and smile and—Of course, twins, they have a perfect right to feel, and act, so. I am not complaining. But I want to show them for once in their lives that the parsonage runs smoothly and sweetly. If you would just stay at home with us, father, it would be a big help. You are such a tower of strength."
"But unfortunately I can not. People do not get married every day in the week, and when they are all ready for it they do not allow even Ladies' Aids to stand in their way. It is a long drive, ten miles at least, and I must start at once. And it will likely be very late when I get back. But if you are all good, and help Prudence, and uphold the reputation of the parsonage, I will divide the wedding fee with you,—share and share alike." This was met with such enthusiasm that he added hastily, "But wait! It may be only a dollar!"
Then kissing the various members of the parsonage family, he went out the back door, barnward.
"Now," said Prudence briskly, "I want to make a bargain with you, girls. If you'll stay clear away from the Ladies, and be very good and orderly, I'll give you all the lemonade and cake you can drink afterward."
"Oh, Prudence, I'm sure I can't drink much cake," cried Carol tragically, "I just can't imagine myself doing it!"
"I mean, eat the cake, of course," said Prudence, blushing.
"And let us make taffy after supper?" wheedled Carol.
Prudence hesitated, and the three young faces hardened. Then Prudence relented and hastily agreed. "You won't need to appear at all, you know. You can just stay outdoors and play as though you were model children."
"Yes," said Carol tartly, "the kind the members used to have,—which are all grown up, now! And all moved out of Mount Mark, too!"
"Carol! That sounds malicious, and malice isn't tolerated here for a minute. Now,—oh, Fairy, did you remember to dust the back of the dresser in our bedroom?"
"Mercy! What in the world do you want the back of the dresser dusted for? Do you expect the Ladies to look right through it?"
"No, but some one might drop something behind it, and it would have to be pulled out and they would all see it. This house has got to be absolutely spotless for once,—I am sure it will be the first time."
"And the last, I hope," added Carol sepulchrally.
"We have an hour and a half yet," continued Prudence. "That will give us plenty of time for the last touches. Twins and Connie, you'd better go right out in the field and play. I'll call you a little before two, and then you must go quietly upstairs, and dress—just wear your plain little ginghams, the clean ones of course! Then if they do catch a glimpse of you, you will be presentable.—Yes, you can take some bread and sugar, but hurry."
"You may take," said Fairy.
"Yes, of course, may take is what I mean.—Now hurry."
Then Prudence and Fairy set to work again in good earnest. The house was already well cleaned. The sandwiches were made. But there were the last "rites," and every detail must be religiously attended to.
It must be remembered that the three main down-stairs rooms of the parsonage were connected by double doors,—double doors, you understand, not portières! The front room, seldom used by the parsonage family, opened on the right of the narrow hallway. Beyond it was the living-room, which it must be confessed the parsonage girls only called "living-room" when they were on their Sunday behavior,—ordinarily it was the sitting-room, and a cheery, homey, attractive place it was, with a great bay window looking out upon the stately mansion of the Averys. To the left of the living-room was the dining-room. The double doors between them were always open. The other pair was closed, except on occasions of importance.
Now, this really was a crisis in the life of the parsonage family,—if not of the parsonage itself. The girls had met, separately, every member of the Ladies' Aid. But this was their first combined movement upon the parsonage, and Prudence and Fairy realized that much depended on the success of the day. As girls, the whole Methodist church pronounced the young Starrs charming. But as parsonage people,—well, they were obliged to reserve judgment. And as for Prudence having entire charge of the household, it must be acknowledged that every individual Lady looked forward to this meeting with eagerness,—they wanted to "size up" the situation. They were coming to see for themselves! Yes, it was undoubtedly a crisis.
"There'll be a crowd, of course," said Fairy. "We'll just leave the doors between the front rooms open."
"Yes, but we'll close the dining-room doors. Then we'll have the refreshments all out on the table, and when we are ready we'll just fling back the doors carelessly and—there you are!"
So the table was prettily decorated with flowers, and great plates of sandwiches and cake were placed upon it. In the center was an enormous punch-bowl, borrowed from the Averys, full of lemonade. Glasses were properly arranged on the trays, and piles of nicely home-laundered napkins were scattered here and there. The girls felt that the dining-room was a credit to them, and to the Methodist Church entire.
From every nook and corner of the house they hunted out chairs and stools, anticipating a real run upon the parsonage. Nor were they disappointed. The twins and Connie were not even arrayed in their plain little ginghams, clean, before the first arrivals were ushered up into the front bedroom, ordinarily occupied by Prudence and Fairy.
"There's Mrs. Adams, and Mrs. Prentiss, and Mrs.——," began Connie, listening intently to the voices in the next room.
"Yes," whispered Carol, "peek through the keyhole, Lark, and see if Mrs. Prentiss is looking under the bed for dust. They say she——"
"You'd better not let Prudence catch you repeating——"
"There's Mrs. Stone, and Mrs. Davis, and——"
"They say Mrs. Davis only belongs to the Ladies' Aid for the sake of the refreshments, and——"
"Carol! Prudence will punish you."
"Well, I don't believe it," protested Carol. "I'm just telling you what I've heard other people say."
"We aren't allowed to repeat gossip," urged Lark.
"No, and I think it's a shame, too, for it's awfully funny. Minnie Drake told me that Miss Varne joined the Methodist church as soon as she heard the new minister was a widower so she——"
"Carol!"
Carol whirled around sharply, and flushed, and swallowed hard. For Prudence was just behind her.
"I—I—I—" but she could get no further.
Upon occasion, Prudence was quite terrible. "So I heard," she said dryly, but her eyes were hard. "Now run down-stairs and out to the field, or to the barn, and play. And, Carol, be sure and remind me of that speech to-night. I might forget it."
The girls ran quickly out, Carol well in the lead.
