Fairy was one of those buoyant, warm-blooded girls to whom sleep is indeed the great restorer. She slept soundly, sweetly, dreamlessly. And every morning she ran down-stairs so full of animation and life that she seemed all atingle to her finger-tips. Now she stood in the kitchen door, tall, cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, and smiled at her sister's solemn back.
"You are the little mousey, Prue," she said, in her full rich voice. "I didn't hear you come to bed last night, and I didn't hear you getting out this morning. I am an abominably solid sleeper, am I not? Shall I get the maple sirup for the pancakes? I wonder if Jerry knows we only use maple sirup when he is here. I'm constantly expecting Connie to give it away. Why am I always so ravenously hungry in the morning? Goodness knows I eat enough—Why, what is the matter?" For Prudence had turned her face toward her sister, and it was so white and so unnatural that Fairy was shocked.
"Prudence! You are sick! Go to bed and let me get breakfast. Why didn't you call me? I'm real angry at you, Prudence Starr! Here, get out of this, and I will——"
"There's nothing the matter with me. I had a headache, and did not sleep, but I am all right now. Yes, bring the sirup, Fairy. Are the girls up yet?"
Fairy eyed her suspiciously. "Jerry is out unusually early, too, isn't he? His door is open. I didn't hear him coming down so he must have quite outdone himself to-day. He generally has to be called twice."
"Jerry has gone, Fairy." Prudence's back was presented to view once more, and Prudence was stirring the oatmeal with vicious energy. "He left early this morning,—I suppose he is half-way to Des Moines by now."
"Oh!" Fairy's voice was non-committal.
"Will you get the sirup now?"
"Yes, of course.—When is he coming back?"
"He isn't coming back. Please hurry, Fairy, and then call the others. The oatmeal is ready."
Fairy went soberly down cellar, and brought up the golden sirup. Then, ostensibly to call her sisters, she hurried up the stairs.
"Girls," she began, carefully closing the door of their room behind her. "Jerry has gone, and isn't coming back any more. And for goodness' sake, don't keep asking questions about it. Just eat your breakfast as usual, and have a little tact."
"Gone!"
"Yes."
"A lovers' quarrel," suggested Lark, and her eyes glittered greedily.
"Nothing of the sort. And don't keep staring at Prue, either. And do not keep talking about Jerry all the time. You mind me, or I will tell papa."
"That's funny," said Carol thoughtfully. "We left them kissing each other like mad in the back yard last night,—and this morning he has gone to return no more. They are crazy."
"Kissing! In the back yard! What are you talking about?"
Carol explained, and Fairy looked still more thoughtful and perturbed.
She opened the door, and called out to them in a loud and breezy voice, "Hurry, girls, for breakfast is ready, and there's no time to waste in a parsonage on Sunday morning." Then she added in a whisper, "And don't you mention Jerry, and don't ask Prudence what makes her so pale, or you'll catch it!"
Then she went to her father's door. "Breakfast is ready, papa," she called clearly. She turned the knob softly, and peeped in. "May I come in a minute?" Standing close beside him, she told him all she knew of what had happened.
"Prudence is ghastly, father, just ghastly. And she can't talk about it yet, so be careful what you say, will you?"
And it was due to Fairy's kindly admonitions that the parsonage family took the departure of Jerry so calmly.
"Fairy says Jerry took the morning train," said Mr. Starr, as they were passing the cream and sugar for the oatmeal. "That is too bad! But it is just the worst of being a business man,—one never knows when one must be up and away. And of course, one can not neglect business interests.—The oatmeal is unusually good this morning, Prudence." This was nothing short of heroic on his part, for her eyes upon her father's face were so wide and dark that the lump in his throat would not stay down.
That was the beginning of Prudence's bitter winter, when the brightest sunshine was cheerless and dreary, and when even the laughter of her sisters smote harshly upon her ears. She tried to be as always, but in her eyes the wounded look lingered, and her face grew so pale and thin that her father and Fairy, anxiously watching, were filled with grave concern. She remained almost constantly in the parsonage, reading very little, sitting most of her leisure time staring out the windows.
Fairy had tried to win her confidence, and had failed.
