It was a dull dreary day early in December. Prudence and Fairy were sewing in the bay window of the sitting-room.
"We must be sure to have all the scraps out of the way before Connie gets home," said Prudence, carefully fitting together pieces of a dark, warm, furry material. "It has been so long since father wore this coat, I am sure she will not recognize it."
"But she will ask where we got it, and what shall we say?"
"We must tell her it is goods we have had in the house for a long time. That is true. And I made this fudge on purpose to distract her attention. If she begins to ask questions, we must urge her to have more candy. Poor child!" she added very sympathetically. "Her heart is just set on a brand-new coat. I know she will be bitterly disappointed. If the members would just pay up we could get her one. November and December are such bad months for parsonage people. Coal to buy, feed for the cow and the horse and the chickens, and Carol's sickness, and Larkie's teeth! Of course, those last are not regular winter expenses, but they took a lot of money this year. Every one is getting ready for Christmas now, and forgets that parsonage people need Christmas money, too. November and December are always my bitter months, Fairy,—bitter months!"
Fairy took a pin from her mouth. "The velvet collar and cuffs will brighten it up a good bit. It's really a pretty material. I have honestly been ashamed of Connie the last few Sundays. It was so cold, and she wore only that little thin summer jacket. She must have been half frozen."
"Oh, I had her dressed warmly underneath, very warmly indeed," declared Prudence. "But no matter how warm you are underneath, you look cold if you aren't visibly prepared for winter weather. It's a fortunate thing the real cold weather was so slow in coming. I kept hoping enough money would come in to buy her a coat for once in her life."
"She has been looking forward to one long enough," put in Fairy. "This will be a bitter blow to her. And yet it is not such a bad-looking coat, after all." And she quickly ran up a seam on the machine.
"Here comes Connie!" Prudence hastily swept a pile of scraps out of sight, and turned to greet her little sister with a cheery smile.
"Come on in, Connie," she cried, with a brightness she did not feel. "Fairy and I are making you a new coat. Isn't it pretty? And so warm! See the nice velvet collar and cuffs. We want to fit it on you right away, dear."
Connie picked up a piece of the goods and examined it intently.
"Don't you want some fudge, Connie?" exclaimed Fairy, shoving the dish toward her hurriedly.
Connie took a piece from the plate, and thrust it between her teeth. Her eyes were still fastened upon the brown furry cloth.
"Where did you get this stuff?" she inquired, as soon as she was able to speak.
"Oh, we've had it in the house quite a while," said Prudence, adding swiftly, "Isn't it warm, Connie? Oh, it does look nice, doesn't it, Fairy? Do you want it a little shorter, Connie, or is that about right?"
"About right, I guess. Did you ever have a coat like this, Prudence? I don't seem to remember it.'"
"Oh, no, it wasn't mine. Take some more candy, Connie. Isn't it good?—Let's put a little more fullness in the sleeves, Fairy. It's more stylish this year.—The collar fits very nicely. The velvet gives it such a rich tone. And brown is so becoming to you."
"Thanks," said Connie patiently. "Was this something of yours, Fairy?"
"Oh, no, we've just had it in the house quite a while. It comes in very handy right now, doesn't it? It'll make you such a serviceable, stylish coat. Isn't it about time for the twins to get here, Prudence? I'm afraid they are playing along the road. Those girls get more careless every day of their lives."
"Well, if this didn't belong to one of you, whose was it?" demanded Connie. "I know the twins never had anything like this. It looks kind of familiar to me. Where did it come from?"
"Out of the trunk in the garret, Connie. Don't you want some more fudge? I put a lot of nuts in, especially on your account."
"It's good," said Connie, taking another piece. She examined the cloth very closely. "Say, Prudence, isn't this that old brown coat of father's?"
Fairy shoved her chair back from the machine, and ran to the window. "Look, Prue," she cried. "Isn't that Mrs. Adams coming this way? I wonder——"
"No, it isn't," answered Connie gravely. "It's just Miss Avery getting home from school.—Isn't it, Prudence? Father's coat, I mean?"
"Yes, Connie, it is," said Prudence, very, very gently. "But no one here has seen it, and it is such nice cloth,—just exactly what girls are wearing now."
"But I wanted a new coat!" Connie did not cry. She stood looking at Prudence with her wide hurt eyes.
"Oh, Connie, I'm just as sorry as you are," cried Prudence, with starting tears. "I know just how you feel about it, dearest. But the people didn't pay father up last month, and nothing has come in for this month yet, and we've had so much extra expense.—I will have to wear my old shoes, too, Connie, and you know how they look! The shoemaker says they aren't worth fixing, so I must wear them as they are.—But maybe after Christmas we can get you a coat. They pay up better then."
"I think I'd rather wear my summer coat until then," said Connie soberly.
"Oh, but you can't, dearest. It is too cold. Won't you be a good girl now, and not make sister feel badly about it? It really is becoming to you, and it is nice and warm. You know parsonage people just have to practise economy, Connie,—it can't be helped. Take some more fudge, dear, and run out-of-doors a while. You'll feel better about it presently, I'm sure."
Connie stood solemnly beside the table, her eyes still fastened on the coat, cut down from her father's. "Can I go and take a walk?" she asked finally.
"May I, you mean," suggested Fairy.
"Yes, may I? Maybe I can reconcile myself to it."
"Yes, do go and take a walk," urged Prudence promptly, eager to get the small sober face beyond her range of vision.
"If I am not back when the twins get home, go right on and eat without me. I'll come back when I get things straightened out in my mind."
When Connie was quite beyond hearing, Prudence dropped her head on the table and wept. "Oh, Fairy, if the members just knew how such things hurt, maybe they'd pay up a little better. How do they expect parsonage people to keep up appearances when they haven't any money?"
"Oh, now, Prue, you're worse than Connie! There's no use to cry about it. Parsonage people have to find happiness in spite of financial misery. Money isn't the first thing with folks like us."
"No, but they have pledged it," protested Prudence, lifting her tear-stained face. "They must know we are counting on the money. Why don't they keep their pledges? They pay their meat bills, and grocery bills, and house rent! Why don't they pay for their religion?"
"Now, Prue, you know how things go. Mrs. Adams is having a lot of Christmas expense, and she thinks her four dollars a month won't really be missed. She thinks she will make it up along in February, when Christmas is over. But she forgets that Mrs. Barnaby with two dollars, and Mrs. Scott with five, and Mr. Walter with seven, and Mr. Holmes with three, and about thirty others with one dollar each, are thinking the same thing! Each member thinks for himself, and takes no account of the others. That's how it happens."
Prudence squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. "I wish you wouldn't mention names, Fairy," she begged. "I do not object to lumping them in a body and wondering about them. But I can't feel right about calling them out by name, and criticizing them.—Besides, we do not really know which ones they are who did not pay."
"I was just giving names for illustrative purposes," said Fairy quickly. "Like as not, the very ones I named are the ones who did pay."
"Well, get this stuff out of the way, and let's set the table. Somehow I can't bear to touch it any more. Poor little Connie! If she had cried about it, I wouldn't have cared so much. But she looked so—heartsick, didn't she, Fairy?"