"No wedding fee for me," she mumbled bitterly. "Do you suppose there can be seven devils in my tongue, Lark, like there are in the Bible?"
"I don't remember there being seven devils in the Bible," said Lark.
"Oh, I mean the—the possessed people it tells about in the Bible,—crazy, I suppose it means. Somehow I just can't help repeating——"
"You don't want to," said Lark, not without sympathy. "You think it's such fun, you know."
"Well, anyhow, I'm sure I won't get any wedding fee to-night. It seems to me Prudence is very—harsh sometimes."
"You can appeal to father, if you like."
"Not on your life," said Carol promptly and emphatically; "he's worse than Prudence. Like as not he'd give me a good thrashing into the bargain. No,—I'm strong for Prudence when it comes to punishment,—in preference to father, I mean. I can't seem to be fond of any kind of punishment from anybody."
For a while Carol was much depressed, but by nature she was a buoyant soul and her spirits were presently soaring again.
In the meantime, the Ladies of the Aid Society continued to arrive. Prudence and Fairy, freshly gowned and smiling-faced, received them with cordiality and many merry words. It was not difficult for them, they had been reared in the hospitable atmosphere of Methodist parsonages, where, if you have but two dishes of oatmeal, the outsider is welcome to one. That is Carol's description of parsonage life.
But Prudence was concerned to observe that a big easy chair placed well back in a secluded corner, seemed to be giving dissatisfaction. It was Mrs. Adams who sat there first. She squirmed quite a little, and seemed to be gripping the arms of the chair with unnecessary fervor. Presently she stammered an excuse, and rising, went into the other room. After that, Mrs. Miller tried the corner chair, and soon moved away. Then Mrs. Jack, Mrs. Norey, and Mrs. Beed, in turn, sat there,—and did not stay. Prudence was quite agonized. Had the awful twins filled it with needles for the reception of the poor Ladies? At first opportunity, she hurried into the secluded corner, intent upon trying the chair for herself. She sat down anxiously. Then she gasped, and clutched frantically at the arms of the chair. For she discovered at once to her dismay that the chair was bottomless, and that only by hanging on for her life could she keep from dropping through. She thought hard for a moment,—but thinking did not interfere with her grasp on the chair-arms,—and then she realized that the wisest thing would be to discuss it publicly. Anything would be better than leaving it unexplained, for the Ladies to comment upon privately.
So up rose Prudence, conscientiously pulling after her the thin cushion which had concealed the chair's shortcoming. "Look, Fairy!" she cried. "Did you take the bottom out of this chair?—It must have been horribly uncomfortable for those who have sat there!—However did it happen?"
Fairy was frankly amazed, and a little inclined to be amused.
"Ask the twins," she said tersely, "I know nothing about it."
At that moment, the luckless Carol went running through the hall. Prudence knew it was she, without seeing, because she had a peculiar skipping run that was quite characteristic and unmistakable.
"Carol!" she called.
And Carol paused.
"Carol!" more imperatively.
Then Carol slowly opened the door,—she was a parsonage girl and rose to the occasion. She smiled winsomely,—Carol was nearly always winsome.
"How do you do?" she said brightly. "Isn't it a lovely day? Did you call me, Prudence?"
"Yes. Do you know where the bottom of that chair has gone?"
"Why, no, Prudence—gracious! That chair!—Why, I didn't know you were going to bring that chair in here—Why,—oh, I am so sorry! Why in the world didn't you tell us beforehand?"
Some of the Ladies smiled. Others lifted their brows and shoulders in a mildly suggestive way, that Prudence, after nineteen years in the parsonage, had learned to know and dread.
"And where is the chair-bottom now?" she inquired. "And why did you take it?"
"Why we wanted to make——"
"You and Lark?"
"Well, yes,—but it was really all my fault, you know. We wanted to make a seat up high in the peach tree, and we couldn't find a board the right shape. So she discovered—I mean, I did—that by pulling out two tiny nails we could get the bottom off the chair, and it was just fine. It's a perfectly adorable seat," brightening, but sobering again as she realized the gravity of the occasion. "And we put the cushion in the chair so that it wouldn't be noticed. We never use that chair, you know, and we didn't think of your needing it to-day. We put it away back in the cold corner of the sitting—er, living-room where no one ever sits. I'm so sorry about it."
Carol was really quite crushed, but true to her parsonage training, she struggled valiantly and presently brought forth a crumpled and sickly smile.
But Prudence smiled at her kindly. "That wasn't very naughty, Carol," she said frankly. "It's true that we seldom use that chair. And we ought to have looked." She glanced reproachfully at Fairy. "It is strange that in dusting it, Fairy—but never mind. You may go now, Carol. It is all right."
Then she apologized gently to the Ladies, and the conversation went on, but Prudence was uncomfortably conscious of keen and quizzical eyes turned her way. Evidently they thought she was too lenient.
"Well, it wasn't very naughty," she thought wretchedly. "How can I pretend it was terribly bad, when I feel in my heart that it wasn't!"
Before long, the meeting was called to order, and the secretary instructed to read the minutes.
"Oh," fluttered Miss Carr excitedly, "I forgot to bring the book. I haven't been secretary very long, you know."
"Only six months," interrupted Mrs. Adams tartly.
"How do you expect to keep to-day's minutes?" demanded the president.
"Oh, I am sure Miss Prudence will give me a pencil and paper, and I'll copy them in the book as soon as ever I get home."
"Yes, indeed," said Prudence. "There is a tablet on that table beside you, and pencils, too. I thought we might need them."
Then the president made a few remarks, but while she talked, Miss Carr was excitedly opening the tablet. Miss Carr was always excited, and always fluttering, and always giggling girlishly. Carol called her a sweet old simpering soul, and so she was. But now, right in the midst of the president's serious remarks, she quite giggled out.
The president stared at her in amazement. The Ladies looked up curiously. Miss Carr was bending low over the tablet, and laughing gaily to herself.
