Chapter 2

It was Saturday morning when the four young parsonage girls arrived in
Mount Mark. The elderly Misses Avery, next door, looked out of their
windows, pending their appearance on Main Street, with interest and
concern. It was a serious matter, this having a whole parsonage-full of
young girls so close to the old Avery mansion. To be sure, the Averys
had a deep and profound respect for ministerial households, but they were
Episcopalians themselves, and in all their long lives they had never so
much as heard of a widower-rector with five daughters, and no
housekeeper. There was something blood-curdling in the bare idea.

The Misses Avery considered Prudence herself rather a sweet, silly little
thing.

"You have some real nice people in the Methodist church," Miss Dora had
told her. "I dare say you will find a few of them very likeable."

"Oh, I will like them all," said Prudence quickly and seriously.

"Like them all!" echoed Miss Dora. "Oh, impossible!"

"Not for us," said Prudence. "We are used to it, you know. We always
like people."

"That is ridiculous," said Miss Dora. "It is absolutely impossible. One
can't! Of course, as Christians, we must tolerate, and try to help every
one. But Christian tolerance and love are----"

"Oh, excuse me, but--really I can't believe there is such a thing as
Christian tolerance," said Prudence firmly. "There is Christian love,
and--that is all we need." Then leaning forward: "What do you do, Miss
Avery, when you meet people you dislike at very first sight?"

"Keep away from them," was the grim reply.

"Exactly! And keep on disliking them," said Prudence triumphantly.
"It's very different with us. When we dislike people at first sight, we
visit them, and talk to them, and invite them to the parsonage, and
entertain them with our best linen and silverware, and keep on getting
friendlier and friendlier, and--first thing you know, we like them fine!
It's a perfectly splendid rule, and it has never failed us once. Try it,
Miss Avery, do! You will be enthusiastic about it, I know."

So the Misses Avery concluded that Prudence was very young, and couldn't
seem to quite outgrow it! She was not entirely responsible. And they
wondered, with something akin to an agony of fear, if the younger girls
"had it, too!" Therefore the Misses Avery kept watch at their respective
windows, and when Miss Alice cried excitedly, "Quick! Quick! They are
coming!" they trooped to Miss Alice's window with a speed that would have
done credit to the parsonage girls themselves. First came the minister,
whom they knew very well by this time, and considered quite respectable.
He was lively, as was to be expected of a Methodist minister, and told
jokes, and laughed at them! Now, a comical rector,--oh, a very different
matter,--it wasn't done, that's all! At any rate, here came the
Methodist minister, laughing, and on one side of him tripped a small
earnest-looking maiden, clasping his hand, and gazing alternately up into
his face, and down at the stylish cement sidewalk beneath her feet. On
the other side, was Fairy. The Misses Avery knew the girls by name
already,--having talked much with Prudence.

"Such a Fairy!" gasped Miss Millicent, and the others echoed the gasp,
but wordlessly.

For Fairy for very nearly as tall as her father, built upon generous
lines, rather commanding in appearance, a little splendid-looking. Even
from their windows they could discern something distinctly Juno-like in
this sixteen-year-old girl, with the easy elastic stride that matched her
father's, and the graceful head, well carried. A young goddess,--named
Fairy!

Behind them, laughing and chattering, like three children, as they
were,--came the twins with Prudence, each with an arm around her waist.
And Prudence was very little taller than they. When they reached the
fence that bordered the parsonage, the scene for a moment resembled a
miniature riot. The smaller girls jumped and exclaimed, and clasped
their hands. Fairy leaned over the fence, and stared intently at this,
their parsonage home. Then the serious little girl scrambled under the
fence, followed closely by the lithe-limbed twins. A pause, a very short
one,--and then Prudence, too, was wriggling beneath the fence.

"Hold the wire up for me, papa," cried Fairy, "I'm too fat." And a
second later she was running gracefully across the lawn toward the
parsonage. The Methodist minister laughed boyishly, and placing his
hands on the fence-post, he vaulted lightly over, and reached the house
with his daughters. Then the Misses Avery, school-teachers, and elderly,
looked at one another.

"Did you ever?" whispered the oldest Miss Avery, and the others slowly
shook their heads.

