Prudence of the Parsonage Part 3

"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 pet.i.tion 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 G.o.d,--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 G.o.d! 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 un.o.bserved 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d."

After that, the morning wors.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d, and speaking direct to Him.

It was the hated duty of the twins to wash and dry the dishes,--taking turns about with the was.h.i.+ng. 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 pa.s.sionate 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 was.h.i.+ng dishes as though her life depended on it. The water was cold, and little ma.s.ses 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 cla.s.s 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 was.h.i.+ng 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 b.u.t.ter. 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 gla.s.s of water for each. There was also a small dish of peaches at each place, and an individual plate of b.u.t.ter. 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 embarra.s.sed. 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 appet.i.te that day. He did not seem to be so fond of sweet corn as he had a.s.sured 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 inc.u.mbent 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sionately 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."