"Oh, this is very cute," she said. "Who wrote it? Oh, it is just real cunning."
Fairy sprang up, suddenly scarlet. "Oh, perhaps you have one of the twins' books, and they're always scribbling and——"
"No, it is yours, Fairy. I got it from among your school-books."
Fairy sank back, intensely mortified, and Miss Carr chirped brightly:
"Oh, Fairy, dear, did you write this little poem? How perfectly sweet! And what a queer, sentimental little creature you are. I never dreamed you were so romantic. Mayn't I read it aloud?"
Fairy was speechless, but the Ladies, including the president, were impatiently waiting. So Miss Carr began reading in a sentimental, dreamy voice that must have been very fetching fifty years before. At the first suggestion of poetry, Prudence sat up with conscious pride,—Fairy was so clever! But before Miss Carr had finished the second verse, she too was literally drowned in humiliation.
"My love rode out of the glooming night,Into the glare of the morning light.My love rode out of the dim unknown,Into my heart to claim his own.My love rode out of the yesterday,Into the now,--and he came to stay.Oh, love that is rich, and pure, and true,The love in my heart leaps out to you.Oh, love, at last you have found your part,--To come and dwell in my empty heart."
Miss Carr sat down, giggling delightedly, and the younger Ladies laughed, and the older Ladies smiled.
But Mrs. Prentiss turned to Fairy gravely. "How old are you, my dear?"
And with a too-apparent effort, Fairy answered, "Sixteen!"
"Indeed!" A simple word, but so suggestively uttered. "Shall we continue the meeting, Ladies?"
This aroused Prudence's ire on her sister's behalf, and she squared her shoulders defiantly. For a while, Fairy was utterly subdued. But thinking it over to herself, she decided that after all there was nothing absolutely shameful in a sixteen-year-old girl writing sentimental verses. Silly, to be sure! But all sixteen-year-olds are silly. We love them for it! And Fairy's good nature and really good judgment came to her rescue, and she smiled at Prudence with her old serenity.
The meeting progressed, and the business was presently disposed of. So far, things were not too seriously bad, and Prudence sighed in great relief. Then the Ladies took out their sewing, and began industriously working at many unmentionable articles, designed for the intimate clothing of a lot of young Methodists confined in an orphans' home in Chicago. And they talked together pleasantly and gaily. And Prudence and Fairy felt that the cloud was lifted.
But soon it settled again, dark and lowering. Prudence heard Lark running through the hall and her soul misgave her. Why was Lark going upstairs? What was her errand? And she remembered the wraps of the Ladies, up-stairs, alone and unprotected. Dare she trust Lark in such a crisis? Perhaps the very sight of Prudence and the Ladies' Aid would arouse her better nature, and prevent catastrophe. To be sure, her mission might be innocent, but Prudence dared not run the risk. Fortunately she was sitting near the door.
"Lark!" she called softly. Lark stopped abruptly, and something fell to the floor.
"Lark!"
There was a muttered exclamation from without, and Lark began fumbling rapidly around on the floor talking incoherently to herself.
"Lark!"
The Ladies smiled, and Miss Carr, laughing lightly, said, "She is an attentive creature, isn't she?"
Prudence would gladly have flown out into the hall to settle this matter, but she realized that she was on exhibition. Had she done so, the Ladies would have set her down forever after as thoroughly incompetent,—she could not go! But Lark must come to her.
"Lark!" This was Prudence's most awful voice, and Lark was bound to heed.
"Oh, Prue," she said plaintively, "I'll be there in a minute. Can't you wait just five minutes? Let me run up-stairs first, won't you? Then I'll come gladly! Won't that do?"
Her voice was hopeful. But Prudence replied with dangerous calm:
"Come at once, Lark."
"All right, then," and added threateningly, "but you'll wish I hadn't."
Then Lark opened the door,—a woeful figure! In one hand she carried an empty shoe box. And her face was streaked with good rich Iowa mud. Her clothes were plastered with it. One shoe was caked from the sole to the very top button, and a great gash in her stocking revealed a generous portion of round white leg.
Poor Prudence! At that moment, she would have exchanged the whole parsonage, bathroom, electric lights and all, for a tiny log cabin in the heart of a great forest where she and Lark might be alone together.
And Fairy laughed. Prudence looked at her with tears in her eyes, and then turned to the wretched girl.
"What have you been doing, Lark?"
The heart-break expressed in the face of Lark would have made the angels weep. Beneath the smudges of mud on her cheeks she was pallid, and try as she would, she could not keep her chin from trembling ominously. Her eyes were fastened on the floor for the most part, but occasionally she raised them hurriedly, appealingly, to her sister's face, and dropped them again. Not for worlds would she have faced the Ladies! Prudence was obliged to repeat her question before Lark could articulate a reply. She gulped painfully a few times,—making meanwhile a desperate effort to hide the gash in one stocking by placing the other across it, rubbing it up and down in great embarrassment, and balancing herself with apparent difficulty. Her voice, when she was able to speak, was barely recognizable.
"We—we—we are making—mud images, Prudence. It—it was awfully messy, I know, but—they say—it is such a good—and useful thing to do. We—we didn't expect—the—the Ladies to see us."
"Mud images!" gasped Prudence, and even Fairy stared incredulously. "Where in the world did you get hold of an idea like that?"
"It—it was in that—that Mother's Home Friend paper you take, Prudence." Prudence blushed guiltily. "It—it was modeling in clay, but—we haven't any clay, and—the mud is very nice, but—Oh, I know I look just—horrible. I—I—Connie pushed me in the—puddle—for fun. I—I was vexed about it, Prudence, honestly. I—I was chasing her, and I fell, and tore my stocking,—and—and—but, Prudence, the papers do say children ought to model, and we didn't think of—getting caught." Another appealing glance into her sister's face, and Lark plunged on, bent on smoothing matters if she could. "Carol is—is just fine at it, really. She—she's making a Venus de Milo, and it's good. But we can't remember whether her arm is off at the elbow or below the shoulder——" An enormous gulp, and by furious blinking Lark managed to crowd back the tears that would slip to the edge of her lashes. "I—I'm very sorry, Prudence."