Now, think! Did you ever see a rector jumping a three-wire fence, and
running full speed across his front yard, in pursuit of a flying family?
It may possibly have occurred,--we have never seen it. Neither had the
Misses Avery. Nor did they ever expect to. And if they had seen it, it
is quite likely they would have joined the backsliders at that instant.

But without wasting much time on this gruesome thought, they hurried to a
window commanding the best view of the parsonage, and raised it. Then
they clustered behind the curtains, and watched, and listened. There was
plenty to hear! From the parsonage windows came the sound of scampering
feet and banging doors. Once there was the unmistakable clatter of a
chair overturned. With it all, there was a constant chorus of "Oh,
look!" "Oh! Oh!" "Oh, how sweet!" "Oh, papa!" "Oh, Prudence!"
"Look, Larkie, look at this!"

Then the thud of many feet speeding down the stairs, and the slam of a
door, and the slam of a gate. The whole parsonage-full had poured out
into the back yard, and the barn-lot. Into the chicken coop they raced,
the minister ever close upon their heels. Over the board fence they
clambered to the big rambling barn, and the wide door swung closed after
them. But in a few seconds they were out once more, by the back barn
door, and over the fence, and on to the "field." There they closed
ranks, with their arms recklessly around whoever was nearest, and made a
thorough tour of the bit of pasture-land. For some moments they leaned
upon the dividing fence and gazed admiringly into the rich orchard and
vineyard of the Avery estate. But soon they were skipping back to the
parsonage again, and the kitchen door banged behind them.

Then the eldest Miss Avery closed the window overlooking the parsonage
and confronted her sisters.

"We must just make the best of it," she said quietly.

But next door, the gray old ugly parsonage was full to overflowing with
satisfaction and happiness and love.

The Starrs had never had an appointment like this before. They had just
come from the village of Exminster, of five hundred inhabitants. There
the Reverend Mr. Starr had filled the pulpits of three small Methodist
churches, scattered at random throughout the country,--consideration,
five hundred dollars. But here,--why, Mount Mark had a population of
fully three thousand, and a business academy, and the Presbyterian
College,--small, to be sure, but the name had a grand and inspiring
sound. And Mr. Starr had to fill only one pulpit! It was heavenly,
that's what it was. To be sure, many of his people lived out in the
country, necessitating the upkeep of a horse for the sake of his pastoral
work, but that was only an advantage. Also to be sure, the Methodists in
Mount Mark were in a minority, and an inferiority,--Mount Mark being a
Presbyterian stronghold due to the homing there of the trim and orderly
little college. But what of that? The salary was six hundred and fifty
dollars and the parsonage was adorable! The parsonage family could see
nothing at all wrong with the world that day, and the future was
rainbow-tinted.

Every one has experienced the ecstatic creepy sensation of sleeping in a
brand-new home. The parsonage girls reveled in the memory of that first
night for many days. "It may be haunted for all we know," cried Carol
deliciously. "Just think, Connie, there may be seven ghosts camped on
the head of your bed, waiting----"

"Carol!"

When the family gathered for worship on that first Sabbath morning, Mr.
Starr said, as he turned the leaves of his well-worn Bible, "I think it
would be well for you girls to help with the morning worship now. You
need practise in praying aloud, and--so we will begin to-day. Connie and
I will make the prayers this morning, Prudence and Carol to-morrow, and
Fairy and Lark the next day. We will keep that system up for a while,
anyhow. When I finish reading the chapter, Connie, you will make the
first prayer. Just pray for whatever you wish as you do at night for
yourself. I will follow you."

Connie's eyes were wide with responsibility during the reading of the
chapter, but when she began to speak her voice did not falter. Connie
had nine years of good Methodist experience back of her!

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, we bow ourselves before Thy footstool in
humility and reverence. Thou art our God, our Creator, our Saviour.
Bless us this day, and cause Thy face to shine upon us. Blot out our
transgressions, pardon our trespasses. Wash us, that we may be whiter
than snow. Hide not Thy face from the eyes of Thy children, turn not
upon us in wrath. Pity us, Lord, as we kneel here prostrate before Thy
majesty and glory. Let the words of our mouths and the meditations of
our hearts, be acceptable in Thy sight, O Lord, our strength and our
Redeemer. And finally save us, an unbroken family around Thy throne in
Heaven, for Jesus' sake. Amen."

