ROMANCE COMES
Sometimes, Methodists, or Presbyterians or heretics, whatever we may be,
we are irresistibly impelled to the conclusion that things were simply
bound to happen! However slight the cause,--still that cause was
predestined from the beginning of time. A girl may by the sheerest
accident, step from the street-car a block ahead of her destination,--an
irritating incident. But as she walks that block she may meet an
old-time friend, and a stranger. And that stranger,--ah, you can never
convince the girl that her stepping from the car too soon was not ordered
when the foundations of the world were laid.
Even so with Prudence, good Methodist daughter that she was. We ask her,
"What if you had not gone out for a ride that morning?" And Prudence,
laughing, answers, "Oh, but I had to go, you see." "Well," we continue,
"if you had not met him that way, you could have met him some other way,
I suppose." "Oh, no," declares Prudence decidedly, "it had to happen
just that way."
After all, down in plain ink on plain paper, it was very simple. Across
the street from the parsonage was a little white cottage set back among
tall cedars. In this cottage lived a girl named Mattie Moore,--a common,
unlovely, unexciting girl, with whom Romance could not apparently be
intimately concerned. Mattie Moore taught a country school five miles
out from town, and she rode to and from her school, morning and evening,
on a bicycle.
Years before, when Prudence was young and bicycles were fashionable, she
had been intensely fond of riding. But as she gained in age, and
bicycles lost in popularity, she discarded the amusement as unworthy a
parsonage damsel.
One evening, early in June, when the world was fair to look upon, it was
foreordained that Prudence should be turning in at the parsonage gate
just as Mattie Moore whirled up, opposite, on her dusty wheel. Prudence
stopped to interchange polite inanities with her neighbor, and Mattie,
wheeling the bicycle lightly beside her, came across the street and stood
beneath the parsonage maples with Prudence. They talked of the weather,
of the coming summer, of Mattie's school, rejoicing that one more week
would bring freedom from books for Mattie and the younger parsonage girls.
Then said Prudence, seemingly of her own free will, but really directed
by an all-controlling Providence, "Isn't it great fun to ride a bicycle?
I love it. Sometime will you let me ride your wheel?"
"Why, certainly. You may ride now if you like."
"No," said Prudence slowly, "I am afraid it would not do for me to ride
now. Some of the members might see me, and--well, I am very grown up,
you know.--Of course," she added hastily, "it is different with you. You
ride for business, but it would be nothing but a frolic with me. I want
to get up at six o'clock and go early in the morning when the world is
fast asleep. Let me take it to-morrow morning, will you? It is
Saturday, and you won't be going to school."
"Yes, of course you may," was the hearty answer. "You may stay out as
long as you like. I'm going to sew to-morrow. You make take it in the
parsonage now and keep it until morning. I always sleep late on
Saturdays."
So Prudence delightedly tripped up the parsonage board walk, wheeling the
bicycle by her side. She hid it carefully in the woodshed, for the twins
were rash and venturesome. But after she had gone to bed, she confided
her plan to Fairy.
"I'm going at six o'clock, and I'll be back in time to get breakfast.
But as you know, Fairy, my plans do not always work out as I intend, so
if I am a little late, you'll get breakfast for papa and the girls, like
a dear, won't you?"
Fairy promised. And early the next morning, Prudence, in a plain gingham
house dress, with the addition of a red sweater jacket and cap for
warmth, set out upon her secret ride. It was a magnificent morning, and
Prudence sang for pure delight as she rode swiftly along the country
roads. The country was simply irresistible. It was almost intoxicating.
And Prudence rode farther than she had intended. East and west, north
and south, she went, apparently guided only by her own caprice. She knew
it was growing late, "but Fairy'll get breakfast," she thought
comfortably.
Finally she turned in a by-road, leading between two rich hickory groves.
Dismounting at the top of a long hill, she gazed anxiously around her.
No one was in sight. The nearest house was two miles behind, and the
road was long, and smooth, and inviting, and the hill was steep.