"Very well, Lark, you may go. I do not really object to your modeling in mud, I am sure. I am sorry you look so disreputable. You must change your shoes and stockings at once, and then you can go on with your modeling. But there must be no more pushing and chasing. I'll see Connie about that to-night. Now——"
"Oh! Oh! Oh! What in the world is that?"
This was a chorus of several Ladies' Aid voices,—a double quartette at the very least. Lark gave a sharp exclamation and began looking hurriedly about her on the floor.
"It's got in here,—just as I expected," she exclaimed. "I said you would be sorry, Prue,—Oh, there it is under your chair, Mrs. Prentiss. Just wait,—maybe I can shove it back in the box again."
This was greeted with a fresh chorus of shrieks. There was a hurried and absolute vacation of that corner of the front room. The Ladies fled, dropping their cherished sewing, shoving one another in a most Unladies-Aid-like way.
And there, beneath a chair, squatted the cause of the confusion, an innocent, unhappy, blinking toad!
"Oh, Larkie!"
This was a prolonged wail.
"It's all right, Prue, honestly it is," urged Lark with pathetic solemnity. "We didn't do it for a joke. We're keeping him for a good purpose. Connie found him in the garden,—and—Carol said we ought to keep him for Professor Duke,—he asked us to bring him things to cut up in science, you remember. So we just shoved him into this shoe box, and—we thought we'd keep him in the bath-tub until morning. We did it for a good purpose, don't you see we did? Oh, Prudence!"
Prudence was horribly outraged, but even in that critical moment, justice insisted that Lark's arguments were sound. The professor had certainly asked the scholars to bring him "things to cut up." But a toad! A live one!—And the Ladies' Aid! Prudence shivered.
"I am sure you meant well, Larkie," she said in a low voice, striving hard to keep down the bitter resentment in her heart, "I know you did. But you should not have brought that—that thing—into the house. Pick him up at once, and take him out-of-doors and let him go."
But this was not readily done. In spite of her shame and deep dismay, Lark refused to touch the toad with her fingers.
"I can't touch him, Prudence,—I simply can't," she whimpered. "We shoved him in with the broom handle before."
And as no one else was willing to touch it, and as the Ladies clustered together in confusion, and with much laughter, in the far corner of the other room, Prudence brought the broom and the not unwilling toad was helped to other quarters.
"Now go," said Prudence quickly, and Lark was swift to avail herself of the permission.
Followed a quiet hour, and then the Ladies put aside their sewing and walked about the room, chatting in little groups. With a significant glance to Fairy, Prudence walked calmly to the double doors between the dining-room and the sitting-room. The eyes of the Ladies followed her with interest and even enthusiasm. They were hungry. Prudence slowly opened wide the doors, and—stood amazed! The Ladies clustered about her, and stood amazed also. The dining-room was there, and the table! But the appearance of the place was vastly different! The snowy cloth was draped artistically over a picture on the wall, the lowest edges well above the floor. The plates and trays, napkin-covered, were safely stowed away on the floor in distant corners. The kitchen scrub bucket had been brought in and turned upside down, to afford a fitting resting place for the borrowed punch bowl, full to overflowing with fragrant lemonade.
And at the table were three dirty, disheveled little figures, bending seriously over piles of mud. A not-unrecognizable Venus de Milo occupied the center of the table. Connie was painstakingly at work on some animal, a dog perhaps, or possibly an elephant. And——
The three young modelers looked up in exclamatory consternation as the doors opened.
"Oh, are you ready?" cried Carol. "How the time has flown! We had no idea you'd be ready so soon. Oh, we are sorry, Prudence. We intended to have everything fixed properly for you again. We needed a flat place for our modeling. It's a shame, that's what it is. Isn't that a handsome Venus? I did that!—If you'll just shut the door one minute, Prudence, we'll have everything exactly as you left it. And we're as sorry as we can be. You can have my Venus for a centerpiece, if you like."
"If you'll just shut the door one minute, Prudence, we'll have everything exactly as you left it."[Illustration: "If you'll just shut the door one minute, Prudence,we'll have everything exactly as you left it."
"If you'll just shut the door one minute, Prudence, we'll have everything exactly as you left it."[Illustration: "If you'll just shut the door one minute, Prudence,we'll have everything exactly as you left it."
Prudence silently closed the doors, and the Ladies, laughing significantly, drew away.
"Don't you think, my dear," began Mrs. Prentiss too sweetly, "that they are a little more than you can manage? Don't you really think an older woman is needed?"
"I do not think so," cried Fairy, before her sister could speak, "no older woman could be kinder, or sweeter, or more patient and helpful than Prue."
"Undoubtedly true! But something more is needed, I am afraid! It appears that girls are a little more disorderly than in my own young days! Perhaps I do not judge advisedly, but it seems to me they are a little—unmanageable."
"Indeed they are not," cried Prudence loyally. "They are young, lively, mischievous, I know,—and I am glad of it. But I have lived with them ever since they were born, and I ought to know them. They are unselfish, they are sympathetic, they are always generous. They do foolish and irritating things,—but never things that are hateful and mean. They are all right at heart, and that is all that counts. They are not bad girls! What have they done to-day? They were exasperating, and humiliating, too, but what did they do that was really mean? They embarrassed and mortified me, but not intentionally! I can't punish them for the effect on me, you know! Would that be just or fair? At heart, they meant no harm."
It must be confessed that there were many serious faces among the Ladies. Some cheeks were flushed, some eyes were downcast, some lips were compressed and some were trembling. Every mother there was asking in her heart, "Did I punish my children just for the effect on me? Did I judge my children by what was in their hearts, or just by the trouble they made me?"