Connie certainly was heartsick. More than that, she was a little disgusted. She felt herself aroused to take action. Things had gone too far! Go to church in her father's coat she could not! But they hadn't the money. If Connie's father had been at home, perhaps they might have reasoned it out together. But he had left town that morning, and would not be home until Saturday evening,—too late to get a coat in time for Sunday, and Prudence had said that Connie must be coated by Sunday! She walked sturdily down the street toward the "city,"—ironically so called. Her face was stony, her hands were clenched. But finally she brightened. Her lagging steps quickened. She skipped along quite cheerfully. She turned westward as she reached the corner of the Square, and walked along that business street with shining eyes. In front of the First National Bank she paused, but after a few seconds she passed by. On the opposite corner was another bank. When she reached it, she walked in without pausing, and the massive door swung behind her. Standing on tiptoe, she confronted the cashier with a grave face.
"Is Mr. Harold in?" she asked politely.
Mr. Harold was the president of the bank! It was a little unusual.
"Yes, he is in," said the cashier doubtfully, "but he is very busy."
"Will you tell him that Constance Starr wishes to speak to him, privately, and that it is very important?"
The cashier smiled. "The Methodist minister's little girl, isn't it? Yes, I will tell him."
Mr. Harold looked up impatiently at the interruption.
"It's the Methodist minister's little daughter, and she says it is important for her to speak to you privately."
"Oh! Probably a message from her father. Bring her in."
Mr. Harold was one of the trustees of the Methodist church, and prominent among them. His keen eyes were intent upon Connie as she walked in, but she did not falter.
"How do you do, Mr. Harold?" she said, and shook hands with him in the good old Methodist way.
His eyes twinkled, but he spoke briskly. "Did your father send you on an errand?"
"No, father is out of town. I came on business,—personal business, Mr. Harold. It is my own affair."
"Oh, I see," and he smiled at the earnest little face. "Well, what can I do for you, Miss Constance?"
"I want to borrow five dollars from the bank, Mr. Harold?"
"You—did Prudence send you?"
"Oh, no, it is my own affair as I told you. I came on my own account. I thought of stopping at the other bank as I passed, but then I remembered that parsonage people must always do business with their own members if possible. And of course, I would rather come to you than to a perfect stranger."
"Thank you,—thank you very much. Five dollars you say you want?"
"I suppose I had better tell you all about it. You see, I need a winter coat, very badly. Oh, very badly, indeed! The girls were ashamed of me last Sunday, I looked so cold outside, though I was dressed plenty warm enough inside. I've been looking forward to a new coat, Mr. Harold. I've never had one yet. There was always something to cut down for me, from Prudence, or Fairy, or the twins. But this time there wasn't anything to hand down, and so I just naturally counted on a new one." Connie paused, and looked embarrassed.
"Yes?" His voice was encouraging.
"Well, I'll tell you the rest, but I hope you won't say anything about it, for I'd feel pretty cheap if I thought all the Sunday-school folks knew about it.—You see, the members need such a lot of money now just before Christmas, and so they didn't pay us up last month, and they haven't paid anything this month. And we had to get coal, and feed, and Larkie's teeth had to be fixed, and Carol was sick, you remember. Seems to me Lark's teeth might have been put off until after Christmas, but Prudence says not.—And so there isn't any money left, and I can't have a coat. But Prudence and Fairy are making me one,—out of an old coat of father's!"
Constance paused dramatically. Mr. Harold never even smiled. He just nodded understandingly. "I don't think I could wear a coat of father's to church,—it's cut down of course, but—there's something painful about the idea. I wouldn't expect father to wear any of my clothes! You can see how it is, Mr. Harold. Just imagine how you would feel wearing your wife's coat!—I don't think I could listen to the sermons. I don't believe I could be thankful for the mercy of wearing father's coat! I don't see anything merciful about it. Do you?"
Mr. Harold did not speak. He gazed at Connie sympathetically, and shook his head.
"It's too much, that's what it is. And so I thought I'd just have to take things into my own hands and borrow the money. I can get a good coat for five dollars. But if the bank is a little short right now, I can get along with four, or even three. I'd rather have the cheapest coat in town, than one made out of father's. Do you think you can let me have it?"
"Yes, indeed we can." He seemed to find his voice with an effort. "Of course we can. We are very glad to lend our money to responsible people. We are proud to have your trade."
"But I must tell you, that it may take me quite a while to pay it back. Father gives me a nickel a week, and I generally spend it for candy. There's another nickel, but it has to go in the collection, so I can't really count that. I don't believe father would let me neglect the heathen, even to pay for a winter coat! But I will give you the nickel every week, and at that rate I can pay it back in a couple of years easy enough. But I'd rather give the nickels as fast as I get them. It's so hard to keep money when you can get your hand on it, you know. Sometimes I have quite a lot of money,—as much as a quarter at a time, from doing errands for the neighbors and things like that. I'll pay you as fast as I can. Will that be all right? And the interest, too, of course. How much will the interest be on five dollars?"
"Well, that depends on how soon you repay the money, Connie. But I'll figure it out, and tell you later."
"All right. I know I can trust you not to cheat me, since you're a trustee. So I won't worry about that."
Mr. Harold drew out a bulky book from his pocket, and handed Connie a crisp new bill. Her eyes sparkled as she received it.
"But, Connie," he continued, "I feel that I ought to give you this. We Methodists have done a wicked thing in forgetting our November payments, and I will just give you this bill to make up for it."
But Connie shook her head decidedly. "Oh, no! I'll have to give it back, then. Father would not stand that,—not for one minute. Of course, parsonage people get things given to them, quite a lot. And it's a good thing, too, I must say! But we don't hint for them, Mr. Harold. That wouldn't be right." She held out the bill toward him, with very manifest reluctance.
"Keep it,—we'll call it a loan then, Connie," he said. "And you may pay me back, five cents at a time, just as is most convenient."
The four older girls were at the table when Connie arrived. She exhaled quiet satisfaction from every pore. Prudence glanced at her once, and then looked away again. "She has reconciled herself," she thought. Dinner was half over before Constance burst her bomb. She had intended waiting until they were quite through, but it was more than flesh and blood could keep!
"Are you going to be busy this afternoon, Prudence?" she asked quietly.
"We are going to sew a little," said Prudence. "Why?"
"I wanted you to go down-town with me after school."
"Well, perhaps I can do that. Fairy will be able to finish the coat alone."
"You needn't finish the coat!—I can't wear father's coat to church, Prudence. It's a—it's a—physical impossibility."
The twins laughed. Fairy smiled, but Prudence gazed at "the baby" with tender pity.
"I'm so sorry, dearest, but we haven't the money to buy one now."
"Will five dollars be enough?" inquired Connie, and she placed her crisp new bill beside her plate. The twins gasped! They gazed at Connie with new respect. They were just wishing they could handle five-dollar bills so recklessly.
"Will you loan me twenty dollars until after Christmas, Connie?" queried Fairy.
But Prudence asked, "Where did you get this money, Connie?"