"You are a darling, Fairy, but I really do not want to talk about it.—Oh, no, indeed, it is all my own fault. I told him to go, and not come again.—No, you are wrong, Fairy, I do not regret it. I do not want him to come any more."
And Fairy worried. What in the world had happened to separate in the morning these two who had been kissing so frankly in the back yard the evening before?
Mr. Starr, too, had tried. "Prudence," he said gently, "you know very often men do things that to women seem wrong and wicked. And maybe they are! But men and women are different by nature, my dear, and we must remember that. I have satisfied myself that Jerry is good, and clean, and manly. I do not think you should let any foolishness of his in the past, come between you now."
"You are mistaken, father. Jerry is all right, and always was, I am sure. It is nothing like that. I told him to go, and not to come again. That is all."
"But if he should come back now——"
"It would be just the same. Don't worry about it, father. It's all right."
"Prudence," he said, more tenderly, "we have been the closest of friends and companions, you and I, from the very beginning. Always you have come to me with your troubles and worries. Have I ever failed you? Why, then, do you go back on me now, when you really need me?"
Prudence patted his shoulder affectionately, but her eyes did not meet his. "I do not really need you now, father. It is all settled, and I am quite satisfied. Things are all right with me just as they are."
Then he took a serious step, without her knowledge. He went to Des Moines, and had a visit with Jerry. He found him thinner, his face sterner, his eyes darker. When the office boy announced "Mr. Starr," Jerry ran quickly out to greet him.
"Is she all right?" he cried eagerly, almost before he was within hailing distance.
Mr. Starr did not mince matters. "Jerry," he said abruptly, "did you and Prudence have a quarrel? She declines to tell me anything about it, and after the conversations you and I have had, I think I have a right to know what has happened."
"Does she miss me? Does she seem sorry that I am away? Does——" His voice was so boyish and so eager there was no mistaking his attitude toward Prudence.
"Look here, Jerry, I want to know. Why are you staying away?"
"Won't Prudence tell you?"
"No."
"Then I can not. She made me promise not to tell you a word. But it is not my fault, Mr. Starr. I can tell you that. It is nothing I have done or said. She sent me away because she thinks it was right for her to do so, and—you know Prudence! It is wrong, I know. I knew it all the time. But I couldn't make her see it. And she made me promise not to tell."
In the end Mr. Starr went back to the parsonage no wiser than he left, save that he now knew that Jerry was really not to blame, and that he held himself ready to return to her on a moment's notice.
The Ladies of the Methodist church were puzzled and exasperated. They went to the parsonage, determined to "find out what's what." But when they sat with Prudence, and looked at the frail, pathetic little figure, with the mournful eyes,—-they could only sigh with her and go their ways.
The twins continued to play in the great maple, even when the leaves were fallen, "It's a dandy place, I tell you, Prudence," cried Carol. "Jerry didn't have time to put up the rope before Connie pulled him down, but we've fixed it ourselves, and it is simply grand. You can go up and swing any time you like,—unless your joints are too stiff! It's a very serious matter getting up there,—-for stiff joints, of course, I mean. Lark and I get up easy enough."
For a moment, Prudence sat silent with quivering lips. Then she burst out with unusual passion, "Don't you ever dare climb up in that tree again as long as you live, twins! Mind what I say!"
Lark looked thoughtfully out of the window, and Carol swallowed hard. It was she who said gently, "Why, of course, Prue,—just as you say."
For the first time, Prudence had dealt with them harshly and unfairly. They knew it. There was neither sense nor justice in her command. But they did not argue the point. They kept their eyes considerately away from her, and buried themselves inJulius Caesar,—it must be remembered the twins are sophomores now. Five minutes later Prudence spoke again, humbly.
"I beg you pardon, twins,—that was a perfectly idiotic thing for me to say. Of course, you may play in the maple whenever you like. But be careful. You couldn't save yourselves in falling as—as men can."
"We won't play there if you want us not to," said Carol kindly.
"I do want you to play there," she answered. "It's a very nice place, and great fun, I know. I might try it myself if—my joints weren't so stiff! Now, go on with your Latin."
But Prudence did not pass under the maple for many weeks without clenching her hands, and shuddering.