Prudence yearned for a good, soul-stirring coast, with her feet high up
on the framework of the wheel, and the pedals flying around beneath her
skirts. This was not the new and modern model of bicycle. The pedals on
Mattie Moore's wheel revolved, whether one worked them or not.
It seemed safe. The road sloped down gradually at the bottom, with an
incline on the other side. What more could one desire. The only living
thing in sight besides birds gossiping in the leafy branches and the
squirrel scolding to himself, was a sober-eyed serious mule peacefully
grazing near the bottom of the hill.
Prudence laughed gleefully, like a child. She never laughed again in
exactly that way. This was the last appearance of the old irresponsible
Prudence. The curtain was just ready to drop.
"Here goes!" she cried, and leaping nimbly into the saddle, she pedaled
swiftly a few times, and then lifted her feet to the coveted position.
The pedals flew around beneath her, just as she had anticipated, and the
wind whistled about her in a most exhilarating way.
But as she neared the bottom, a disastrous and totally unexpected thing
happened. The placid mule, which had been righteously grazing beside the
fence, suddenly stalked into the middle of the road. Prudence screamed,
jerked the handle-bar to the right, then to the left, and then, with a
sickening thud, she landed head first upon some part of the mule's
anatomy. She did not linger there, however. She bounced on down to the
ground, with a little cry of pain. The bicycle crashed beside her, and
the mule, slightly startled, looked around at her with ears raised in
silent questioning. Then he ambled slowly across the road, and
deliberately continued his grazing.
Prudence tried to raise herself, but she felt sharp pain. She heard some
one leaping over the fence near her, and wondered, without moving her
head, if it could be a tramp bent on highway robbery. The next instant,
a man was leaning over her. "It's not a tramp," she thought, before he
had time to speak.
"Are you hurt?" he cried. "You poor child!"
Prudence smiled pluckily. "My ankle is hurt a little, but I am not a
child."
The young man, in great relief, laughed aloud, and Prudence joined him
rather faintly.
"I'm afraid I can not walk," she said. "I believe I've broken my ankle,
maybe my whole leg, for all I know. It--hurts--pretty badly!"
"Lie down like this," he said, helping her to a more comfortable
position, "do not move. May I examine your foot?"
She shook her head, but he removed the shoe regardless of her head-shake.
"I believe it is sprained. I am sure the bone is not broken. But how in
the world will you get home? How far is it to Mount Mark? Is that where
you live?"
"Yes," considering, "yes, I live there, and it must be four miles,
anyhow. What shall I do?"
In answer, he pulled off his coat, and arranged it carefully by the side
of the road on the grass. Then jerking open the bag he had carried, he
took out a few towels, and three soft shirts. Hastily rolling them
together for a pillow, he added it to the bed pro tem. Then he turned
again to Prudence.
"I'll carry you over here, and fix you as comfortably as I can. Then
I'll go to the nearest house and get a wagon to take you home."
Prudence was not shy, and realizing that his plan was the wise one, she
made no objections when he came to help her across the road. "I think I
can walk if you lift me up."
But the first movement sent such a twinge of pain through the wounded
ankle that she clutched him frantically, and burst into tears. "It
hurts," she cried, "don't touch me."
Without speaking, he lifted her as gently as he could and carried her to
the place he had prepared for her. "Will you be warm enough?" he asked,
after he had stood looking awkwardly down upon the sobbing girl as long
as he could endure it.
"Yes," nodded Prudence, gulping down the big soft rising in her throat.
"I'll run. Do you know which way is nearest to a house? It's been a
long time since I passed one coming this way."
"The way I came is the nearest, but it's two miles, I think."
"I'll go as fast as I can, and you will be all right This confounded
cross-cut is so out of the way that no one will pass here for hours, I
suppose. Now lie as comfortably as you can, and do not worry. I'm going
to run."
Off he started, but Prudence, left alone, was suddenly frightened.
"Please, oh, please," she called after him, and when he came back she
buried her face in shame, deep in the linen towel.
"I'm afraid," she whispered, crying again. "I do not wish to be left
alone here. A snake might come, or a tramp."