And the silence lasted so long that it became awkward. Finally Mrs. Prentiss crossed the room and stood by Prudence's side. She laid a hand tenderly on the young girl's arm, and said in a voice that was slightly tremulous:
"I believe you are right, my dear. It is what girls are at heart that really counts. I believe your sisters are all you say they are. And one thing I am very sure of,—they are happy girls to have a sister so patient, and loving, and just. Not all real mothers have as much to their credit!"
Carol and Lark, in keeping with their twin-ship, were the dearest of chums and comrades. They resembled each other closely in build, being of the same height and size. They were slender, yet gave a suggestion of sturdiness. Carol's face was a delicately tinted oval, brightened by clear and sparkling eyes of blue. She was really beautiful, bright, attractive and vivacious. She made friends readily, and was always considered the "most popular girl in our crowd"—whatever Carol's crowd at the time might be. But she was not extremely clever, caring little for study, and with no especial talent in any direction. Lark was as nearly contrasting as any sister could be. Her face was pale, her eyes were dark brown and full of shadows, and she was a brilliant and earnest student. For each other the twins felt a passionate devotion that was very beautiful, but ludicrous as well.
To them, the great rambling barn back of the parsonage was a most delightful place. It had a big cow-shed on one side, and horse stalls on the other, with a "heavenly" haymow over all, and with "chutes" for the descent of hay,—and twins! In one corner was a high dark crib for corn, with an open window looking down into the horse stalls adjoining. When the crib was newly filled, the twins could clamber painfully up on the corn, struggle backward through the narrow window, and holding to the ledge of it with their hands, drop down into the nearest stall. To be sure they were likely to fall,—more likely than not,—and their hands were splinter-filled and their heads blue-bumped most of the time. But splinters and bumps did not interfere with their pursuit of pleasure.
Now the twins had a Secret Society,—of which they were the founders, the officers and the membership body. Its name was Skull and Crossbones. Why that name was chosen perhaps even the twins themselves could not explain, but it sounded deep, dark and bloody,—and so was the Society. Lark furnished the brain power for the organization but her sister was an enthusiastic and energetic second. Carol's club name was Lady Gwendolyn, and Lark's was Sir Alfred Angelcourt ordinarily, although subject to frequent change. Sometimes she was Lord Beveling, the villain of the plot, and chased poor Gwendolyn madly through corn-crib, horse stalls and haymow. Again she was the dark-browed Indian silently stalking his unconscious prey. Then she was a fierce lion lying in wait for the approaching damsel. The old barn saw stirring times after the coming of the new parsonage family.
"Hark! Hark!" sounded a hissing whisper from the corn-crib, and Connie, eavesdropping outside the barn, shivered sympathetically.
"What is it! Oh, what is it?" wailed the unfortunate lady.
"Look! Look! Run for your life!"
Then while Connie clutched the barn door in a frenzy, there was a sound of rattling corn as the twins scrambled upward, a silence, a low thud, and an unromantic "Ouch!" as Carol bumped her head and stumbled.
"Are you assaulted?" shouted the bold Sir Alfred, and Connie heard a wild scuffle as he rescued his companion from the clutches of the old halter on which she had stumbled. Up the haymow ladder they hurried, and then slid recklessly down the hay-chutes. Presently the barn door was flung open, and the "Society" knocked Connie flying backward, ran madly around the barn a few times, and scurried under the fence and into the chicken coop.
A little later, Connie, assailed with shots of corncobs, ran bitterly toward the house. "Peaking" was strictly forbidden when the twins were engaged in Skull and Crossbones activities.
And Connie's soul burned with desire. She felt that this secret society was threatening not only her happiness, but also her health, for she could not sleep for horrid dreams of Skulls and Crossbones at night, and could not eat for envying the twins their secret and mysterious joys. Therefore, with unwonted humility, she applied for entrance. She had applied many times previously, without effect. But this time she enforced her application with a nickel's worth of red peppermint drops, bought for the very purpose. The twins accepted the drops gravely, and told Connie she must make formal application. Then they marched solemnly off to the barn with the peppermint drops, without offering Connie a share. This hurt, but she did not long grieve over it, she was so busy wondering what on earth they meant by "formal application." Finally she applied to Prudence, and received assistance.
The afternoon mail brought to the parsonage an envelope addressed to "Misses Carol and Lark Starr, The Methodist Parsonage, Mount Mark, Iowa," and in the lower left-hand corner was a suggestive drawing of a Skull and Crossbones. The eyes of the mischievous twins twinkled with delight when they saw it, and they carried it to the barn for prompt perusal. It read as follows:
"Miss Constance Starr humbly and respectfully craves admittance into the Ancient and Honorable Organization of Skull and Crossbones."
The twins pondered long on a fitting reply, and the next afternoon the postman brought a letter for Connie, waiting impatiently for it. She had approached the twins about it at noon that day.
"Did you get my application?" she had whispered nervously.
But the twins had stared her out of countenance, and Connie realized that she had committed a serious breach of secret society etiquette.
But here was the letter! Her fingers trembled as she opened it. It was decorated lavishly with skulls and crossbones, splashed with red ink, supposedly blood, and written in the same suggestive color.
"Skull and Crossbones has heard the plea of Miss Constance Starr. If she present herself at the Parsonage Haymow this evening, at eight o'clock, she shall learn the will of the Society regarding her petition."
Connie was jubilant! In a flash, she saw herself admitted to the mysterious Barnyard Order, and began working out a name for her own designation after entrance. It was a proud day for her.
By the time the twins had finished washing the supper dishes, it was dark. Constance glanced out of the window apprehensively. She now remembered that eight o'clock was very, very late, and that the barn was a long way from the house! And up in the haymow, too! And such a mysterious bloody society! Her heart quaked within her. So she approached the twins respectfully, and said in an offhand way:
"I can go any time now. Just let me know when you're ready, and I'll go right along with you."