This was followed by an electric silence. Prudence was biting her lips
painfully, and counting by tens as fast as she could. Fairy was mentally
going over the prayer, sentence by sentence, and attributing each
petition to the individual member in the old church at Exminster to whom
it belonged. The twins were a little amazed, and quite proud. Connie
was an honor to the parsonage,--but they were concerned lest they
themselves should do not quite so well when their days came.

But in less than a moment the minister-father began his prayer. His
voice was a little subdued, and he prayed with less fervor and abandon
than usual, but otherwise things went off quite nicely. When he said,
"Amen," Prudence was on her feet and half-way up-stairs before the others
were fairly risen. Fairy stood gazing intently out of the window for a
moment, and then went out to the barn to see if the horse was through
eating. Mr. Starr walked gravely and soberly out the front door, and
around the house. He ran into Fairy coming out the kitchen door, and
they glanced quickly at each other.

"Hurry, papa," she whispered, "you can't hold in much longer! Neither
can I!"

And together, choking with laughter, they hurried into the barn and gave
full vent to their feelings.

So it was that the twins and Connie were alone for a while.

"You did a pretty good job, Connie," said Carol approvingly.

"Yes. I think I did myself," was the complacent answer. "But I intended
to put in, 'Keep us as the apple of Thy eye, hold us in the hollow of Thy
hand,' and I forgot it until I had said 'Amen.' I had a notion to put in
a post-script, but I believe that isn't done."

"Never mind," said Carol, "I'll use that in mine, to-morrow."

It can not be said that this form of family worship was a great success.
The twins were invariably stereotyped, cut and dried. They thanked the
Lord for the beautiful morning, for kind friends, for health, and family,
and parsonage. Connie always prayed in sentences extracted from the
prayers of others she had often heard, and every time with nearly
disastrous effect.

But the days passed around, and Prudence and Carol's turn came again.
Carol was a thoughtless, impetuous, impulsive girl, and her prayers were
as nearly "verbal repetitions" as any prayers could be. So on this
morning, after the reading of the chapter, Carol knelt by her chair, and
began in her customary solemn voice:

"Oh, our Father, we thank Thee for this beautiful morning." Then intense
silence. For Carol remembered with horror and shame that it was a
dreary, dismal morning, cloudy, ugly and all unlovely. In her despair,
the rest of her petition scattered to the four winds of heaven. She
couldn't think of another word, so she gulped, and stammered out a faint
"Amen."

But Prudence could not begin. Prudence was red in the face, and nearly
suffocated. She felt all swollen inside,--she couldn't speak. The
silence continued. "Oh, why doesn't father do it?" she wondered. As a
matter of fact, father couldn't. But Prudence did not know that. One
who laughs often gets in the habit of laughter,--and sometimes laughs out
of season, as well as in. Finally, Prudence plunged in desperately,
"Dear Father"--as she usually began her sweet, intimate little talks with
God,--and then she paused. Before her eyes flashed a picture of the
"beautiful morning," for which Carol had just been thankful! She tried
again. "Dear Father,"--and then she whirled around on the floor, and
laughed. Mr. Starr got up from his knees, sat down on his chair, and
literally shook. Fairy rolled on the lounge, screaming with merriment.
Even sober little Connie giggled and squealed. But Carol could not get
up. She was disgraced. She had done a horrible, disgusting, idiotic
thing. She had insulted God! She could never face the family again.
Her shoulders rose and fell convulsively.

Lark did not laugh either. With a rush she was on her knees beside
Carol, her arms around the heaving shoulders. "Don't you care, Carrie,"
she whispered. "Don't you care. It was just a mistake,--don't cry,
Carrie."

But Carol would not be comforted. She tried to sneak unobserved from the
room, but her father stopped her.

"Don't feel so badly about it, Carol," he said kindly, really sorry for
the stricken child,--though his eyes still twinkled, "it was just a
mistake. But remember after this, my child, to speak to God when you
pray. Remember that you are talking to Him. Then you will not make such
a blunder.--So many of us," he said reflectively, "ministers as well as
others, pray into the ears of the people, and forget we are talking to
God."

