Chapter 1

None but the residents consider Mount Mark, Iowa, much of a town, and
those who are honest among them admit, although reluctantly, that Mount
Mark can boast of far more patriotism than good judgment! But the
_very most_ patriotic of them all has no word of praise for the ugly
little red C., B. & Q. railway station. If pretty is as pretty does,
as we have been told so unpleasantly often, then the station is
handsome enough, but as an ornament to the commonwealth it is a dismal
failure,--low, smoky and dust-grimed. In winter its bleakness and
bareness add to the chill of the rigorous Iowa temperature, and in
summer the sap oozing through the boards is disagreeably suggestive of
perspiration. The waiting-room itself is "cleaned" every day, and yet
the same dust lies in the corners where it has lain for lo, these many
years. And as for the cobwebs, their chief distinction lies in their
ripe old age. If there were only seven spiders in the ark, after the
subsiding of the waters, at least a majority of them must have found
their way to Mount Mark station in South-eastern Iowa.

Mount Mark is anything but proud of the little station. It openly
scoffs at it, and sniffs contemptuously at the ticket agent who bears
the entire C., B. & Q. reputation upon his humble shoulders. At the
same time, it certainly does owe the railroad and the state a debt of
gratitude for its presence there. It is the favorite social rendezvous
for the community! Only four passenger trains daily pass through Mount
Mark,--not including the expresses, which rush haughtily by with no
more than a scornful whistle for the sleepy town, and in return for
this indignity, Mount Mark cherishes a most unchristian antipathy
toward those demon fliers.

But the "passengers"--ah, that is a different matter. The arrival of a
passenger train in Mount Mark is an event--something in the nature of a
C., B. & Q. "At Home," and is always attended by a large and
enthusiastic gathering of "our best people." All that is lacking are
the proverbial "light refreshments!"

So it happened that one sultry morning, late in the month of August,
there was the usual flutter of excitement and confusion on the platform
and in the waiting-room of the station. The habitues were there in
force. Conspicuous among them were four gaily dressed young men,
smoking cigarettes and gazing with lack-luster eyes upon the animated
scene, which evidently bored them. All the same, they invariably
appeared at the depot to witness this event, stirring to others no
doubt, but incapable of arousing the interest of these life-weary
youths. They comprised the Slaughter-house Quartette, and were the
most familiar and notorious characters in all the town.

_The Daily News_ reporter, in a well-creased, light gray suit and tan
shoes, and with eye-glasses scientifically balanced on his aquiline
nose, was making pointed inquiries into the private plans of the
travelers. _The Daily News_ reporters in Mount Mark always wear
well-creased, light gray suits and tan shoes, and always have
eye-glasses scientifically balanced on aquiline noses. The uninitiated
can not understand how it is managed, but there lies the fact. Perhaps
_The News_ includes these details in its requirements of applicants.
Possibly it furnishes the gray suits and the tan shoes, and even the
eye-glasses. Of course, the reporters can practise balancing them
scientifically,--but how does it happen that they always have aquiline
noses? At any rate, that is the Mount Mark type. It never varies.

The young woman going to Burlington to spend the week-end was
surrounded with about fifteen other young women who had come to "see
her off." She had relatives in Burlington and went there very often,
and she used to say she was glad she didn't have to exchange Christmas
presents with all the "friends" who witnessed her arrivals and
departures at the station. Mount Mark is a very respectable town, be
it understood, and girls do not go to the station without an excuse!

The Adams Express wagon was drawn close to the track, and the agent was
rushing about with a breathless energy which seemed all out of
proportion to his accomplishments. The telegraph operator was gazing
earnestly out of his open window, and his hands were busily moving
papers from one pigeon-hole to another, and back again. Old Harvey
Reel, who drove the hotel bus, was discussing politics with the man who
kept the restaurant, and the baggage master, superior and supremely
dirty, was checking baggage with his almost unendurably lordly air.

This was one of the four daily rejuvenations that gladdened the heart
of Mount Mark.

A man in a black business suit stood alone on the platform, his hands
in his pockets, his eyes wandering from one to another of the strange
faces about him. His plain white ready-made tie proclaimed his calling.

"It's the new Methodist preacher," volunteered the baggage master,
crossing the platform, ostensibly on business bound, but really to see
"who all" was there. "I know him. He's not a bad sort."