He sat down beside her. "You're nervous. I'll stay with you until you
feel better. Some one may come this way, but it isn't likely. A man I
passed on the road a ways back told me to cut through the hickory grove
and I would save a mile of travel. That's how I happened to come through
the woods, and find you." He smiled a little, and Prudence, remembering
the nature of her accident, flushed. Then, being Prudence, she laughed.
"It was my own fault. I had no business to go coasting down like that.
But the mule was so stationary. It never occurred to me that he
contemplated moving for the next century at least. He was a bitter
disappointment." She looked down the roadside where the mule was
contentedly grazing, with never so much as a sympathetic glance toward
his victim.
"I'm afraid your bicycle is rather badly done up."
"Oh,--whatever will Mattie Moore say to me? It's borrowed. Oh, I see
now, that it was just foolish pride that made me unwilling to ride during
decent hours. What a dunce I was,--as usual."
He looked at her curiously. This was beyond his comprehension.
"The bicycle belongs to Mattie Moore. She lives across the street from
the parsonage, and I wanted to ride. She said I could. But I was
ashamed to ride in the daytime, for fear some of the members would think
it improper for a girl of the parsonage, and so I got up at six o'clock
this morning to do it on the sly. Somehow I never can remember that it
is just as bad to do things when you aren't seen as when you are. It
doesn't seem so bad, does it? But of course it is. But I never think of
that when I need to be thinking of it. Maybe I'll remember after this."
She was silent a while. "Fairy'll have to get breakfast, and she always
gets father's eggs too hard." Silence again. "Maybe papa'll worry. But
then, they know by this time that something always does happen to me, so
they'll be prepared."
She turned gravely to the young man beside her. He was looking down at
her, too. And as their eyes met, and clung for an instant, a slow dark
color rose in his face. Prudence felt a curious breathlessness,--caused
by her hurting ankle, undoubtedly.
"My name is Prudence Starr,--I am the Methodist minister's oldest
daughter."
"And my name is Jerrold Harmer." He was looking away into the hickory
grove now. "My home is in Des Moines."
"Oh, Des Moines is quite a city, isn't it? I've heard quite a lot about
it. It isn't so large as Chicago, though, of course. I know a man who
lives in Chicago. We used to be great chums, and he told me all about
the city. Some day I must really go there,--when the Methodists get rich
enough to pay their ministers just a little more salary." Then she added
thoughtfully, "Still, I couldn't go even if I had the money, because I
couldn't leave the parsonage. So it's just as well about the money,
after all. But Chicago must be very nice. He told me about the White
City, and the big parks, and the elevated railways, and all the pretty
restaurants and hotels. I love pretty places to eat. You might tell me
about Des Moines. Is it very nice? Are there lots of rich people
there?--Of course, I do not really care any more about the rich people
than the others, but it always makes a city seem grand to have a lot of
rich citizens, I think. Don't you?"
So he told her about Des Moines, and Prudence lay with her eyes
half-closed, listening, and wondering why there was more music in his
voice than in most voices. Her ankle did not hurt very badly. She did
not mind it at all. In fact, she never gave it a thought. From beneath
her lids, she kept her eyes fastened on Jerrold Harmer's long brown
hands, clasped loosely about his knees. And whenever she could, she
looked up into his face. And always there was that curious catching in
her breath, and she looked away again quickly, feeling that to look too
long was dangerous.
"I have talked my share now," he was saying, "tell me all about yourself,
and the parsonage, and your family. And who is Fairy? And do you attend
the college at Mount Mark? You look like a college girl."
"Oh, I am not," said Prudence, reluctant to make the admission for the
first time in her life. "I am too stupid to be a college girl. Our
mother is not living, and I left high school five years ago and have been
keeping house for my father and sisters since then. I am twenty years
old. How old are you?"
"I am twenty-seven," and he smiled.
"Jerrold Harmer," she said slowly and very musically. "It is such a nice
name. Do your friends call you Jerry?"