"I borrowed it,—from the bank," Connie replied with proper gravity. "I have two years to pay it back. Mr. Harold says they are proud to have my trade."
Prudence was silent for several long seconds. Then she inquired in a low voice, "Did you tell him why you wanted it?"
"Yes, I explained the whole situation."
"What did he say?"
"He said he knew just how I felt, because he knew he couldn't go to church in his wife's coat.—No, I said that myself, but he agreed with me. He did not say very much, but he looked sympathetic. He said he anticipated great pleasure in seeing me in my new coat at church next Sunday."
"Go on with your luncheon, twins," said Prudence sternly. "You'll be late to school.—We'll see about going down-town when you get home to-night, Connie. Now, eat your luncheon, and don't talk about coats any more."
When Connie had gone back to school, Prudence went straight to Mr. Harold's bank. Flushed and embarrassed, she explained the situation frankly. "My sympathies are all with Connie," she said candidly. "But I am afraid father would not like it. We are dead set against borrowing. After—our mother was taken, we were crowded pretty close for money. So we had to go in debt. It took us two years to get it paid. Father and Fairy and I talked it over then, and decided we would starve rather than borrow again. Even the twins understood it, but Connie was too little. She doesn't know how heartbreaking it is to keep handing over every cent for debt, when one is just yearning for other things.—I do wish she might have the coat, but I'm afraid father would not like it. She gave me the five dollars for safekeeping, and I have brought it back."
Mr. Harold shook his head. "No, Connie must have her coat. This will be a good lesson for her. It will teach her the bitterness of living under debt! Besides, Prudence, I think in my heart that she is right this time. This is a case where borrowing is justified. Get her the coat, and I'll square the account with your father." Then he added, "And I'll look after this salary business myself after this. I'll arrange with the trustees that I am to pay your father his full salary the first of every month, and that the church receipts are to be turned in to me. And if they do not pay up, my lawyer can do a little investigating! Little Connie earned that five dollars, for she taught one trustee a sorry lesson. And he will have to pass it on to the others in self-defense! Now, run along and get the coat, and if five dollars isn't enough you can have as much more as you need. Your father will get his salary after this, my dear, if we have to mortgage the parsonage!"
"Prue!"
A small hand gripped Prudence's shoulder, and again came a hoarsely whispered:
"Prue!"
Prudence sat up in bed with a bounce.
"What in the world?" she began, gazing out into the room, half-lighted by the moonshine, and seeing Carol and Lark shivering beside her bed.
"Sh! Sh! Hush!" whispered Lark. "There's a burglar in our room!"
By this time, even sound-sleeping Fairy was awake. "Oh, there is!" she scoffed.
"Yes, there is," declared Carol with some heat. "We heard him, plain as day. He stepped into the closet, didn't he, Lark?"
"He certainly did," agreed Lark.
"Did you see him?"
"No, we heard him. Carol heard him first, and she spoke, and nudged me. Then I heard him, too. He was at our dresser, but he shot across the room and into the closet. He closed the door after him. He's there now."
"You've been dreaming," said Fairy, lying down again.
"We don't generally dream the same thing at the same minute," said Carol stormily. "I tell you he's in there."
"And you two great big girls came off and left poor little Connie in there alone with a burglar, did you? Well, you are nice ones, I must say."
And Prudence leaped out of bed and started for the door, followed by Fairy, with the twins creeping fearfully along in the rear.
"She was asleep," muttered Carol.
"We didn't want to scare her," added Lark.
Prudence was careful to turn the switch by the door, so that the room was in full light before she entered. The closet door was wide open. Connie was soundly sleeping. There was no one else in the room.
"You see?" said Prudence sternly.
"I'll bet he took our ruby rings," declared Lark, and the twins and Fairy ran to the dresser to look.
But a sickening realization had come home to Prudence. In the lower hall, under the staircase, was a small dark closet which they called the dungeon. The dungeon door was big and solid, and was equipped with a heavy catch-lock. In this dungeon, Prudence kept the family silverware, and all the money she had on hand, as it could there be safely locked away. But more often than not, Prudence forgot to lock it.
Mr. Starr had gone to Burlington that morning to attend special revival services for three days, and Prudence had fifty whole dollars in the house, an unwonted sum in that parsonage! And the dungeon was not locked. Without a word, she slipped softly out of the room, ran down the stairs, making never a sound in her bare feet, and saw, somewhat to her surprise, that the dungeon door was open. Quickly she flung it shut, pushed the tiny key that moved the "catch," and was rushing up the stairs again with never a pause for breath.
A strange sight met her eyes in the twins' room. The twins themselves were in each other's arms, sobbing bitterly. Fairy was still looking hurriedly through the dresser drawers.
"They are gone," wailed Carol, "our beautiful ruby rings that belonged to grandmother."
"Nonsense," cried Prue with nervous anger, "you've left them in the bathroom, or on the kitchen shelves. You're always leaving them somewhere over the place. Come on, and we'll search the house just to convince you."
"No, no," shrieked the twins. "Let's lock the door and get under the bed."
The rings were really valuable. Their grandmother, their mother's mother, whom they had never seen, had divided her "real jewelry" between her two daughters. And the mother of these parsonage girls, had further divided her portion to make it reach through her own family of girls! Prudence had a small but beautiful chain of tiny pearls. Fairy's share consisted of a handsome brooch, with a "sure-enough diamond" in the center! The twin rubies of another brooch had been reset in rings for Carol and Lark, and were the priceless treasures of their lives! And in the dungeon was a solid gold bracelet, waiting until Connie's arm should be sufficiently developed to do it justice.
"Our rings! Our rings!" the twins were wailing, and Connie, awakened by the noise, was crying beneath the covers of her bed.
"Maybe we'd better phone for Mr. Allan," suggested Fairy. "The girls are so nervous they will be hysterical by the time we finish searching the house."
"Well, let's do the up-stairs then," said Prudence. "Get your slippers and kimonos, and we'll go into daddy's room."
But inside the door of daddy's room, with the younger girls clinging to her, and Fairy looking odd and disturbed, Prudence stopped abruptly and stared about the room curiously.
"Fairy, didn't father leave his watch hanging on that nail by the table? Seems to me I saw it there this morning. I remember thinking I would tease him for being forgetful."
And the watch was not there.
"I think it was Sunday he left it," answered Fairy in a low voice. "I remember seeing it on the nail, and thinking he would need it,—but I believe it was Sunday."
Prudence looked under the bed, and in the closet, but their father's room was empty. Should they go farther? For a moment, the girls stood looking at one another questioningly. Then—they heard a loud thud down-stairs, as of some one pounding on a door. There was no longer any doubt. Some one was in the house! Connie and the twins screamed again and clung to Prudence frantically. And Fairy said, "I think we'd better lock the door and stay right here until morning, Prue."
But Prudence faced them stubbornly. "If you think I'm going to let any one steal that fifty dollars, you are mistaken. Fifty dollars does not come often enough for that, I can tell you."
"It's probably stolen already," objected Fairy.