The twins were not satisfied. They marveled, and wondered, and pondered over the subject of Jerry's disappearance. Finally they felt it was more than human flesh could stand. They would approach Prudence on the subject themselves. But they bided their time. They must wait until Fairy was safely out of the house. Fairy these days had an infuriating way of saying, "That will do, twins. You'd better go and play now." It enraged and distracted the twins almost to the point of committing crime.
They had made several artistic moves already. Professor Duke, of their freshman biology class, had written Carol a gay long letter. And Carol was enthusiastic about it. She and Lark talked of "dear old Duck" for two weeks, almost without pausing for sleep.
"I'm sure you would fall in love with him on the spot," Carol had said to Prudence suggestively.
Prudence had only smiled, evidently in sarcasm!
"Jerry was very nice,—oh, very nice,—but you ought to see our little Duck!" Carol rattled rashly. "I'm sure you wouldn't regret Jerry any more if you could just get hold of Duckie. Of course, his being in New York is an obstacle, but I could introduce you by mail."
"I do not care for Ducks," said Prudence. "Of course, they look very nice swimming around on the water, but when it comes to eating,—I'll take spring chicken every time."
Carol did not mention "Duck" again for three days.
But there came a day when Fairy was out in the country. Connie had gone driving with her father. The moment had arrived. The twins had their plan of campaign memorized, and they sauntered in to Prudence with a nonchalance that was all assumed.
"Prudence," Lark began, "we're writing a book."
"That's nice," said Prudence. Conversation languished. The subject seemed exhausted.
Carol came to the rescue. "It's a very nice book. It's a love-story, and perfectly thrilling. Larkie does the writing, but I criticize and offer suggestions."
"That's kind of you."
A pause.
"I'm going to dedicate it to Carol,—To my beloved sister, to whose kindness and sympathy, I owe all that I am,—or something like that," Lark explained hopefully.
"How proud Carol will be!"
A long pause.
"We're in a very critical place just now, though," Lark seemed to be commencing at the beginning once more. "We have our heroine in a very peculiar situation, and we can't think what to do with her next."
"How sad."
Another pause.
"We thought maybe you could help us out."
"I'm afraid not," Prudence smiled a little. "I haven't any imagination. Ask Fairy. She's strong on love-stories."
"Maybe if we explain the situation to you, you could give us a suggestion. It is like this: The young people have had all kinds of thrilling experiences, but they are not yet betrothed. But they are just on the point of getting there,—and something crops up all of a sudden! The hero goes dashing away, and returns no more. The heroine lies upon her silken couch, weeping, weeping. And no one knows what to do about it, because no one knows what has happened. What do you suppose could have sent the lover away like that?"
"Maybe he hasn't enough money for the heroine."
"Oh, yes,—he's very rich."
"Maybe he is already married."
"No, indeed. He's a bachelor."
"Maybe he didn't love her, after all."
Here Carol chimed in helpfully. "Oh, yes, he did, for we left him kissing her all over the back yard, and he wouldn't have done that if he hadn't loved her, you know."
Prudence's eyes twinkled a little, but her smile was sad.
"Now, what would you advise us to do?" inquired Lark briskly, feeling instinctively that Carol had explained too much.
Prudence rose slowly. "I think," she said very gently, "I think I would burn the book if I were you, and pay a little more attention to my studies."
Then she went up-stairs, and Carol told Lark sympathetically that they did not deserve an authoress in the parsonage when they didn't give her any more encouragement than that!
On the day before Christmas, an insured package was delivered at the parsonage for Prudence. A letter was with it, and she read that first.
"My dearest little sweetheart: I chose this gift for you long before I had the right to do it. I was keeping it until the proper moment. But the moment came, and went again. Still I want you to have the gift. Please wear it, for my sake, for I shall be happy knowing it is where it ought to be, even though I myself am banished. I love you, Prudence. Whenever you send for me, I am ready to come. Entirely and always yours. Jerry."
With trembling fingers she opened the little package. It contained a ring, with a brilliant diamond flashing myriad colors before her eyes. And Prudence kissed it passionately, many times.
Two hours later, she went quietly down-stairs to where the rest of the family were decorating a Christmas tree. She showed the ring to them gravely.
"Jerry sent it to me," she said. "Do you think it is all right for me to wear it, father?"
A thrill of hopeful expectancy ran through the little group.