After that, the morning worship went better. The prayers of the children
changed,--became more personal, less flowery. They remembered from that
time on, that when they knelt they were at the feet of God, and speaking
direct to Him.

It was the hated duty of the twins to wash and dry the dishes,--taking
turns about with the washing. This time was always given up to
story-telling, for Lark had a strange and wonderful imagination, and
Carol listened to her tales with wonder and delight. Even Connie found
dish-doing hours irresistible, and could invariably be found, face in her
hands, both elbows on the table, gazing with passionate earnestness at
the young story-teller. Now, some of Lark's stories were such weird and
fearful things that they had seriously interfered with Connie's slumbers,
and Prudence had sternly prohibited them. But this evening, just as she
opened the kitchen door, she heard Lark say in thrilling tones:

"She crept down the stairs in the deep darkness, her hand sliding lightly
over the rail. Suddenly she stopped. Her hand was arrested in its
movement. Ice-cold fingers gripped hers tightly. Then with one piercing
shriek, she plunged forward, and fell to the bottom of the stairs with a
terrific crash, while a mocking laugh----"

The kitchen door slammed sharply behind Prudence as she stepped into the
kitchen, and Connie's piercing shriek would surely have rivaled that of
Lark's unfortunate heroine. Even Carol started nervously, and let the
plate she had been solemnly wiping for nine minutes, fall to the floor.
Lark gasped, and then began sheepishly washing dishes as though her life
depended on it. The water was cold, and little masses of grease clung to
the edges of the pan and floated about on the surface of the water.

"Get fresh hot water, Lark, and finish the dishes. Connie, go right
up-stairs to bed. You twins can come in to me as soon as you finish."

But Connie was afraid to go to bed alone, and Prudence was obliged to
accompany her. So it was in their own room that the twins finally faced
an indignant Prudence.

"Carol, you may go right straight to bed. And Lark--I do not know what
in the world to do with you. Why don't you mind me, and do as I tell
you? How many times have I told you not to tell weird stories like that?
Can't you tell nice, interesting, mild stories?"

"Prudence, as sure as you live, I can't! I start them just as mild and
proper as can be, but before I get half-way through, a murder, or death,
or mystery crops in, and I can't help it."

"But you must help it, Lark. Or I shall forbid your telling stories of
any kind. They are so silly, those wild things, and they make you all
nervous, and excitable, and-- Now, think, Larkie, and tell me how I
shall punish you."

Lark applied all the resources of her wonderful brain to this task, and
presently suggested reluctantly: "Well, you might keep me home from the
ice-cream social to-morrow night." But her face was wistful.

"No," said Prudence decidedly, to Lark's intense relief. "I can't do
that. You've been looking forward to it so long, and your class is to
help with the serving. No, not that, Larkie. That would be too mean.
Think of something else."

"Well,--you might make me wash and dry the dishes all alone--for a week,
Prudence, and that will be a bad punishment, too, for I just despise
washing dishes by myself. Telling stories makes it so much--livelier."

"All right, then," said Prudence, relieved in turn, "that is what I will
do. And Carol and Connie must not even stay in the kitchen with you."

"I believe I'll go to bed now, too," said Lark, with a thoughtful glance
at her two sisters, already curled up snugly and waiting for the
conclusion of the administering of justice. "If you don't mind,
Prudence."

Prudence smiled a bit ruefully. "Oh, I suppose you might as well, if you
like. But remember this, Lark: No more deaths, and murders, and
mysteries, and highway robberies."

"All right, Prudence," said Lark with determination. And as Prudence
walked slowly down-stairs she heard Lark starting in on her next story:

"Once there was a handsome young man, named Archibald Tremaine,--a very
respectable young fellow. He wouldn't so much as dream of robbing, or
murdering, or dying."

Then Prudence smiled to herself in the dark and hurried down.

The family had been in the new parsonage only three weeks, when a
visiting minister called on them. It was about ten minutes before the
luncheon hour at the time of his arrival. Mr. Starr was in the country,
visiting, so the girls received him alone. It was an unfortunate day for
the Starrs. Fairy had been at college all morning, and Prudence had been
rummaging in the attic, getting it ready for a rainy-day and winter
playroom for the younger girls. She was dusty, perspirey and tired.