"They say he's got five kids, and most of 'em girls," responded the
Adams Express man. "I've ordered me a dress suit to pay my respects in
when they get here. I want to be on hand early to pick me out a girl."

"Yah," mocked the telegraph operator, bobbing his head through the
window, "you need to. They tell me every girl in Mount Mark has turned
you down a'ready."

But the Methodist minister, gazing away down the track where a thin
curl of smoke announced the coming of Number Nine, and Prudence,--heard
nothing of this conversation. He was not a handsome man. His hair was
gray at the temples, his face was earnest, only saved from severity by
the little clusters of lines at his eyes and mouth which proclaimed
that he laughed often, and with relish.

"Train going east!"

The minister stood back from the crowd, but when the train came
pounding in a brightness leaped into his eyes that entirely changed the
expression of his face. A slender girl stood in the vestibule, leaning
dangerously outward, and waving wildly at him a small gloved hand.
When the train stopped she leaped lightly from the steps, ignoring the
stool placed for her feet by the conductor.

"Father!" she cried excitedly and small and slight as she was, she
elbowed her way swiftly through the gaping crowd. "Oh, father!" And
she flung her arms about him joyously, unconscious of the admiring eyes
of the Adams Express man, and the telegraph operator, and old Harvey
Reel, whose eyes were always admiring when girls passed by. She did
not even observe that the Slaughterhouse Quartette looked at her
unanimously, with languid interest from out the wreaths of smoke they
had created.

Her father kissed her warmly. "Where is your baggage?" he asked, a
hand held out to relieve her.

"Here!" And with a radiant smile she thrust upon him a box of candy
and a gaudy-covered magazine.

"Your suit-case," he explained patiently.

"Oh!" she gasped. "Run, father, run! I left it on the train!"

Father did run, but Prudence, fleeter-footed, out-distanced him and
clambered on board, panting.

When she rejoined her father her face was flushed. "Oh, father," she
said quite snappily, "isn't that just like me?"

"Yes, very like," he agreed, and he smiled. "Where is your umbrella?"

Prudence stopped abruptly. "I don't know," she said, with a stony
face. "I can't remember a blessed thing about the old umbrella. Oh, I
guess I didn't bring it, at all." She breathed long in her relief.
"Yes, that's it, father, I left it at Aunt Grace's. Don't you worry
about it. Fairy'll bring it to-morrow. Isn't it nice that we can
count on Fairy's remembering?"

"Yes, very nice," he said, but his eyes were tender as he looked down
at the little figure beside him.

"And so this is Mount Mark! Isn't it a funny name, father? Why do
they call it Mount Mark?"

"I don't know. I hadn't thought to inquire. We turn here, Prudence;
we are going north now. This is Main Street. The city part of the
town--the business part--is to the south."

"It's a pretty street, isn't it?" she cried. "Such nice big maples,
and such shady, porchy houses. I love houses with porches, don't you?
Has the parsonage a porch?"

"Yes, a big one on the south, and a tiny one in front. The house faces
west. That is the college there. It opens in three weeks, and Fairy
can make freshmen all right, they tell me. I wish you could go, too.
You haven't had your share of anything--any good thing, Prudence."

"Well, I have my share of you, father," she said comfortingly. "And
I've always had my share of oatmeal and sorghum molasses,--though one
wouldn't think it to look at me. Fairy gained a whole inch last week
at Aunt Grace's. She was so disgusted with herself. She says she'll
not be able to look back on the visit with any pleasure at all, just
because of that inch. Carol said she ought to look back with more
pleasure, because there's an inch more of her to do it! But Fairy says
she did not gain the inch in her eyes! Aunt Grace laughed every minute
we were there. She says she is all sore up and down, from laughing so
much."

"We have the house fixed up pretty well, Prudence, but of course you'll
have to go over it yourself and arrange it as you like. But remember
this: You are not allowed to move the heavy furniture. I forbid it
emphatically. There isn't enough of you for that."

"Yes, I'll remember,--I think I will. I'm almost certain to remember
some things, you know."

"I must go to a trustees' meeting at two o'clock, but we can get a good
deal done before then. Mrs. Adams is coming to help you this
afternoon. She is one of our Ladies, and very kind. There, that is
the parsonage!"