"Yes, indeed," declared her father. "How beautiful it is! Is Jerry coming to spend Christmas with us?"
"Why, no, father,—he is not coming at all any more. I thought you understood that."
An awkward silence, and Carol came brightly to the rescue. "It certainly is a beauty! I thought it was very kind of Professor Duckie to send Lark and me a five-pound box of chocolates, but of course this is ever so much nicer. Jerry's a bird, I say."
"A bird!" mocked Fairy. "Such language."
Lark came to her twin's defense. "Yes, a bird,—that's just what he is."
Carol smiled. "We saw him use his wings when Connie yanked him out of the big maple, didn't we, Lark?" Then, "Did you send him anything, Prue?"
Prudence hesitated, and answered without the slightest accession of color, "Yes, Carol. I had my picture taken when I was in Burlington, and sent it to him."
"Your picture! Oh, Prudence! Where are they? Aren't you going to give us one?"
"No, Carol. I had only one made,—for Jerry. There aren't any more."
"Well," sighed Lark resignedly, "it's a pretty idea for my book, anyhow."
From that day on, Prudence always wore the sparkling ring,—and the women of the Methodist church nearly had mental paralysis marveling over a man who gave a diamond ring, and never came a-wooing! And a girl who accepted and wore his offering, with nothing to say for the man! And it was the consensus of opinion in Mount Mark that modern lovers were mostly crazy, anyhow!
And springtime came again.
Now the twins were always original in their amusements. They never followed blindly after the dictates of custom. When other girls were playing dolls, the twins were a tribe of wild Indians. When other girls were jumping the rope, the twins were conducting a circus. And when other girls played "catch" with dainty rubber balls, the twins took unto themselves a big and heavy croquet ball,—found in the Avery woodshed. To be sure, it stung and bruised their hands. What matter? At any rate, they continued endangering their lives and beauties by reckless pitching of the ungainly plaything.
One Friday evening after school, they were amusing themselves on the parsonage lawn with this huge ball. When their father turned in, they ran up to him with a sporting proposition.
"Bet you a nickel, papa," cried Carol, "that you can't throw this ball as far as the schoolhouse woodshed!—By the way, will you lend me a nickel, papa?"
He took the ball, and weighed it lightly in his hand. "I'm an anti-betting society," he declared, laughing, "but I very strongly believe it will carry to the schoolhouse woodshed. If it does not, I'll give you five cents' worth of candy to-morrow. And if it does, you shall put an extra nickel in the collection next Sunday."
Then he drew back his arm, and carefully sighted across the lawn. "I'll send it right between the corner of the house and that little cedar," he said, and then, bending low, it whizzed from his hand.
Lark screamed, and Carol sank fainting to the ground. For an instant, Mr. Starr himself stood swaying. Then he rushed across the lawn. For Prudence had opened the front door, and stepped quickly out on the walk by the corner of the house. The heavy ball struck her on the forehead, and she fell heavily, without a moan.
Four hours Prudence lay unconscious, with two doctors in close attendance. Fairy, alert but calm, was at hand to give them service.
It is a significant thing that in bitter anguish and grief, Christians find comfort and peace in prayer. Outsiders, as well as Christians, pray in times of danger and mental stress. But here is the big difference between the prayers of Christians and the prayers of "others." "Others" pray, and pray, and pray again, and continue still in the agony and passion of grief and fear. And yet they pray. But Christians pray, and find confidence and serenity. Sorrow may remain, but anguish is stilled.
Mount Mark considered this a unique parsonage family. Their liveliness, their gaiety, their love of fun, seemed a little inapropos in the setting of a Methodist parsonage.
"They ain't sanctimonious enough by half," declared old Harvey Reel, the bus driver, "but, by Jings! I tell you they are dandies!"
But as a matter of fact, every one of the family, from Connie up, had a characteristic parsonage heart. When they were worried, or frightened, or grieved, they prayed. Fairy passing up the stairs with hot water for the doctors, whispered to her father as he turned in to his own room, "Keep on praying, father. I can't stop now, because they need me. But I'm praying every minute between errands!" And Mr. Starr, kneeling beside his bed, did pray,—and the stony despair in his eyes died out, and he came from the little room quiet, and confident, and calm.