"The boys at school called me Roldie, and sometimes Hammie. But my
mother always called me Jerry. She isn't living now, either. You call
me Jerry, will you?"
"Yes, I will, but it won't be proper. But that never makes any
difference to me,--except when it might shock the members! You want me
to call you Jerry, don't you?"
"Yes, I do. And when we are better acquainted, will you let me call you
Prudence?"
"Call me that now.--I can't be too particular, you see, when I am lying
on your coat and pillowed with your belongings. You might get cross, and
take them away from me.--Did you go to college?"
"Yes, to Harvard, but I was not much of a student. Then I knocked around
a while, looking at the world, and two years ago I went home to Des
Moines. I have been there ever since except for little runs once in a
while."
Prudence sighed. "To Harvard!--I am sorry now that I did not go to
college myself."
"Why? There doesn't seem to be anything lacking about you. What do you
care about college?"
"Well, you went to college," she answered argumentatively. "My sister
Fairy is going now. She's very clever,--oh, very. You'll like her, I am
sure,--much better than you do me, of course." Prudence was strangely
downcast.
"I am sure I won't," said Jerrold Harmer, with unnecessary vehemence. "I
don't care a thing for college girls. I know a lot of them, and--aw,
they make a fellow tired. I like home girls,--the kind that stay at
home, and keep house, and are sweet, and comfortable, and all that."
Jerrold flipped over abruptly, and lay on the grass, his face on his arms
turned toward her face. They were quiet for a while, but their glances
were clinging.
"Your eyes are brown, aren't they?" Prudence smiled, as though she had
made a pleasant discovery.
"Yes. Yours are blue. I noticed that, first thing."
"Did you? Do you like blue eyes? They aren't as--well, as strong and
expressive as brown eyes. Fairy's are brown."
"I like blue eyes best. They are so much brighter and deeper. You can't
see clear to the bottom of blue eyes,--you have to keep looking." And he
did keep looking.
"Did you play football at college? You are so tall. Fairy's tall, too.
Fairy's very grand-looking. I've tried my best to eat lots, and
exercise, and make myself bigger, but--I am a fizzle."
"Yes, I played football.--But girls do not need to be so tall as men.
Don't you remember what Orlando said about Rosalind,--'just as tall as my
heart'? I imagine you come about to my shoulder. We'll measure as soon
as you are on your feet again."
"Are you going to live in Mount Mark now? Are you coming to stay?"
Prudence was almost quivering as she asked this. It was of vital
importance.
"No, I will only be there a few days, but I shall probably be back every
week or so. Is your father very strict? Maybe he would object to your
writing to me."
"Oh, he isn't strict at all. And he will be glad for me to write to you,
I know. I write to two or three men when they are away. But they
are--oh, I do not know exactly what it is, but I do not really like to
write to them. I believe I'll quit. It's such a bother."
"Yes, it is, that's so. I think I would quit, if I were you. I was just
thinking how silly it is for me to keep on writing to some girls I used
to know. Don't care two cents about 'em. I'm going to cut it out as
soon as I get home. But you will write to me, won't you?"
"Yes, of course." Prudence laughed shyly. "It seems so--well, nice,--to
think of getting letters from you."
"I'll bet there are a lot of nice fellows in Mount Mark, aren't there?"
"Why, no. I can't think of any real nice ones! Oh, they are all right.
I have lots of friends here, but they are--I do not know what! They do
not seem very nice. I wouldn't care if I never saw them again. But they
are good to me."
"Yes, I can grasp that," he said with feeling.
"Is Des Moines just full of beautiful girls?"
"I should say not. I never saw a real beautiful girl in Des Moines in my
life. Or any place else, for that matter,--until I came--You know when
you come right down to it, there are mighty few girls that look--just the
way you want them to look."
Prudence nodded. "That's the way with men, too. Of all the men I have
seen in my life, I never saw one before that looked just the way I wanted
him to."
"Before?" he questioned eagerly.
"Yes," said Prudence frankly. "You look just as I wish you to."