Prudence gazed in silence. Many would not have considered it a
beautiful dwelling, but to Prudence it was heavenly. Fortunately the
wide, grassy, shaded lawn greeted one first. Great spreading maples
bordered the street, and clustering rose-bushes lined the walk leading
up to the house. The walk was badly worn and broken to be sure,--but
the roses were lovely! The grass had been carefully cut,--the
father-minister had seen to that. The parsonage, to Prudence's
gratified eyes, looked homey, and big, and inviting. In fact, it was
very nearly gorgeous! It needed painting badly, it is true. The
original color had been a peculiar drab, but most of it had disappeared
long before, so it was no eyesore on account of the color. There were
many windows, and the well-known lace curtains looked down upon
Prudence tripping happily up the little board walk,--or so it seemed to
her.

"Two whole stories, and an attic besides! Not to mention the bathroom!
Oh, father, the night after you wrote there was a bathroom, Constance
thanked God for it when she said her prayers. And I couldn't reprove
her, for I felt the same way about it myself. It'll be so splendid to
have a whole tub to bathe in! I spent half the time bathing this last
week at Aunt Grace's. A tub is so bountiful! A pan is awfully
insufficient, father, even for me! I often think what a trouble it
must be to Fairy! And a furnace, too! And electric lights! Don't you
think there is something awe-inspiring in the idea of just turning a
little knob on the wall, and flooding a whole room with light? I do
revel in electric lights, I tell you. Oh, we have waited a long time
for it, and we've been very patient indeed, but, between you and me,
father, I am most mightily glad we've hit the luxury-land at last. I'm
sure we'll all feel much more religious in a parsonage that has a
bathroom and electric lights! Oh, father!"

He had thrown open the door, and Prudence stood upon the threshold of
her new home. It was not a fashionable building, by any means. The
hall was narrow and long, and the staircase was just a plain
businesslike staircase, with no room for cushions, and flowers, and
books. The doors leading from the hall were open, and Prudence caught
a glimpse of three rooms furnished, rather scantily, in the old
familiar furniture that had been in that other parsonage where Prudence
was born, nineteen years before.

Together she and her father went from room to room, up-stairs and down,
moving a table to the left, a bed to the right,--according to her own
good pleasure. Afterward they had a cozy luncheon for two in the
"dining-room."

"Oh, it is so elegant to have a dining-room," breathed Prudence
happily. "I always pretended it was rather fun, and a great saving of
work, to eat and cook and study and live in one room, but inwardly the
idea always outraged me. Is that the school over there?"

"Yes, that's where Connie will go. There is only one high school in
Mount Mark, so the twins will have to go to the other side of town,--a
long walk, but in good weather they can come home for dinner.--I'm
afraid the kitchen will be too cold in winter, Prudence,--it's hardly
more than a shed, really. Maybe we'd----"

"Oh, father, if you love me, don't suggest that we move the stove in
here in winter! I'm perfectly willing to freeze out there, for the
sake of having a dining-room. Did I ever tell you what Carol said
about that kitchen-dining-room-living-room combination at Exminster?
Well, she asked us a riddle, 'When is a dining-room not a dining-room?'
And she answered it herself, 'When it's a little pig-pen.' And I felt
so badly about it, but it did look like a pig-pen, with stove here, and
cupboard there, and table yonder, and--oh, no, father, please let me
freeze!"

"I confess I do not see the connection between a roomful of furniture
and a pig-pen, but Carol's wit is often too subtle for me."

"Oh, that's a lovely place over there, father!" exclaimed Prudence,
looking from the living-room windows toward the south. "Isn't it
beautiful?"

"Yes. The Avery family lives there. The parents are very old and
feeble, and the daughters are all--elderly--and all school-teachers.
There are four of them, and the youngest is forty-six. It is certainly
a beautiful place. See the orchard out behind, and the vineyard. They
are very wealthy, and they are not fond of children outside of school
hours, I am told, so we must keep an eye on Connie.--Dear me, it is two
o'clock already, and I must go at once. Mrs. Adams will be here in a
few minutes, and you will not be lonely."