"Well, if it is, we'll find out who did it, and have them arrested. I'm going down to telephone to the police. You girls must lock the door after me, and stay right here."
The little ones screamed again, and Fairy said: "Don't be silly, Prue, if you go I'm going with you, of course. We'll leave the kiddies here and they can lock the door. They'll be perfectly safe in here."
But the children loudly objected to this. If Prue and Fairy went, they would go! So down the stairs they trooped, a timorous trembling crowd. Prudence went at once to the telephone, and called up the residence of the Allans, their neighbors across the street. After a seemingly never-ending wait, the kind-hearted neighbor left his bed to answer the insistent telephone. Falteringly Prudence explained their predicament, and asked him to come and search the house. He promised to be there in five minutes, with his son to help.
"Now," said Prudence more cheerfully, "we'll just go out to the kitchen and wait. It's quiet there, and away from the rest of the house, and we'll be perfectly safe." To the kitchen, then, they hurried, and found real comfort in its smallness and secureness. Prudence raked up the dying embers of the fire, and Fairy drew the blinds to their lowest limits. The twins and Connie trailed them fearfully at every step.
When the fire was burning brightly, Prudence spoke with great assurance. "I'll just run in to the dungeon and see for sure if the money is there. I do not honestly believe there is a soul in the house, but I can't rest until I know that money is safe."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Fairy, "you'll stay right here and wait with us. I do not believe there's any one in the house, either, but if there is, you shan't run into him by yourself. You stay right where you are, and don't be silly. Mr. Allan will do the investigating."
Every breath of wind against the windows drew startled cries from the younger girls, and both Fairy and Prudence were white with anxiety when they heard the loud voices of the Allans outside the kitchen door. Prudence began crying nervously the moment the two angels of mercy appeared before her, and Fairy told their tale of woe.
"Well, there now," Mr. Allan said with rough sympathy, "you just got scared, that's all. Everything's suspicious when folks get scared. I told my wife the other day I bet you girls would get a good fright some time left here alone. Come on, Jim, and we'll go over the house in a jiffy."
He was standing near the dining-room door. He lifted his head suddenly, and seemed to sniff a little. There was undoubtedly a faint odor of tobacco in the house.
"Been any men in here to-night?" he asked. "Or this afternoon? Think, now!"
"No one," answered Prudence. "I was alone all afternoon, and there has been no one in this evening."
He passed slowly through the dining-room into the hall, closely followed by his son and the five girls, already much reassured. As he passed the dungeon door he paused for a moment, listening intently, his head bent.
"Oh, Mr. Allan," cried Prudence, "let's look in the dungeon first. I want to see if the money is safe." Her hand was already on the lock, but he shoved her away quickly.
"Is there any way out of that closet besides this door?" he asked.
"No. We call it the dungeon," laughed Prudence, her self-possession quite recovered. "It is right under the stairs, and not even a mouse could gnaw its way out, with this door shut."
"Who shut that door?" he inquired, still holding Prudence's hand from the lock. Then without waiting for an answer, he went on, "Let's go back in the other room a minute. Come on, all of you." In the living-room, he hurried to the telephone, and spoke to the operator in a low voice. "Call the police headquarters, and have them send two or three men to the Methodist parsonage, right away. We've got a burglar locked in a closet, and they'll have to get him out. Please hurry."
At this, the girls crowded around him again in renewed fear.
"Don't be scared," he said calmly, "we're all right. He's in there safe enough and can't get out for a while. Now, tell me about it. How did you get him in the closet? Begin at the beginning, and tell me all about it."
Carol began the story with keen relish. "I woke up, and thought I heard some one in the room. I supposed it was Prudence. I said, 'Prudence,' and nobody answered, and everything was quiet.' But I felt there was some one in there. I nudged Lark, and she woke up. He moved then, and we both heard him. He was fumbling at the dresser, and our ruby rings are gone. We heard him step across the room and into the closet. He closed the door after him, didn't he, Lark?"
"Yes, he did," agreed Lark. "His hand was on the knob."
"So we sneaked out of bed, and went into Prudence's room and woke her and Fairy." She looked at Connie, and blushed. "Connie was asleep, and we didn't waken her because we didn't want to frighten her. We woke the girls,—and you tell the rest, Prudence."
"We didn't believe her, of course. We went back into their room and there was no one there. But the rings were gone. While they were looking at the dresser, I remembered that I forgot to lock the dungeon door, where we keep the money and the silverware, and I ran down-stairs and slammed the door and locked it, and went back up. I didn't hear a sound down-stairs."
Mr. Allan laughed heartily. "Well, your burglar was in that closet after the money, no doubt, and he didn't hear you coming, and got locked in. Did you make any noise coming down the stairs?"
"No. I was in my bare feet, and I tried to be quiet because if there was any one in the house, I did not want him coming at me in the dark. I ran back up-stairs, and we looked in father's room. I thought father had forgotten to take his watch with him, but it wasn't there.—Do you really think it was Sunday he forgot it, Fairy?"
"No," said Fairy, "it was there this afternoon. The burglar's got it in the dungeon with him, of course.—I just said it was Sunday to keep from scaring the twins."
In a few minutes, they heard footsteps around the house and knew the officers had arrived. Mr. Allan let them into the house, four of them, and led them out to the hall. There could be no doubt whatever that the burglar was in the dungeon. He had been busy with his knife, and the lock was nearly removed. If the officers had been two minutes later, the dungeon would have been empty. The girls were sent up-stairs at once, with the Allan boy as guard,—as guard, without regard for the fact that he was probably more frightened than any one of them.
The chief officer rapped briskly on the dungeon door. Then he clicked his revolver.
"There are enough of us to overpower three of you," he said curtly. "And we have men outside the house, too. If you make any disturbance, we shall all fire the instant the door is opened. If you put your firearms on the floor, and hold both hands over your head, you'll be well treated. If your hands are not up, we fire on sight. Get your revolvers ready, boys."
Then the officer opened the door. Evidently the burglar was wise enough to appreciate the futility of fighting against odds. Perhaps he did not wish to add the charge of manslaughter to that of robbery. Certainly, he did not feel himself called to sudden death. At any rate, his hands were above his head, and in less than a second he was securely manacled.
The chief officer had been eying him closely. "Say!" he exclaimed. "Aren't you Limber-Limb Grant?" The burglar grinned, but did not answer. "By jove!" shouted the officer. "It is! Call the girls down here," he ordered, and when they appeared, gazing at the burglar with mingled admiration, pity and fear, he congratulated them with considerable excitement.
"It's Limber-Limb Grant," he explained. "There's a reward of five hundred dollars for him. You'll get the money, as sure as you're born." Then he turned again to the burglar. "Say, Grant, what's a fellow like you doing on such a fifth-rate job as this? A Methodist parsonage is not just in your line, is it?"