But the twins stared at her again in an amazing and overbearing fashion, and vouchsafed no reply. Connie, however, determined to keep a watchful eye upon them, and when they started barnward, she would trail closely along in their rear. It was a quarter to eight, and fearfully dark, when she suddenly remembered that they had been up-stairs an unnaturally long time. She rushed up in a panic. They were not there. She ran through the house. They were not to be found. The dreadful truth overwhelmed her,—the twins were already in the haymow, the hour had come, and she must go forth.
Breathlessly, she slipped out of the back door, and closed it softly behind her. She could not distinguish the dark outlines of the barn in the equal darkness of the autumn night. She gave a long sobbing gasp as she groped her way forward. As she neared the barn, she was startled to hear from the haymow over her head, deep groans as of a soul in mortal agony. Something had happened to the twins!
"Girls! Girls!" she cried, forgetting for the moment her own sorry state. "What is the matter? Twins!"
Sepulchral silence! And Connie knew that this was the dreadful Skull and Bones. Her teeth chattered as she stood there, irresolute in the intense and throbbing darkness.
"It's only the twins," she assured herself over and over, and began fumbling with the latch of the barn door,—but her fingers were stiff and cold. Suddenly from directly above her, there came the hideous clanking of iron chains. Connie had read ghost stories, and she knew the significance of clanking chains, but she stood her ground in spite of the almost irresistible impulse to fly. After the clanking, the loud and clamorous peal of a bell rang out.
"It's that old cow bell they found in the field," she whispered practically, but found it none the less horrifying.
Finally she stepped into the blackness of the barn, found the ladder leading to the haymow and began slowly climbing. But her own weight seemed a tremendous thing, and she had difficulty in raising herself from step to step. She comforted herself with the reflection that at the top were the twins,—company and triumph hand in hand. But when she reached the top, and peered around her, she found little comfort,—and no desirable company?
A small barrel draped in black stood in the center of the mow, and on it a lighted candle gave out a feeble flickering ray which emphasized the darkness around it. On either side of the black-draped barrel stood a motionless figure, clothed in somber black. On the head of one was a skull,—not a really skull, just a pasteboard imitation, but it was just as awful to Connie. On the head of the other were crossbones.
"Kneel," commanded the hoarse voice of Skull, in which Connie could faintly distinguish the tone of Lark.
She knelt,—an abject quivering neophyte.
"Hear the will of Skull and Crossbones," chanted Crossbones in a shrill monotone.
Then Skull took up the strain once more. "Skull and Crossbones, great in mercy and in condescension, has listened graciously to the prayer of Constance, the Seeker. Hear the will of the Great Spirit! If the Seeker will, for the length of two weeks, submit herself to the will of Skull and Crossbones, she shall be admitted into the Ancient and Honorable Order. If the Seeker accepts this condition, she must bow herself to the ground three times, in token of submission."
"There's no ground here," came a small faint voice from the kneeling Seeker.
"The floor, madam," Skull explained sternly. "If the Seeker accepts the condition,—to submit herself absolutely to the will of Skull and Crossbones for two entire weeks,—she shall bow herself three times."
Constance hesitated. It was so grandly expressed that she hardly understood what they wanted. Carol came to her rescue.
"That means you've got to do everything Lark and I tell you for two weeks," she said in her natural voice.
Then Constance bowed herself three times,—although she lost her balance in the act, and Carol forgot her dignity and gave way to laughter, swiftly subdued, however.
"Arise and approach the altar," she commanded in the shrill voice, which yet gave signs of laughter.
Constance arose and approached.
"Upon the altar, before the Eternal Light, you will find a small black bow, with a drop of human blood in the center. This is the badge of your pledgedom. You must wear it day and night, during the entire two weeks. After that, if all is well; you shall be received into full membership. If you break your pledge to the Order, it must be restored at once to Skull and Crossbones. Take it, and pin it upon your breast."
Constance did so,—and her breast heaved with rapture and awe in mingling.
Then a horrible thing happened. The flame of the "Eternal Light" was suddenly extinguished, and Carol exclaimed, "The ceremony is ended. Return, damsel, to thine abode."
A sound of scampering feet,—and Constance knew that the Grand Officials had fled, and she was alone in the dreadful darkness. She called after them pitifully, but she heard the slam of the kitchen door before she had even reached the ladder.
It was a sobbing and miserable neophyte who stumbled into the kitchen a few seconds later. The twins were bending earnestly over their Latin grammars by the side of the kitchen fire, and did not raise their eyes as the Seeker burst into the room. Constance sat down, and gasped and quivered for a while. Then she looked down complacently at the little black bow with its smudge of red ink, and sighed contentedly.
The week that followed was a gala one for the twins of Skull and Crossbones. Constance swept their room, made their bed, washed their dishes, did their chores, and in every way behaved as a model pledge of the Ancient and Honorable. The twins were gracious but firm. There was no arguing, and no faltering. "It is the will of Skull and Crossbones that the damsel do this," they would say. And the damsel did it.
Prudence did not feel it was a case that called for her interference. So she sat back and watched, while the twins told stories, read and frolicked, and Constance did their daily tasks.
So eight days passed, and then came Waterloo. Constance returned home after an errand downtown, and in her hand she carried a great golden pear. Perhaps Constance would have preferred that she escape the notice of the twins on this occasion, but as luck would have it, she passed Carol in the hall.
"Gracious! What a pear! Where did you get it?" demanded Carol covetously.
"I met Mr. Arnold down-town, and he bought it for me. He's very fond of me. It cost him a dime, too, for just this one. Isn't it a beauty?" And Connie licked her lips suggestively.
Carol licked hers, too, thoughtfully. Then she called up the stairs, "Lark, come here, quick!"