But when Mrs. Adams arrived at the parsonage, she knocked repeatedly,
and in vain, upon the front door. After that she went to the side
door, with no better result. Finally, she gathered her robes about her
and went into the back yard. She peered into the woodshed, and saw no
one. She went into the barn-lot, and found it empty. In despair, she
plunged into the barn--and stopped abruptly.

In a shadowy corner was a slender figure kneeling beside an overturned
nail keg, her face buried in her hands. Evidently this was Prudence
engaged in prayer,--and in the barn, of all places in the world!

"A--a--a--hem!" stammered Mrs. Adams inquiringly.

"Amen!" This was spoken aloud and hurriedly, and Prudence leaped to
her feet. Her fair hair clung about her face in damp babyish tendrils,
and her face was flushed and dusty, but alight with friendly interest.
She ran forward eagerly, thrusting forth a slim and grimy hand.

"You are Mrs. Adams, aren't you? I am Prudence Starr. It is so kind
of you to come the very first day," she cried. "It makes me love you
right at the start."

"Ye--yes, I am Mrs. Adams." Mrs. Adams was embarrassed. She could not
banish from her mental vision that kneeling figure by the nail keg.
Interrogation was written all over her ample face, and Prudence
promptly read it and hastened to reply.

"I do not generally say my prayers in the barn, Mrs. Adams, I assure
you. I suppose you were greatly surprised. I didn't expect to do it
myself, when I came out here, but--well, when I found this grand, old,
rambling barn, I was so thankful I couldn't resist praying about it.
Of course, I didn't specially designate the barn, but God knew what I
meant, I am sure."

"But a barn!" ejaculated the perplexed "member." "Do you call that a
blessing?"

"Yes, indeed I do," declared Prudence. Then she explained patiently:
"Oh, it is on the children's account, you know. They have always
longed for a big romantic barn to play in. We've never had anything
but a shed, and when father went to Conference this year, the twins
told him particularly to look out for a good big barn. They said we'd
be willing to put up with any kind of a parsonage, if only we might
draw a barn for once. You can't imagine how happy this dear old place
will make them, and I was happy on their account. That's why I
couldn't resist saying my prayers,--I was so happy I couldn't hold in."

As they walked slowly toward the house, Mrs. Adams looked at this
parsonage girl in frank curiosity and some dismay, which she strongly
endeavored to conceal from the bright-eyed Prudence. The Ladies had
said it would be so nice to have a grown girl in the parsonage!
Prudence was nineteen from all account, but she looked like a child
and--well, it was not exactly grown-up to give thanks for a barn, to
say the very least! Yet this girl had full charge of four younger
children, and was further burdened with the entire care of a
minister-father! Well, well! Mrs. Adams sighed a little.

"You are tired," said Prudence sympathetically. "It's so hot walking,
isn't it? Let's sit on the porch until you are nicely rested. Isn't
this a lovely yard? And the children will be so happy to have this
delicious big porch. Oh, I just adore Mount Mark already."

"This is a fine chance for us to get acquainted," said the good woman
with eagerness.

Now if the truth must be told, there had been some ill feeling in the
Ladies' Aid Society concerning the reception of Prudence. After the
session of Conference, when the Reverend Mr. Starr was assigned to
Mount Mark, the Ladies of the church had felt great interest in the man
and his family. They inquired on every hand, and learned several
interesting items. The mother had been taken from the family five
years before, after a long illness, and Prudence, the eldest daughter,
had taken charge of the household. There were five children. So much
was known, and being women, they looked forward with eager curiosity to
the coming of Prudence, the young mistress of the parsonage.

Mr. Starr had arrived at Mount Mark a week ahead of his family. The
furniture had been shipped from his previous charge, and he, with the
assistance of a strong and willing negro, had "placed it" according to
the written instructions of Prudence, who had conscientiously outlined
just what should go in every room. She and the other children had
spent the week visiting at the home of their aunt, and Prudence had
come on a day in advance of the others to "wind everything up," as she
had expressed it.

But to return to the Ladies,--the parsonage girls always capitalized
the Ladies of their father's church, and indeed italicized them, as
well. And the irrepressible Carol had been heard to remark, "I often
feel like exclamation-pointing them, I promise you." But to return
once more.

"One of us should go and help the dear child," said Mrs. Scott, the
president of the Aids, when they assembled for their business meeting,
"help her, and welcome her, and advise her."