Limber-Limb laughed sheepishly. "Well," he explained good-naturedly, "Chicago got too hot for me. I had to get out in a hurry, and I couldn't get my hands on any money. I had a fine lot of jewels, but I was so pushed I couldn't use them. I came here and loafed around town for a while, because folks said Mount Mark was so fast asleep it did not even wake up long enough to read the daily papers. I heard about this parsonage bunch, and knew the old man had gone off to get more religion. This afternoon at the station I saw a detective from Chicago get off the train, and I knew what that meant. But I needed some cash, and so I wasn't above a little job on the side. I never dreamed of getting done up by a bunch of preacher's kids. I went upstairs to get those family jewels I've heard about, and one of the little ones gave the alarm. I already had some of them, so I came down at once. I stopped in the dungeon to get that money, and first thing I knew the door banged shut. That's all. You're welcome to the five hundred dollars, ladies. Some one was bound to get it sooner or later, and I'm partial to the ladies, every time."
Limber-Limb Grant was a modern thief of the new class. At that moment, in Chicago, he had in storage, a hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels, which he could not dispose of on the pressure of the moment. The law was crowding him close, and he was obliged to choose between meeting the law, or running away from it. He ran. He reached Mount Mark, and trusted to its drowsiness for concealment for a few weeks. But that afternoon the arrival of a detective gave him warning, and he planned his departure promptly. A parsonage occupied by only five girls held no terrors for him, and with fifty dollars and a few fairly good jewels, a man of his talent could accomplish wonders.
But Mount Mark had aroused from its lethargy. Limber-Limb Grant was in the hands of the law.
Mr. Starr had been greatly interested in the accounts of the evangelistic services being held in Burlington. The workers were meeting with marked success, and Mr. Starr felt he should get in touch with them. So on Thursday morning he took the early east-bound train to Burlington. There he sought out a conveniently located second-class hotel, and took up residence. He attended the services at the tabernacle in the afternoon and evening, and then went to bed at the hotel. He slept late the next morning. When he finally appeared, he noticed casually, without giving it thought, that the clerk behind the desk looked at him with marked interest. Mr. Starr nodded cheerfully, and the clerk came at once from behind the desk to speak to him. Two or three other guests, who had been lounging about, drew near.
"We've just been reading about your girls, sir," said the clerk respectfully. "It's a pretty nervy little bunch! You must be proud of them!"
"My girls!" ejaculated Mr. Starr.
"Haven't you seen the morning paper? You're Mr. Starr, the Methodist minister at Mount Mark, aren't you?"
"I am! But what has happened to my girls? Is anything wrong? Give me the paper!"
Mr. Starr was greatly agitated. He showed it.
But the clerk could not lose this opportunity to create a sensation. It was a chance of a life-time. "Why, a burglar got in the parsonage last night," he began, almost licking his lips with satisfaction. "The twins heard him at their dresser, and when he stepped into the closet they locked him in there, and yelled for the rest of the family. But he broke away from them, and went, down-stairs and climbed down into the dungeon to get the money. Then Prudence, she ran down-stairs alone in the dark, and locked him in the dungeon,—pushed him down-stairs or something like that, I believe,—and then telephoned for the police. And she stayed on guard outside the dungeon until the police got there, so he couldn't get away. And the police got him, and found it was Limber-Limb Grant, a famous gentleman thief, and your girls are going to get five hundred dollars reward for catching him."
Five minutes later, Mr. Starr and his suit-case were in a taxicab speeding toward Union Station, and within eight minutes he was en route for Mount Mark,—white in the face, shaky in the knees, but tremendously proud in spirit.
Arriving at Mount Mark, he was instantly surrounded by an exclamatory crowd of station loungers. "Ride, sir? Glad to take you home for nothing," urged Harvey Reel. Mount Mark was enjoying more notoriety than ever before in the two hundred years of its existence. The name of Prudence was upon every tongue, and her father heard it with satisfaction. In the parsonage he found at least two-thirds of the Ladies' Aid Society, the trustees and the Sunday-school superintendent, along with a miscellaneous assortment of ordinary members, mixed up with Presbyterians, Baptists and a few unclassified outsiders. And Prudence was the center of attraction.
She was telling the "whole story," for perhaps the fifteenth time that morning, but she broke off when her father hurried in and flung her arms about him. "Oh, papa," she cried, "they mustn't praise me. I had no idea there was a burglar in the house when I ran down the stairs, and if I hadn't been careless and left the dungeon unlocked the money would have been in no danger, and if the twins hadn't wakened me I wouldn't have known there was a burglar about the place, and if Fairy hadn't kept me from rushing out to the dungeon to see if the money was safe, he would have got away, and—it took the policemen to get him out. Oh, I know that is not very grammatical, father, but it's just as true as if it were! And I honestly can't see that much credit is due me."
But Mount Mark did not take it so calmly. And as for the Methodist church,—well, the Presbyterian people used to say there was "no living with those Methodists, since the girls caught a burglar in the parsonage." Of course, it was important, from the Methodist point of view. Pictures of the parsonage and the church were in all the papers for miles around, and at their very next meeting the trustees decided to get the piano the Sunday-school had been needing for the last hundred years!
When the five hundred dollars arrived from Chicago, Prudence felt that personally she had no real right to the money. "We must divide it," she insisted, "for I didn't earn it a bit more than any of the others. But it is perfectly glorious to have five hundred dollars, isn't it? Did you ever have five hundred dollars before? Just take it, father, and use it for whatever we need. It's family money."
But he would not hear of this. "No," he said, "put it in the bank, Prudence, for there will come a time when you will want money very badly. Then you will have it."
"Let's divide it then,—a hundred for each of us," she urged.
Neither the younger girls nor their father would consent to this. But when Prudence stood very firm, and pleaded with them earnestly, they decided to divide it.
"I will deposit two hundred and fifty dollars for the four younger ones," he said, "and that will leave you as much."
So it was settled, and Prudence was a happy girl when she saw it safely put away in the bank.
"We can get it whenever we really need it, you know," she told her father joyfully. "It's such a comfort to know it's there! I feel just like a millionaire, I am sure. Do you think it would be all right to send Limber-Limb Grant a letter of thanks for it? We were horribly scared, but—well, I for one am willing to be horribly scared for such a lot of money as that!"
Sometimes, Methodists, or Presbyterians or heretics, whatever we may be, we are irresistibly impelled to the conclusion that things were simply bound to happen! However slight the cause,—still that cause was predestined from the beginning of time. A girl may by the sheerest accident, step from the street-car a block ahead of her destination,—an irritating incident. But as she walks that block she may meet an old-time friend, and a stranger. And that stranger,—ah, you can never convince the girl that her stepping from the car too soon was not ordered when the foundations of the world were laid.
Even so with Prudence, good Methodist daughter that she was. We ask her, "What if you had not gone out for a ride that morning?" And Prudence, laughing, answers, "Oh, but I had to go, you see." "Well," we continue, "if you had not met him that way, you could have met him some other way, I suppose." "Oh, no," declares Prudence decidedly, "it had to happen just that way."
After all, down in plain ink on plain paper, it was very simple. Across the street from the parsonage was a little white cottage set back among tall cedars. In this cottage lived a girl named Mattie Moore,—a common, unlovely, unexciting girl, with whom Romance could not apparently be intimately concerned. Mattie Moore taught a country school five miles out from town, and she rode to and from her school, morning and evening, on a bicycle.