The luncheon hour arrived, and the girls came in from school, eager to be
up and away again. Still the grave young minister sat discoursing upon
serious topics with the fidgety Prudence,--and in spite of dust and
perspiration, she was good to look upon. The Reverend Mr. Morgan
realized that, and could not tear himself away. The twins came in, shook
hands with him soberly, glancing significantly at the clock as they did
so. Connie ran in excitedly, wanting to know what was the matter with
everybody, and weren't they to have any luncheon? Still Mr. Morgan
remained in his chair, gazing at Prudence with frank appreciation.
Finally Prudence sighed.

"Do you like sweet corn, Mr. Morgan?"

This was entirely out of the line of their conversation, and for a moment
he faltered. "Sweet corn?" he repeated.

"Yes, roasting-ears, you know,--cooked on the cob."

Then he smiled. "Oh, yes indeed. Very much," he said.

"Well," she began her explanation rather drearily, "I was busy this
morning and did not prepare much luncheon. We are very fond of sweet
corn, and I cooked an enormous panful. But that's all we have for
luncheon,--sweet corn and butter. We haven't even bread, because I am
going to bake this afternoon, and we never eat it with sweet corn,
anyhow. Now, if you care to eat sweet corn and butter, and canned
peaches, we'd just love to have you stay for luncheon with us."

The Reverend Mr. Morgan was charmed, and said so. So Prudence rushed to
the kitchen, opened the peaches in a hurry, and fished out a clean napkin
for their guest. Then they gathered about the table, five girls and the
visiting minister. It was really a curious sight, that table. In the
center stood a tall vase of goldenrod. On either side of the vase was a
great platter piled high with sweet corn, on the cob! Around the table
were six plates, with the necessary silverware, and a glass of water for
each. There was also a small dish of peaches at each place, and an
individual plate of butter. That was all,--except the napkins. But
Prudence made no apologies. She was a daughter of the parsonage! She
showed the Reverend Mr. Morgan to his place as graciously and sweetly as
though she were ushering him in to a twenty-seven course banquet.

"Will you return thanks, Mr. Morgan?" she said. And the girls bowed
their heads. The Reverend Mr. Morgan cleared his throat, and began, "Our
Father, we thank Thee for this table."

There was more of the blessing, but the parsonage girls heard not one
additional phrase,--except Connie, who followed him conscientiously
through every word. By the time he had finished, Prudence and Fairy, and
even Lark, had composed their faces. But Carol burst into merry
laughter, close upon his reverent "Amen,"--and after one awful glare at
her sister, Prudence joined in. This gaiety communicated itself to the
others and soon it was a rollicking group around the parsonage table.
Mr. Morgan himself smiled uncertainly. He was puzzled. More, he was
embarrassed. But as soon as Carol could get her breath, she gasped out
an explanation.

"You were just--right, Mr. Morgan,--to give thanks--for the table!
There's nothing--on it--to be thankful for!"

And the whole family went off once more into peals of laughter.

Mr. Morgan had very little appetite that day. He did not seem to be so
fond of sweet corn as he had assured Prudence. He talked very little,
too. And as soon as possible he took his hat and walked hurriedly away.
He did not call at the parsonage again.

"Oh, Carol," said Prudence reproachfully, wiping her eyes, "how could you
start us all off like that?"

"For the table, for the table!" shrieked Carol, and Prudence joined in
perforce.

"It was awful," she gasped, "but it was funny! I believe even father
would have laughed."

A few weeks after this, Carol distinguished herself again, and to her
lasting mortification. The parsonage pasture had been rented out during
the summer months before the change of ministers, the outgoing incumbent
having kept neither horse nor cow. As may be imagined, the little
pasture had been taxed to the utmost, and when the new minister arrived,
he found that his field afforded poor grazing for his pretty little
Jersey. But a man living only six blocks from the parsonage had
generously offered Mr. Starr free pasturage in his broad meadow, and the
offer was gratefully accepted. This meant that every evening the twins
must walk the six blocks after the cow, and every morning must take her
back for the day's grazing.

One evening, as they were starting out from the meadow homeward with the
docile animal, Carol stopped and gazed at Blinkie reflectively.