"I was thinking of going over," said one, and another, and several
others.

"Oh, that will not do at all," said the president; "she would be
excited meeting so many strangers, and could not properly attend to her
work. That will never do, never, never! But one of us must go, of
course."

"I move that the president appoint a committee of one to help Miss
Prudence get settled, and welcome her to our midst," said Mrs. Barnaby,
secretly hoping that in respect for her making this suggestion honoring
the president, the president would have appreciation enough to appoint
Mrs. Barnaby herself as committee.

The motion was seconded, and carried.

"Well," said Mrs. Scott slowly, "I think in a case like this the
president herself should represent the society. Therefore, I will
undertake this duty for you."

But this called forth a storm of protest and it became so clamorous
that it was unofficially decided to draw cuts! Which was done, and in
consequence of that drawing of cuts, Mrs. Adams now sat on the front
porch of the old gray parsonage, cheered by the knowledge that every
other Lady of the Aid was envying her!

"Now, just be real sociable and tell me all about yourself, and the
others, too," urged Mrs. Adams. "I want to know all about every one of
you. Tell me everything."

"There isn't much to tell," said Prudence, smiling. "There are five of
us; I am the oldest, I am nineteen. Then comes Fairy, then the twins,
and then the baby."

"Are the twins boys, or a boy and a girl?"

"Neither," said Prudence, "they are both girls."

"More girls!" gasped Mrs. Adams. "And the baby?"

"She is a girl, too." And Prudence laughed. "In short, we are all
girls except father. He couldn't be, of course,--or I suppose he
would, for our family does seem to run to girls."

"Prudence is a very nice name for a minister's daughter," said Mrs.
Adams suggestively.

"Yes,--for some ministers' daughters," assented Prudence. "But is
sadly unsuitable for me. You see, father and mother were very
enthusiastic about the first baby who hadn't arrived. They had two
names all picked out months ahead,--Prudence and John Wesley. That's
how I happen to be Prudence. They thought, as you do, that it was an
uplifting name for a parsonage baby.--I was only three years old when
Fairy was born, but already they realized that they had made a great
mistake. So they decided to christen baby number two more
appropriately. They chose Frank and Fairy,--both light-hearted, happy,
cheerful names.--It's Fairy," Prudence smiled reflectively. "But
things went badly again. They were very unlucky with their babies.
Fairy is Prudence by nature, and I am Fairy. She is tall and a little
inclined to be fat. She is steady, and industrious, and reliable, and
sensible, and clever. In fact, she is an all-round solid and
worthwhile girl. She can do anything, and do it right, and is going to
be a college professor. It is a sad thing to think of a college
professor being called Fairy all her life, isn't it? Especially when
she is so dignified and grand. But one simply can't tell beforehand
what to expect, can one?

"Father and mother were quite discouraged by that time. They hardly
knew what to do. But anyhow they were sure the next would be a boy.
Every one predicted a boy, and so they chose a good old Methodist
name,--Charles. They hated to give it John Wesley, for they had sort
of dedicated that to me, you know,--only I happened to be Prudence.
But Charles was second-best. And they were very happy about it,
and--it was twin girls! It was quite a blow, I guess. But they
rallied swiftly, and called them Carol and Lark. Such nice musical
names! Father and mother were both good singers, and mother a splendid
pianist. And Fairy and I showed musical symptoms early in life, so
they thought they couldn't be far wrong that time. It was a bitter
mistake. It seemed to turn the twins against music right from the
start. Carol can carry a tune if there's a strong voice beside her,
but Lark can hardly tell the difference between _Star Spangled Banner_
and _Rock of Ages_.

"The neighbors were kind of amused by then, and mother was very
sensitive about it. So the next time she determined to get ahead of
Fate. 'No more nonsense, now,' said mother. 'It's almost certain to
be a boy, and we'll call him William after father,--and Billy for
short.' We all liked the name Billy, mother especially. But she
couldn't call father anything but William,--we being parsonage people,
you know. But she kept looking forward to little Billy,--and then they
changed it in a hurry to Constance. And after that, father and mother
gave the whole thing up as a bad job. There aren't any more of us.
Connie settled the baby business in our family."

Mrs. Adams wiped her eyes, and leaned weakly back in her chair, gasping
for breath. "Well, I swan!" was all she could say at that moment.