Years before, when Prudence was young and bicycles were fashionable, she had been intensely fond of riding. But as she gained in age, and bicycles lost in popularity, she discarded the amusement as unworthy a parsonage damsel.
One evening, early in June, when the world was fair to look upon, it was foreordained that Prudence should be turning in at the parsonage gate just as Mattie Moore whirled up, opposite, on her dusty wheel. Prudence stopped to interchange polite inanities with her neighbor, and Mattie, wheeling the bicycle lightly beside her, came across the street and stood beneath the parsonage maples with Prudence. They talked of the weather, of the coming summer, of Mattie's school, rejoicing that one more week would bring freedom from books for Mattie and the younger parsonage girls.
Then said Prudence, seemingly of her own free will, but really directed by an all-controlling Providence, "Isn't it great fun to ride a bicycle? I love it. Sometime will you let me ride your wheel?"
"Why, certainly. You may ride now if you like."
"No," said Prudence slowly, "I am afraid it would not do for me to ride now. Some of the members might see me, and—well, I am very grown up, you know.—Of course," she added hastily, "it is different with you. You ride for business, but it would be nothing but a frolic with me. I want to get up at six o'clock and go early in the morning when the world is fast asleep. Let me take it to-morrow morning, will you? It is Saturday, and you won't be going to school."
"Yes, of course you may," was the hearty answer. "You may stay out as long as you like. I'm going to sew to-morrow. You make take it in the parsonage now and keep it until morning. I always sleep late on Saturdays."
So Prudence delightedly tripped up the parsonage board walk, wheeling the bicycle by her side. She hid it carefully in the woodshed, for the twins were rash and venturesome. But after she had gone to bed, she confided her plan to Fairy.
"I'm going at six o'clock, and I'll be back in time to get breakfast. But as you know, Fairy, my plans do not always work out as I intend, so if I am a little late, you'll get breakfast for papa and the girls, like a dear, won't you?"
Fairy promised. And early the next morning, Prudence, in a plain gingham house dress, with the addition of a red sweater jacket and cap for warmth, set out upon her secret ride. It was a magnificent morning, and Prudence sang for pure delight as she rode swiftly along the country roads. The country was simply irresistible. It was almost intoxicating. And Prudence rode farther than she had intended. East and west, north and south, she went, apparently guided only by her own caprice. She knew it was growing late, "but Fairy'll get breakfast," she thought comfortably.
Finally she turned in a by-road, leading between two rich hickory groves. Dismounting at the top of a long hill, she gazed anxiously around her. No one was in sight. The nearest house was two miles behind, and the road was long, and smooth, and inviting, and the hill was steep. Prudence yearned for a good, soul-stirring coast, with her feet high up on the framework of the wheel, and the pedals flying around beneath her skirts. This was not the new and modern model of bicycle. The pedals on Mattie Moore's wheel revolved, whether one worked them or not.
It seemed safe. The road sloped down gradually at the bottom, with an incline on the other side. What more could one desire. The only living thing in sight besides birds gossiping in the leafy branches and the squirrel scolding to himself, was a sober-eyed serious mule peacefully grazing near the bottom of the hill.
Prudence laughed gleefully, like a child. She never laughed again in exactly that way. This was the last appearance of the old irresponsible Prudence. The curtain was just ready to drop.
"Here goes!" she cried, and leaping nimbly into the saddle, she pedaled swiftly a few times, and then lifted her feet to the coveted position. The pedals flew around beneath her, just as she had anticipated, and the wind whistled about her in a most exhilarating way.
But as she neared the bottom, a disastrous and totally unexpected thing happened. The placid mule, which had been righteously grazing beside the fence, suddenly stalked into the middle of the road. Prudence screamed, jerked the handle-bar to the right, then to the left, and then, with a sickening thud, she landed head first upon some part of the mule's anatomy. She did not linger there, however. She bounced on down to the ground, with a little cry of pain. The bicycle crashed beside her, and the mule, slightly startled, looked around at her with ears raised in silent questioning. Then he ambled slowly across the road, and deliberately continued his grazing.
Prudence tried to raise herself, but she felt sharp pain. She heard some one leaping over the fence near her, and wondered, without moving her head, if it could be a tramp bent on highway robbery. The next instant, a man was leaning over her. "It's not a tramp," she thought, before he had time to speak.
"Are you hurt?" he cried. "You poor child!"
Prudence smiled pluckily. "My ankle is hurt a little, but I am not a child."
The young man, in great relief, laughed aloud, and Prudence joined him rather faintly.
"I'm afraid I can not walk," she said. "I believe I've broken my ankle, maybe my whole leg, for all I know. It—hurts—pretty badly!"
"Lie down like this," he said, helping her to a more comfortable position, "do not move. May I examine your foot?"
She shook her head, but he removed the shoe regardless of her head-shake. "I believe it is sprained. I am sure the bone is not broken. But how in the world will you get home? How far is it to Mount Mark? Is that where you live?"
"Yes," considering, "yes, I live there, and it must be four miles, anyhow. What shall I do?"
In answer, he pulled off his coat, and arranged it carefully by the side of the road on the grass. Then jerking open the bag he had carried, he took out a few towels, and three soft shirts. Hastily rolling them together for a pillow, he added it to the bed pro tem. Then he turned again to Prudence.
"I'll carry you over here, and fix you as comfortably as I can. Then I'll go to the nearest house and get a wagon to take you home."
Prudence was not shy, and realizing that his plan was the wise one, she made no objections when he came to help her across the road. "I think I can walk if you lift me up."
But the first movement sent such a twinge of pain through the wounded ankle that she clutched him frantically, and burst into tears. "It hurts," she cried, "don't touch me."
Without speaking, he lifted her as gently as he could and carried her to the place he had prepared for her. "Will you be warm enough?" he asked, after he had stood looking awkwardly down upon the sobbing girl as long as he could endure it.
"Yes," nodded Prudence, gulping down the big soft rising in her throat.
"I'll run. Do you know which way is nearest to a house? It's been a long time since I passed one coming this way."
"The way I came is the nearest, but it's two miles, I think."
"I'll go as fast as I can, and you will be all right This confounded cross-cut is so out of the way that no one will pass here for hours, I suppose. Now lie as comfortably as you can, and do not worry. I'm going to run."
Off he started, but Prudence, left alone, was suddenly frightened. "Please, oh, please," she called after him, and when he came back she buried her face in shame, deep in the linen towel.
"I'm afraid," she whispered, crying again. "I do not wish to be left alone here. A snake might come, or a tramp."
He sat down beside her. "You're nervous. I'll stay with you until you feel better. Some one may come this way, but it isn't likely. A man I passed on the road a ways back told me to cut through the hickory grove and I would save a mile of travel. That's how I happened to come through the woods, and find you." He smiled a little, and Prudence, remembering the nature of her accident, flushed. Then, being Prudence, she laughed.
"It was my own fault. I had no business to go coasting down like that. But the mule was so stationary. It never occurred to me that he contemplated moving for the next century at least. He was a bitter disappointment." She looked down the roadside where the mule was contentedly grazing, with never so much as a sympathetic glance toward his victim.