Connie had been unfortunate. In seeking a secluded corner to "pray for Prudence," she had passed the door of the dungeon, and paused. A fitting place! So she turned in at once, drawing the door after her, but leaving it a couple of inches ajar. Then in the farthest and darkest corner, she knelt on the hard floor, and prayed, and sobbed herself to sleep. Fairy passing through the hall, observed the door ajar, and gave it a slight push. The lock snapped into place, but Connie did not waken.
Lark remained loyally with Carol until consciousness returned to her. As soon as she was able to walk, the two went silently to the barn, and climbed into the much-loved haymow. There they lay flat on the hay, faces downward, each with an arm across the other's shoulder, praying fervently. After a time they rose and crept into the house, where they waited patiently until Fairy came down on one of her numerous errands.
"Is she better?" they whispered. And Fairy answered gently, "I think she is a little better." Then the twins, in no way deceived, went back to the haymow again.
Fairy prepared a hasty supper, and arranged it on the kitchen table. She drank a cup of hot coffee, and went in search of her father. "Go and eat, dadsie," she urged. But he shook his head.
"I am not hungry, but send the girls to the table at once."
On their next trip into the house, Fairy stopped the twins. "Get Connie, and eat your supper. It's just a cold lunch, and is already on the kitchen table. You must help yourselves,—I can't come now."
The twins did not speak, and Fairy went hurriedly up the stairs once more.
"I do not think I can eat," said Carol.
"I know I can't," was Lark's reply.
"Won't Fairy make us? She'll tell papa."
"We'd better take away about half of this food, and hide it. Then she will think we have already eaten."
This novel plan was acted upon with promptitude.
"Where's Connie? She ought to eat something. We must make her do it."
"She probably cried herself to sleep somewhere. We'd better let her alone. She'll feel much better asleep and hungry, than awake and sorry for Prue."
So the twins went back to the haymow. When it grew dark, they slipped into the kitchen, and huddled together on, the woodbox beside the stove. And down to them presently came Fairy, smiling, her eyes tear-brightened.
"She is better!" cried Carol, springing to her feet.
"Yes," said Fairy, dropping on her knees and burying her face in Lark's lap, as she still sat on the woodbox. "She's better. She is better." Lark patted the heaving shoulders in a motherly way, and when Fairy lifted her face again it was all serene, though her lashes were wet.
"She is conscious," said Fairy, still on her knees, but with her head thrown back, and smiling. "She regained consciousness a little while ago. There is nothing really serious the matter. It was a hard knock, but it missed the temple. When she became conscious, she looked up at father and smiled. Father looked perfectly awful, twins, so pale, and his lips were trembling. And Prudence said, 'Now, father, on your word of honor, did you knock me down with that ball on purpose?' She spoke very low, and weak, but—just like Prudence! Father couldn't say a word, he just nodded, and gulped. She has a little fever, and the doctors say we may need to work with her part of the night. Father said to ask if you would go to bed now, so you can get up early in the morning and help us. I am to stay with Prudence to-night, but you may have to take turns in the morning. And you'll have to get breakfast, too. So father thinks you would better go to bed. Will you do that, twinnies?"
"Will we!" And Carol added, "Will you kiss Prudence good night for us, and tell her we kept praying all the time? Prudence is such a great hand for praying, you know."
Fairy promised, and the twins crept up-stairs. It was dark in their room.
"We'll undress in the dark so as not to awake poor little Connie," whispered Lark. "It's nice she can sleep like that, isn't it?"
And the twins went to bed, and fell asleep after a while, never doubting that Connie, in her corner of the room, was already safe and happy in the oblivion of slumber.
But poor Connie! She had not wakened when Fairy closed the dungeon door. It was long afterward when she sat up and began rubbing her eyes. She did not know where she was. Then she remembered! She wondered if Prudence— She scrambled to her feet, and trotted over to the dungeon door. It was locked, she could not turn the knob. At first, she thought of screaming and pounding on the door.
"But that will arouse Prudence, and frighten her, and maybe kill her," she thought wretchedly. "I'll just keep still until some one passes."
But no one passed for a long time, and Connie stretched her aching little body and sobbed, worrying about Prudence, fearful on her own account. She had no idea of the time. She supposed it was still early. And the parsonage was deathly quiet. Maybe Prudence had died! Connie writhed in agony on the hard floor, and sobbed bitterly. Still she would not risk pounding on the dungeon door.