Lark did so, and duly exclaimed and admired. Then she said significantly, "I suppose you are going to divide with us?"
"Of course," said Connie with some indignation. "I'm going to cut it in five pieces so Prudence and Fairy can have some, too."
A pause, while Carol and Lark gazed at each other soberly. Mentally, each twin was figuring how big her share would be when the pear was divided in fives. Then Lark spoke.
"It is the will of Skull and Crossbones that this luscious fruit be turned over to them immediately."
Constance faltered, held it out, drew it back.
"If I do, I suppose you'll give me part of it, anyhow," she said, and her eyes glittered.
"Not so, damsel," said Carol ominously. "The Ancient and Honorable takes,—it never gives."
For a moment Constance wavered. Then she flamed into sudden anger. "I won't do it, so there!" she cried. "I think you're mean selfish pigs, that's what I think! Taking my very own pear, and—but you won't get it! I don't care if I never get into your silly old society,—you don't get a bite of this pear, I can tell you that!" And Constance rushed up-stairs and slammed a door. A few seconds later the door opened again, and her cherished badge was flung down upon Skull and Crossbones.
"There's your old black string smeared up with red ink!" she yelled at them wildly. And again the door slammed.
Carol picked up the insulted badge, and studied it thoughtfully. Lark spoke first.
"It occurs to me, Fair Gwendolyn, that we would do well to keep this little scene from the ears of the just and righteous Prudence."
"Right, as always, Brave Knight," was the womanly retort. And the twins betook themselves to the haymow in thoughtful mood.
A little later, when Prudence and Fairy came laughing into the down-stairs hall, a white-faced Constance met them. "Look," she said, holding out a pear, divided into three parts, just like Gaul. "Mr. Arnold gave me this pear, and here's a piece for each of you."
The girls thanked her warmly, but Prudence paused with her third almost touching her lips. "How about the twins?" she inquired. "Aren't they at home? Won't they break your pledge if you leave them out?"
Constance looked up sternly. "I offered them some half an hour ago, and they refused it," she said. "And they have already put me out of the society!" There was tragedy in the childish face, and Prudence put her arms around this baby-sister.
"Tell Prue all about it, Connie," she said. But Constance shook her head.
"It can't be talked about. Go on and eat your pear. It is good."
"Was it all right?" questioned Prudence. "Did the twins play fair, Connie?"
"Yes," said Constance. "It was all right. Don't talk about it."
But in two days Constance repented of her rashness. In three days she was pleading for forgiveness. And in four days she was starting in on another two weeks of pledgedom, and the desecrated ribbon with its drop of blood reposed once more on her ambitious breast.
For three days her service was sore indeed, for the twins informed her, with sympathy, that she must be punished for insubordination. "But after that, we'll be just as easy on you as anything, Connie," they told her. "So don't you get sore now. In three days, we'll let up on you."
A week passed, ten days, and twelve. Then came a golden October afternoon when the twins sat in the haymow looking out upon a mellow world. Constance was in the yard, reading a fairy story. The situation was a tense one, for the twins were hungry, and time was heavy on their hands.
"The apple trees in Avery's orchard are just loaded," said Lark aimlessly. "And there are lots on the ground, too. I saw them when I was out in the field this morning."
"Some of the trees are close to our fence, too," said Carol slowly. "Very close."
Lark glanced up with sudden interest. "That's so," she said. "And the wires on the fence are awfully loose."
Carol gazed down into the yard where Constance was absorbed in her book. "Constance oughtn't to read as much as she does," she argued. "It's so bad for the eyes."
"Yes, and what's more, she's been getting off too easy the last few days. The time is nearly up."
"That's so," said Lark. "Let's call her up here." This was done at once, and the unfortunate Constance walked reluctantly toward the barn, her fascinating story still in her hand.
"You see, they've got more apples than they need, and those on the ground are just going to waste," continued Carol, pending the arrival of the little pledge. "The chickens are pecking at them, and ruining them."
"It's criminal destruction, that's what it is," declared Lark.
Connie stood before them respectfully, as they had instructed her to stand. The twins hesitated, each secretly hoping the other would voice the order. But Lark as usual was obliged to be the spokesman.
"Damsel," she said, "it is the will of Skull and Crossbones that you hie ye to yonder orchard,—Avery's, I mean,—and bring hither some of the golden apples basking in the sun."
"What!" ejaculated Connie, startled out of her respect.
Carol frowned.
Connie hastened to modify her tone. "Did they say you might have them?" she inquired politely.
"That concerns thee not, 'tis for thee only to render obedience to the orders of the Society. Go out through our field and sneak under the fence where the wires are loose, and hurry back. We're awfully hungry. The trees are near the fence. There isn't any danger."
"But it's stealing," objected Connie. "What will Prudence——"
"Damsel!" And Connie turned to obey with despair in her heart.
"Bring twelve," Carol called after her, "that'll be four apiece. And hurry, Connie. And see they don't catch you while you're about it."
After she had gone, the twins lay back thoughtfully on the hay and stared at the cobwebby roof above them.
"It's a good thing Prudence and Fairy are downtown," said Lark sagely.
"Yes, or we'd catch it," assented Carol. "But I don't see why! The Averys have too many apples, and they are going to waste. I'm sure Mrs. Avery would rather let us have them than the chickens."
They lay in silence for a while. Something was hurting them, but whether it was their fear of the wrath of Prudence, or the twinges of tender consciences,—who can say?
"She's an unearthly long time about it," exclaimed Lark, at last. "Do you suppose they caught her?"
This was an awful thought, and the girls were temporarily suffocated. But they heard the barn door swinging beneath them, and sighed with relief. It was Connie! She climbed the ladder skilfully, and poured her golden treasure before the arch thieves, Skull and Crossbones.
There were eight big tempting apples.
"Hum! Eight," said Carol sternly. "I said twelve."