"I'm afraid your bicycle is rather badly done up."
"Oh,—whatever will Mattie Moore say to me? It's borrowed. Oh, I see now, that it was just foolish pride that made me unwilling to ride during decent hours. What a dunce I was,—as usual."
He looked at her curiously. This was beyond his comprehension.
"The bicycle belongs to Mattie Moore. She lives across the street from the parsonage, and I wanted to ride. She said I could. But I was ashamed to ride in the daytime, for fear some of the members would think it improper for a girl of the parsonage, and so I got up at six o'clock this morning to do it on the sly. Somehow I never can remember that it is just as bad to do things when you aren't seen as when you are. It doesn't seem so bad, does it? But of course it is. But I never think of that when I need to be thinking of it. Maybe I'll remember after this." She was silent a while. "Fairy'll have to get breakfast, and she always gets father's eggs too hard." Silence again. "Maybe papa'll worry. But then, they know by this time that something always does happen to me, so they'll be prepared."
She turned gravely to the young man beside her. He was looking down at her, too. And as their eyes met, and clung for an instant, a slow dark color rose in his face. Prudence felt a curious breathlessness,—caused by her hurting ankle, undoubtedly.
"My name is Prudence Starr,—I am the Methodist minister's oldest daughter."
"And my name is Jerrold Harmer." He was looking away into the hickory grove now. "My home is in Des Moines."
"Oh, Des Moines is quite a city, isn't it? I've heard quite a lot about it. It isn't so large as Chicago, though, of course. I know a man who lives in Chicago. We used to be great chums, and he told me all about the city. Some day I must really go there,—when the Methodists get rich enough to pay their ministers just a little more salary." Then she added thoughtfully, "Still, I couldn't go even if I had the money, because I couldn't leave the parsonage. So it's just as well about the money, after all. But Chicago must be very nice. He told me about the White City, and the big parks, and the elevated railways, and all the pretty restaurants and hotels. I love pretty places to eat. You might tell me about Des Moines. Is it very nice? Are there lots of rich people there?—Of course, I do not really care any more about the rich people than the others, but it always makes a city seem grand to have a lot of rich citizens, I think. Don't you?"
So he told her about Des Moines, and Prudence lay with her eyes half-closed, listening, and wondering why there was more music in his voice than in most voices. Her ankle did not hurt very badly. She did not mind it at all. In fact, she never gave it a thought. From beneath her lids, she kept her eyes fastened on Jerrold Harmer's long brown hands, clasped loosely about his knees. And whenever she could, she looked up into his face. And always there was that curious catching in her breath, and she looked away again quickly, feeling that to look too long was dangerous.
"I have talked my share now," he was saying, "tell me all about yourself, and the parsonage, and your family. And who is Fairy? And do you attend the college at Mount Mark? You look like a college girl."
"Oh, I am not," said Prudence, reluctant to make the admission for the first time in her life. "I am too stupid to be a college girl. Our mother is not living, and I left high school five years ago and have been keeping house for my father and sisters since then. I am twenty years old. How old are you?"
"I am twenty-seven," and he smiled.
"Jerrold Harmer," she said slowly and very musically. "It is such a nice name. Do your friends call you Jerry?"
"The boys at school called me Roldie, and sometimes Hammie. But my mother always called me Jerry. She isn't living now, either. You call me Jerry, will you?"
"Yes, I will, but it won't be proper. But that never makes any difference to me,—except when it might shock the members! You want me to call you Jerry, don't you?"
"Yes, I do. And when we are better acquainted, will you let me call you Prudence?"
"Call me that now.—I can't be too particular, you see, when I am lying on your coat and pillowed with your belongings. You might get cross, and take them away from me.—Did you go to college?"
"Yes, to Harvard, but I was not much of a student. Then I knocked around a while, looking at the world, and two years ago I went home to Des Moines. I have been there ever since except for little runs once in a while."
Prudence sighed. "To Harvard!—I am sorry now that I did not go to college myself."
"Why? There doesn't seem to be anything lacking about you. What do you care about college?"
"Well, you went to college," she answered argumentatively. "My sister Fairy is going now. She's very clever,—oh, very. You'll like her, I am sure,—much better than you do me, of course." Prudence was strangely downcast.
"I am sure I won't," said Jerrold Harmer, with unnecessary vehemence. "I don't care a thing for college girls. I know a lot of them, and—aw, they make a fellow tired. I like home girls,—the kind that stay at home, and keep house, and are sweet, and comfortable, and all that." Jerrold flipped over abruptly, and lay on the grass, his face on his arms turned toward her face. They were quiet for a while, but their glances were clinging.
"Your eyes are brown, aren't they?" Prudence smiled, as though she had made a pleasant discovery.
"Yes. Yours are blue. I noticed that, first thing."
"Did you? Do you like blue eyes? They aren't as—well, as strong and expressive as brown eyes. Fairy's are brown."
"I like blue eyes best. They are so much brighter and deeper. You can't see clear to the bottom of blue eyes,—you have to keep looking." And he did keep looking.
"Did you play football at college? You are so tall. Fairy's tall, too. Fairy's very grand-looking. I've tried my best to eat lots, and exercise, and make myself bigger, but—I am a fizzle."
"Yes, I played football.—But girls do not need to be so tall as men. Don't you remember what Orlando said about Rosalind,—'just as tall as my heart'? I imagine you come about to my shoulder. We'll measure as soon as you are on your feet again."
"Are you going to live in Mount Mark now? Are you coming to stay?" Prudence was almost quivering as she asked this. It was of vital importance.
"No, I will only be there a few days, but I shall probably be back every week or so. Is your father very strict? Maybe he would object to your writing to me."
"Oh, he isn't strict at all. And he will be glad for me to write to you, I know. I write to two or three men when they are away. But they are—oh, I do not know exactly what it is, but I do not really like to write to them. I believe I'll quit. It's such a bother."
"Yes, it is, that's so. I think I would quit, if I were you. I was just thinking how silly it is for me to keep on writing to some girls I used to know. Don't care two cents about 'em. I'm going to cut it out as soon as I get home. But you will write to me, won't you?"
"Yes, of course." Prudence laughed shyly. "It seems so—well, nice,—to think of getting letters from you."
"I'll bet there are a lot of nice fellows in Mount Mark, aren't there?"
"Why, no. I can't think of any real nice ones! Oh, they are all right. I have lots of friends here, but they are—I do not know what! They do not seem very nice. I wouldn't care if I never saw them again. But they are good to me."
"Yes, I can grasp that," he said with feeling.
"Is Des Moines just full of beautiful girls?"
"I should say not. I never saw a real beautiful girl in Des Moines in my life. Or any place else, for that matter,—until I came—You know when you come right down to it, there are mighty few girls that look—just the way you want them to look."
Prudence nodded. "That's the way with men, too. Of all the men I have seen in my life, I never saw one before that looked just the way I wanted him to."
"Before?" he questioned eagerly.
"Yes," said Prudence frankly. "You look just as I wish you to."