Up-stairs, in the front room, Prudence was at that time wrestling with fever. Higher and higher it rose, until the doctors looked very anxious. They held a brief consultation in the corner of the room. Then they beckoned to Mr. Starr.
"Has Prudence been worrying about something this winter?"
"Yes."
"Has she been grieving, and fretting for something?"
"Yes, she has."
"It is that young man, isn't it?" inquired the family doctor,—a Methodist "member."
"Yes."
"Can you bring him here?"
"Yes,—as soon as he can get here from Des Moines."
"You'd better do it. She has worn herself down nearly to the point of prostration. We think we can break this fever without serious consequences, but get the young man as soon as possible. She can not relax and rest, until she gets relief."
So he went down-stairs and over the telephone dictated a short message to Jerry. "Please come,—Prudence."
When he entered the front bedroom again, Prudence was muttering unintelligible words under her breath. He kneeled down beside the bed, and put his arms around her. She clung to him with sudden passion.
"Jerry! Jerry!" she cried. Her father caressed and petted her, but did not speak.
"Oh, I can't," she cried again. "I can't, Jerry, I can't!" Again her voice fell to low mumbling. "Yes, go. Go at once. I promised, you know.—They haven't any mother.—I promised. Jerry! Jerry!" Her voice rang out so wildly that Connie, down in the dungeon, heard her cries and sobbed anew, relieved that Prudence was living, frightened at the wildness of her voice. "Oh, I do want you—more than anybody. Don't go!—Oh, yes, go at once. I promised.—Father needs me." And then a piercing shriek, "He is falling! Connie, drop that rope!" She struggled up in the bed, and gazed wildly about her,—then, panting, she fell back on the pillows.
But Mr. Starr smiled gently to himself. So that was the answer! Oh, foolish little Prudence! Oh, sweet-hearted little martyr girl!
Hours later the fever broke, and Prudence drifted into a deep sleep. Then the doctors went downstairs with Mr. Starr, talking in quiet ordinary tones.
"Oh, she is all right now, no danger at all. She'll do fine. Let her sleep. Send Fairy to bed, too. Keep Prudence quiet a few days,—that's all. She's all right."
They did not hear the timid knock at the dungeon door. But after they had gone out, Mr. Starr locked the door behind them, and started back through the hall to see if the kitchen doors were locked. He distinctly heard a soft tapping, and he smiled. "Mice!" he thought. Then he heard something else,—a faintly whispered "Father!"
With a sharp exclamation he unlocked and opened the dungeon door, and Connie fell into his arms, sobbing piteously. And he did the only wise thing to do under such circumstances. He sat down on the hall floor and cuddled the child against his breast. He talked to her soothingly until the sobs quieted, and her voice was under control.
"Now, tell father," he urged, "how did you get in the dungeon? The twins——"
"Oh, no, father, of course not, the twins wouldn't do such a thing as that. I went into the dungeon to pray that Prudence would get well. And I prayed myself to sleep. When I woke up the door was locked."
"But you precious child," he whispered, "why didn't you call out, or pound on the door?"
"I was afraid it would excite Prue and make her worse," she answered simply. And her father's kiss was unwontedly tender as he carried her upstairs to bed.
Prudence slept late the next morning, and when she opened her eyes her father was sitting beside her.
"All right this morning, father," she said, smiling. "Are the girls at school?"
"No,—this is Saturday."
"Oh, of course. Well, bring them up, I want to see them."
Just then the distant whistle of a locomotive sounded through the open window, but she did not notice her father's sudden start. She nodded up at him again, and repeated, "I want to see my girls."
Her father sent them up to her at once, and they stood at the foot of the bed with sorry faces, and smiled at her.
"Say something," whispered Carol, kicking Lark suggestively on the foot. But Lark was dumb. It was Carol who broke the silence.
"Oh, Prudence, do you suppose the doctors will let me come in and watch them bandage your head? I want to begin practising up, so as to be ready for the next war."
Then they laughed, and the girls realized that Prudence was really alive and quite as always. They told her of Connie's sad experience, and Prudence comforted her sweetly.