"Yes, but I was afraid some one was coming. I heard such a noise through the grapevines, so I got what I could and ran for it. There's three apiece for you, and two for me," said Connie, sitting down sociably beside them on the hay.
But Carol rose. "Damsel, begone," she ordered. "When Skull and Crossbones feast, thou canst not yet share the festive board. Rise thee, and speed."
Connie rose, and walked soberly toward the ladder. But before she disappeared she fired this parting shot, "I don't want any of them. Stolen apples don't taste very good, I reckon."
Carol and Lark had the grace to flush a little at this, but however the stolen apples tasted, the twins had no difficulty in disposing of them. Then, full almost beyond the point of comfort, they slid down the hay-chutes, went out the back way, climbed over the chicken coops,—not because it was necessary, but because it was their idea of amusement,—and went for a walk in the field. At the farthest corner of the field they crawled under the fence, cut through a neighboring potato patch, and came out on the street. Then they walked respectably down the sidewalk, turned the corner and came quietly in through the front door of the parsonage.
Prudence was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. Fairy was in the sitting-room, busy with her books. The twins set the table conscientiously, filled the wood-box, and in every way labored irreproachably. But Prudence had no word of praise for them that evening. She hardly seemed to know they were about the place. She went about her work with a pale face, and never a smile to be seen.
Supper was nearly ready when Connie sauntered in from the barn. After leaving the haymow, she had found a cozy corner in the com-crib, with two heavy lap robes discarded by the twins in their flight from wolves, and had settled down there to finish her story. As she stepped into the kitchen, Prudence turned to her with such a sorry, reproachful gaze that Connie was frightened.
"Are you sick, Prue?" she gasped.
Prudence did not answer. She went to the door and called Fairy. "Finish getting supper, will you, Fairy? And when you are all ready, you and the twins go right on eating. Don't wait for father,—he isn't coming home until evening. Come up-stairs with me, Connie; I want to talk to you."
Connie followed her sister soberly, and the twins flashed at each other startled and questioning looks.
The three girls were at the table when Prudence came into the dining-room alone. She fixed a tray-supper quietly and carried it off up-stairs. Then she came back and sat down by the table. But her face bore marks of tears, and she had no appetite. The twins had felt small liking for their food before, now each mouthful seemed to choke them. But they dared not ask a question. They were devoutly thankful when Fairy finally voiced their interest.
"What is the matter? Has Connie been in mischief?"
"It's worse than that," faltered Prudence, tears rushing to her eyes again.
"Why, Prudence! What in the world has she done?"
"I may as well tell you, I suppose,—you'll have to know it sooner or later. She—went out into Avery's orchard and stole some apples this afternoon. I was back in the alley seeing if Mrs. Moon could do the washing, and I saw her from the other side. She went from tree to tree, and when she got through the fence she ran. There's no mistake about it,—she confessed." The twins looked up in agony, but Prudence's face reassured them. Constance had told no tales. "I have told her she must spend all of her time up-stairs alone for a week, taking her meals there, too. She will go to school, of course, but that is all. I want her to see the awfulness of it. I told her I didn't think we wanted to eat with—a thief—just yet! I said we must get used to the idea of it first. She is heartbroken, but—I must make her see it!"
That was the end of supper. No one attempted to eat another bite. After the older girls had gone into the sitting-room, Carol and Lark went about their work with stricken faces.
"She's a little brick not to tell," whispered Lark.
"I'm going to give her that pearl pin of mine she always liked," said Carol in a hushed voice.
"I'll give her my blue ribbon, too,—she loves blue so. And to-morrow I'll take that quarter I've saved and buy her a whole quarter's worth of candy."
But that night when the twins went up to bed, they were doomed to disappointment. They had no chance of making it up with Constance. For Prudence had moved her small bed out of the twins' room, and had placed it in the front room occupied by herself and Fairy. They asked if they might speak to Constance, but Prudence went in with them to say good night to her. The twins broke down and cried as they saw the pitiful little figure with the wan and tear-stained face. They threw their arms around her passionately and kissed her many times. But they went to bed without saying anything.
Hours later, Lark whispered, "Carol! are you asleep?"
"No. I can't go to sleep somehow."
"Neither can I. Do you think we'd better tell Prudence all about it?"
Carol squirmed in the bed. "I—suppose we had," she said reluctantly.
"But—it'll be lots worse for us than for Connie," Lark added. "We're so much older, and we made her do it."
"Yes, and we ate all the apples," mourned Carol.
"Maybe we'd better just let it go," suggested Lark.
"And we'll make it up to Connie afterwards," said Carol.
"Now, you be careful and not give it away, Carol."
"You see that you don't."
But it was a sorry night for the twins. The next morning they set off to school, with no chance for anything but a brief good morning with Connie,—given in the presence of Prudence. Half-way down the parsonage walk, Carol said:
"Oh, wait a minute, Lark. I left my note-book on the table." And Lark walked slowly while Carol went rushing back. She found Prudence in the kitchen, and whispered:
"Here—here's a note, Prudence. Don't read it until after I've gone to school,—at ten o'clock you may read it. Will you promise?"
Prudence laughed a little, but she promised, and laid the note carefully away to wait the appointed hour for its perusal. As the clock struck ten she went to the mantle, and took it down. This is what Carol had written:
"Oh, Prudence, do please forgive me, and don't punish Connie any more. You can punish me any way you like, and I'll be glad of it. It was all my fault. I made her go and get the apples for me, and I ate them. Connie didn't eat one of them. She said stolen apples would not taste very good. It was all my fault, and I'm so sorry. I was such a coward I didn't dare tell you last night. Will you forgive me? But you must punish me as hard as ever you can. But please, Prudence, won't you punish me some way without letting Lark know about it? Please, please, Prudence, don't let Larkie know. You can tell Papa and Fairy so they will despise me, but keep it from my twin. If you love me, Prudence, don't let Larkie know."