While giving herself time to recover her mental poise she looked
critically at this young daughter of the parsonage. Then her eyes
wandered down to her clothes, and lingered, in silent questioning, on
Prudence's dress. It was a very peculiar color. In fact, it was no
color at all,--no named color. Prudence's eyes had followed Mrs.
Adams' glance, and she spoke frankly.

"I suppose you're wondering if this dress is any color! Well, I think
it really is, but it isn't any of the regular shades. It is my own
invention, but I've never named it. We couldn't think of anything
appropriate. Carol suggested 'Prudence Shade,' but I couldn't bring
myself to accept that. Of course, Mrs. Adams, you understand how
parsonage people do with clothes,--handing them down from generation
unto generation. Well, I didn't mind it at first,--when I was the
biggest. But all of a sudden Fairy grew up and out and around, and one
day when I was so nearly out of clothes I hardly felt that I could
attend church any more, she suggested that I cut an old one of hers
down for me! At first I laughed, and then I was insulted. Fairy is
three years younger than I, and before then she had got my
handed-downs. But now the tables were turned. From that time on,
whenever anything happened to Fairy's clothes so a gore had to be cut
out, or the bottom taken off,--they were cut down for me. I still feel
bitter about it. Fairy is dark, and dark blues are becoming to her.
She handed down this dress,--it was dark blue then. But I was not
wanting a dark blue, and I thought it would be less recognizable if I
gave it a contrasting color. I chose lavender. I dyed it four times,
and this was the result."

"Do the twins dress alike?" inquired Mrs. Adams, when she could control
her voice.

"Yes,--unfortunately for Connie. They do it on purpose to escape the
handed-downs! They won't even have hair ribbons different. And the
result is that poor Connie never gets one new thing except shoes. She
says she can not help thanking the Lord in her prayers, that all of us
outwear our shoes before we can outgrow them.--Connie is only nine.
Fairy is sixteen, and the twins are thirteen. They are a very clever
lot of girls. Fairy, as I told you, is just naturally smart, and aims
to be a college professor. Lark is an intelligent studious girl, and
is going to be an author. Carol is pretty, and lovable, and
kind-hearted, and witty,--but not deep. She is going to be a Red Cross
nurse and go to war. The twins have it all planned out. Carol is
going to war as a Red Cross nurse, and Lark is going, too, so she can
write a book about it, and they are both going to marry
soldiers,--preferably dashing young generals! Now they can hardly wait
for war to break out. Connie is a sober, odd, sensitive little thing,
and hasn't decided whether she wants to be a foreign missionary, or get
married and have ten children.--But they are all clever, and I'm proud
of every one of them."

"And what are you going to be?" inquired Mrs. Adams, looking with real
affection at the bright sweet face.

But Prudence laughed. "Oh, dear me, Mrs. Adams, seems to me if I just
get the others raised up properly, I'll have my hands full. I used to
have aims, dozens of them. Now I have just one, and I'm working at it
every day."

"You ought to go to school," declared Mrs. Adams. "You're just a girl
yourself."

"I don't want to go to school," laughed Prudence. "Not any more. I
like it, just taking care of father and the girls,--with Fairy to keep
me balanced! I read, but I do not like to study.--No, you'll have to
get along with me just the way I am, Mrs. Adams. It's all I can do to
keep things going now, without spending half the time dreaming of big
things to do in the future."

"Don't you have dreams?" gasped Mrs. Adams. "Don't you have dreams of
the future? Girls in books nowadays dream----"

"Yes, I dream," interrupted Prudence, "I dream lots,--but it's mostly
of what Fairy and the others will do when I get them properly raised.
You'll like the girls, Mrs. Adams, I know you will. They really are a
gifted little bunch,--except me. But I don't mind. It's a great honor
for me to have the privilege of bringing up four clever girls to do
great things,--don't you think? And I'm only nineteen myself! I don't
see what more a body could want."

"It seems to me," said Mrs. Adams, "that I know more about your sisters
than I do about you. I feel more acquainted with them right now, than
with you."

"That's so, too," said Prudence, nodding. "But they are the ones that
really count, you know. I'm just common little Prudence of the
Parsonage,--but the others!" And Prudence flung out her hands
dramatically.