"It just proves all over again," she declared, smiling, but with a sigh close following, "that you can't get along without me to look after you. Would I ever go to bed without making sure that Connie was safe and sound?"
Down-stairs, meanwhile, Mr. Starr was plotting with Fairy, a willing assistant.
"He'll surely be in on this train, and you must keep him down here until I get through with Prudence. I want to tell her a few things before she sees him. Bring him in quietly, and don't let him speak loudly. I do not want her to know he is on hand for a few minutes. Explain it to the girls, will you?"
After sending the younger girls down-stairs again, he closed the door of Prudence's room, and sat down beside her.
"Prudence, I can't tell you how bitterly disappointed I am in you."
"Father!"
"Yes, I thought you loved us,—the girls and me. It never occurred to me that you considered us a bunch of selfish, heartless, ungrateful animals!"
"Father!"
"Is that your idea of love? Is that——"
"Oh, father!"
"It really did hurt me, Prudence. My dear little girl, how could you send Jerry away, breaking your heart and his, and ours, too,—just because you thought us such a selfish lot that we would begrudge you any happiness of your own? Don't you think our love for you is big enough to make us happy in seeing you happy? You used to say you would never marry. We did not expect you to marry, then. But we knew the time would come when marriage would seem beautiful and desirable to you. We were waiting for that time. We were hoping for it. We were happy when you loved Jerry, because we knew he was good and kind and loving, and that he could give you all the beautiful things of life—that I can never give my children. But you thought we were too selfish to let you go, and you sent him away."
"But father! Who would raise the girls? Who would keep the parsonage? Who would look after you?"
"Aunt Grace, to be sure. We talked it over two years ago, when her husband died. Before that, she was not free to come to us. But she said then that whenever we were ready for her, she would come. We both felt that since you were getting along so magnificently with the girls, it was better that way for a while. But she said that when your flitting-time came, she would come to us gladly. We had it all arranged. You won't want to marry for a year or so, yet. You'll want to have some happy sweetheart days first. And you'll want to make a lot of those pretty, useless, nonsensical things other girls make when they marry. That's why I advised you to save your burglar money,—so you would have it for this. We'll have Aunt Grace come right away, so you can take a little freedom to be happy, and to make your plans. And you can initiate Aunt Grace into the mysteries of parsonage housekeeping."
A bright strange light had flashed over Prudence's face. But her eyes clouded a little as she asked, "Do you think they would rather have Aunt Grace than me?"
"Of course not. But what has that to do with it? We love you so dearly that we can only be happy when you are happy. We love you so dearly that we can be happy with you away from us,—just knowing that you are happy. But you—you thought our love was such a hideous, selfish, little make-believe that——"
"Oh, father, I didn't! You know I didn't!—But—maybe Jerry won't forgive me now?"
"Why didn't you talk it over with me, Prudence?"
"I knew you too well, father. I knew it would be useless. But—doesn't it seem wrong, father, that—a girl—that I—should love Jerry more than—you and the girls? That he should come first? Doesn't it seem—wicked?"
"No, Prudence, it is not wicked. After all, perhaps it is not a stronger and deeper love. You were willing to sacrifice him and yourself, for our sakes! But it is a different love. It is the love of woman for man,—that is very different from sister-love and father-love. And it is right. And it is beautiful."
"I am sure Jerry will forgive me. Maybe if you will send me a paper and pencil—I can write him a note now? There's no use waiting, is there? Fairy will bring it, I am sure."
But when a few minutes later, she heard a step in the hall outside, she laid her arm across her face. Somehow she felt that the wonderful joy and love shining in her eyes should be kept hidden until Jerry was there to see. She heard the door open, and close again.
"Put them on the table, Fairy dearest, and—leave me for a little while, will you? Thank you." And her face was still hidden.
Then the table by the bedside was swiftly drawn away, and Jerry kneeled beside her, and drew the arm from her face.
"Jerry!" she whispered, half unbelievingly. Then joyously, "Oh, Jerry!" She gazed anxiously into his face. "Have you been sick? How thin you are, and so pale! Jerry Harmer, you need me to take care of you, don't you?"
But Jerry did not speak. He looked earnestly and steadily into the joyful eyes for a moment, and then he pressed his face to hers.