"Lark," she said, "I just believe to my soul that I could ride this cow.
She's so gentle, and I'm such a good hand at sticking on."

"Carol!" ejaculated Lark. "Think how it would look for a parsonage girl
to go down the street riding a cow."

"But there's no one to see," protested Carol. And this was true. For
the parsonage was near the edge of town, and the girls passed only five
houses on their way home from the meadow,--and all of them were well back
from the road. And Carol was, as she had claimed, a good hand at
"sticking on." She had ridden a great deal while they were at Exminster,
a neighbor being well supplied with rideable horses, and she was
passionately fond of the sport. To be sure, she had never ridden a cow,
but she was sure it would be easy.

Lark argued and pleaded, but Carol was firm. "I must try it," she
insisted, "and if it doesn't go well I can slide off. You can lead her,
Lark."

The obliging Lark boosted her sister up, and Carol nimbly scrambled into
place, riding astride.

"I've got to ride this way," she said; "cows have such funny backs I
couldn't keep on any other way. If I see any one coming, I'll slide for
it."

For a while all went well. Lark led Blinkie carefully, gazing about
anxiously to see that no one approached. Carol gained confidence as they
proceeded, and chatted with her sister nonchalantly, waving her hands
about to show her perfect balance and lack of fear. So they advanced to
within two blocks of the parsonage.

"It's very nice," said Carol, "very nice indeed,--but her backbone is
rather--well, rather penetrating. I think I need a saddle."

By this time, Blinkie concluded that she was being imposed upon. She
shook her head violently, and twitched the rope from Lark's hand,--for
Lark now shared her sister's confidence, and held it loosely. With a
little cry she tried to catch the end of it, but Blinkie was too quick
for her. She gave a scornful toss of her dainty head, and struck out
madly for home. With great presence of mind, Carol fell flat upon the
cow's neck, and hung on for dear life, while Lark, in terror, started out
in pursuit.

"Help! Help!" she cried loudly. "Papa! Papa! Papa!"

In this way, they turned in at the parsonage gate, which happily stood
open,--otherwise Blinkie would undoubtedly have gone through, or over.
As luck would have it, Mr. Starr was standing at the door with two men
who had been calling on him, and hearing Lark's frantic cries, they
rushed to meet the wild procession, and had the unique experience of
seeing a parsonage girl riding flat on her stomach on the neck of a
galloping Jersey, with another parsonage girl in mad pursuit.

Blinkie stopped beside the barn, and turned her head about inquiringly.
Carol slid to the ground, and buried her face in her hands at sight of
the two men with her father. Then with never a word, she lit out for the
house at top speed. Seeing that she was not hurt, and that no harm had
been done, the three men sat down on the ground and burst into hearty
laughter.

Lark came upon them as they sat thus, and Lark was angry. She stamped
her foot with a violence that must have hurt her.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," she cried passionately, "it was
awful, it was just awful! Carrie might have been killed! It--it----"

"Tell us all about it, Lark," gasped her father. And Lark did so,
smiling a little herself, now that her fears were relieved. "Poor
Carol," she said, "she'll never live down the humiliation. I must go and
console her."

And a little later, the twins were weeping on each other's shoulders.

"I wouldn't have cared," sobbed Carol, "if it had been anybody else in
the world! But--the presiding elder,--and--the president of the
Presbyterian College! And I know the Presbyterians look down on us
Methodists anyhow, though they wouldn't admit it! And riding a cow! Oh,
Larkie, if you love me, go down-stairs and get me the carbolic acid, so I
can die and be out of disgrace."

This, however, Lark stoutly refused to do, and in a little while Carol
felt much better. But she talked it over with Prudence very seriously.

"I hope you understand, Prudence, that I shall never have anything more
to do with Blinkie! She can die of starvation for all I care. I'll
never take her to and from the pasture again. I couldn't do it! Such
rank ingratitude as that cow displayed was never equaled, I am certain."

"I suppose you'll quit using milk and cream, too," suggested Prudence.

"Oh, well," said Carol more tolerantly, "I don't want to be too hard on
Blinkie, for after all it was partly my own fault. So I won't go that
far. But I must draw the line somewhere! Hereafter, Blinkie and I meet
as strangers!"