And in the meanwhile, at the parsonage, Fairy was patiently getting breakfast. "Prudence went out for an early bicycle ride,—so the members wouldn't catch her," she explained to the family. "And she isn't back yet. She'll probably stay out until afternoon, and then ride right by the grocery store where the Ladies have their Saturday sale. That's Prudence, all over. Oh, father, I did forget your eggs again, I am afraid they are too hard. Here, twins, you carry in the oatmeal, and we will eat. No use to wait for Prudence,—it would be like waiting for the next comet."
Indeed, it was nearly noon when a small, one-horse spring wagon drove into the parsonage yard. Mr. Starr was in his study with a book, but he heard a piercing shriek from Connie, and a shrill "Prudence!" from one of the twins. He was downstairs in three leaps, and rushing wildly out to the little rickety wagon. And there was Prudence!
"Don't be frightened, father. I've just sprained my ankle, and it doesn't hurt hardly any. But the bicycle is broken,—we'll have to pay for it. You can use my own money in the bank. Poor Mr. Davis had to walk all the way to town, because there wasn't any room for him in the wagon with me lying down like this. Will you carry me in?"
Connie's single bed was hastily brought downstairs, and Prudence deposited upon it. "There's no use to put me up-stairs," she assured them. "I won't stay there. I want to be down here where I can boss the girls."
The doctor came in, and bandaged the swollen purple ankle. Then they had dinner,—they tried to remember to call it luncheon, but never succeeded! After that, the whole parsonage family grouped about the little single bed in the cheery sitting-room.
"Whose coat is this, Prudence?" asked Connie.
"And where in the world did you get these towels and silk shirts?" added Fairy.
Prudence blushed most exquisitely. "They are Mr. Harmer's," she said, and glanced nervously at her father.
"Whose?" chorused the family. And it was plain to be seen that Lark was ready to take mental notes with an eye to future stories.
"If you will sit down and keep still, I will tell you all about it. But you must not interrupt me. What time is it, Fairy?"
"Two o'clock."
"Oh, two. Then I have plenty of time. Well, when I got to that little cross-cut through the hickory grove, about four miles out from town, I thought I would coast down the long hill. Do you remember that hill, father? There was no one in sight, and no animals, except one hoary old mule, grazing at the bottom. It was irresistible, absolutely irresistible. So I coasted. But you know yourself, father, there is no trusting a mule. They are the most undependable animals." Prudence looked thoughtfully down at the bed for a moment, and added slowly, "Still, I have no hard feelings against the mule. In fact, I kind of like him.—Well, anyway, just as I got to the critical place in the hill, that mule skipped right out in front of me. It looked as though he did it on purpose. I did not have time to get out of his way, and it never occurred to him to get out of mine, and so I went Bang! right into him. And it broke Mattie Moore's wheel, and upset me quite a little. But that mule never budged! Jerry—er Harmer,—Mr. Harmer, you know,—said he believed an earthquake could coast downhill on to that mule without seriously inconveniencing him. I was hurt a little, and couldn't get up. And so he jumped over the fence,—No, Connie, not the mule, of course! Mr. Harmer! He jumped over the fence, and put his coat on the ground, and made a pillow for me with the shirts and towels in his bag, and carried me over. Then he wanted to go for a wagon to bring me home, but I was too nervous and scared, so he stayed with me. Then Mr. Davis came along with his cart, and Jerry—er—Harmer, you know, helped put me in, and the cart was so small they both had to walk."
"Where is he now?" "Is he young?" "Is he handsome?" "Did he look rich?"
"Don't be silly, girls. He went to the hotel, I suppose. Anyhow, he left us as soon as we reached town. He said he was in a hurry, and had something to look after. His coat was underneath me in the wagon, and he wouldn't take it out for fear of hurting my ankle, so the poor soul is probably wandering around this town in his shirt-sleeves."
Already, in the eyes of the girls, this Jerry—er—Harmer, had taken unto himself all the interest of the affair.
"He'll have to come for his coat," said Lark. "We're bound to see him."
"Where does he live? What was he doing in the hickory grove?" inquired Mr. Starr with a strangely sinking heart, for her eyes were alight with new and wonderful radiance.
"He lives in Des Moines. He was just walking into town, and took a short cut through the grove."
"Walking! From Des Moines?"
Prudence flushed uncomfortably. "I didn't think of that," she said. "But I do not see why he should not walk if he likes. He's strong and athletic, and fond of exercise. I guess he's plenty able to walk if he wants to. I'm sure he's no tramp, father, if that is what you are thinking."
"I am not thinking anything of the kind, Prudence," he said with dignity. "But I do think it rather strange that a young man should set out to walk from Des Moines to Mount Mark. And why should he be at it so early in the morning? Doesn't he require sleep, as the rest of us do?"
"How should I know? I guess if he likes to be but in the morning when it is fresh and sweet, it is all right. I like the morning myself. He had as much right out early as I had. His clothes were nice, and he is a Harvard graduate, and his shoes were dusty, but not soiled or worn. Anyhow, he is coming at four o'clock. If you want to ask if he is a tramp, you can do it." And Prudence burst into tears.
Dramatic silence in the cheerful sitting-room! Then Fairy began bustling about to bathe the face and throat of "poor little Prudence," and her father said sympathetically:
"You're all nervous and wrought up, with the pain and excitement, Prudence. I'm glad he is coming so we can thank him for his kindness. It was mighty lucky he happened along, wasn't it? A Harvard graduate! Yes, they are pretty strong on athletics at Harvard. You'd better straighten this room a little and have things looking nice when he gets here," said Father Starr, with great diplomacy. And he was rewarded, and startled, by observing that Prudence brightened wonderfully at his words.
"Yes, do," she urged eagerly. "Get some of the roses from the corner bush, and put them on the table there. And when you go up-stairs, Fairy, you'd better bring down that little lace spread in the bottom drawer of our dresser. It'll look very nice on this bed.—Work hard, girls, and get everything looking fine. He'll be here at four, he said. You twins may wear your white dresses, and Connie must put on her blue and wear her blue bows.—Fairy, do you think it would be all right for you to wear your silk dress? Of course, the silk is rather grand for home, but you do look so beautiful in it. Father, will you put on your black suit, or are you too busy? And don't forget to wear the pearl cuff buttons Aunt Grace sent you."
He went up-stairs to obey, with despair in his heart. But to the girls, there was nothing strange in this exactness on the part of Prudence. Jerrold Harmer was the hero of the romance, and they must unite to do him honor. He was probably a prince in disguise. Jerrold Harmer was a perfectly thrilling name. It was really a shame that America allows no titles,—Lord Jerrold did sound so noble, and Lady Prudence was very effective, too. He and Prudence were married, and had a family of four children, named for the various Starrs, before one hour had passed.
"I'll begin my book right away," Lark was saying. She and Carol were in the dining-room madly polishing their Sunday shoes,—what time they were not performing the marriage ceremony of their sister and The Hero.
"Yes, do! But for goodness' sake, don't run her into a mule! Seems to me even Prudence could have done better than that."