And in the meanwhile, at the parsonage, Fairy was patiently getting
breakfast. "Prudence went out for an early bicycle ride,--so the members
wouldn't catch her," she explained to the family. "And she isn't back
yet. She'll probably stay out until afternoon, and then ride right by
the grocery store where the Ladies have their Saturday sale. That's
Prudence, all over. Oh, father, I did forget your eggs again, I am
afraid they are too hard. Here, twins, you carry in the oatmeal, and we
will eat. No use to wait for Prudence,--it would be like waiting for the
next comet."
Indeed, it was nearly noon when a small, one-horse spring wagon drove
into the parsonage yard. Mr. Starr was in his study with a book, but he
heard a piercing shriek from Connie, and a shrill "Prudence!" from one of
the twins. He was downstairs in three leaps, and rushing wildly out to
the little rickety wagon. And there was Prudence!
"Don't be frightened, father. I've just sprained my ankle, and it
doesn't hurt hardly any. But the bicycle is broken,--we'll have to pay
for it. You can use my own money in the bank. Poor Mr. Davis had to
walk all the way to town, because there wasn't any room for him in the
wagon with me lying down like this. Will you carry me in?"
Connie's single bed was hastily brought downstairs, and Prudence
deposited upon it. "There's no use to put me up-stairs," she assured
them. "I won't stay there. I want to be down here where I can boss the
girls."
The doctor came in, and bandaged the swollen purple ankle. Then they had
dinner,--they tried to remember to call it luncheon, but never succeeded!
After that, the whole parsonage family grouped about the little single
bed in the cheery sitting-room.
"Whose coat is this, Prudence?" asked Connie.
"And where in the world did you get these towels and silk shirts?" added
Fairy.
Prudence blushed most exquisitely. "They are Mr. Harmer's," she said,
and glanced nervously at her father.
"Whose?" chorused the family. And it was plain to be seen that Lark was
ready to take mental notes with an eye to future stories.
"If you will sit down and keep still, I will tell you all about it. But
you must not interrupt me. What time is it, Fairy?"
"Two o'clock."
"Oh, two. Then I have plenty of time. Well, when I got to that little
cross-cut through the hickory grove, about four miles out from town, I
thought I would coast down the long hill. Do you remember that hill,
father? There was no one in sight, and no animals, except one hoary old
mule, grazing at the bottom. It was irresistible, absolutely
irresistible. So I coasted. But you know yourself, father, there is no
trusting a mule. They are the most undependable animals." Prudence
looked thoughtfully down at the bed for a moment, and added slowly,
"Still, I have no hard feelings against the mule. In fact, I kind of
like him.--Well, anyway, just as I got to the critical place in the hill,
that mule skipped right out in front of me. It looked as though he did
it on purpose. I did not have time to get out of his way, and it never
occurred to him to get out of mine, and so I went Bang! right into him.
And it broke Mattie Moore's wheel, and upset me quite a little. But that
mule never budged! Jerry--er Harmer,--Mr. Harmer, you know,--said he
believed an earthquake could coast downhill on to that mule without
seriously inconveniencing him. I was hurt a little, and couldn't get up.
And so he jumped over the fence,--No, Connie, not the mule, of course!
Mr. Harmer! He jumped over the fence, and put his coat on the ground,
and made a pillow for me with the shirts and towels in his bag, and
carried me over. Then he wanted to go for a wagon to bring me home, but
I was too nervous and scared, so he stayed with me. Then Mr. Davis came
along with his cart, and Jerry--er--Harmer, you know, helped put me in,
and the cart was so small they both had to walk."
"Where is he now?" "Is he young?" "Is he handsome?" "Did he look rich?"
"Don't be silly, girls. He went to the hotel, I suppose. Anyhow, he
left us as soon as we reached town. He said he was in a hurry, and had
something to look after. His coat was underneath me in the wagon, and he
wouldn't take it out for fear of hurting my ankle, so the poor soul is
probably wandering around this town in his shirt-sleeves."
Already, in the eyes of the girls, this Jerry--er--Harmer, had taken unto
himself all the interest of the affair.
"He'll have to come for his coat," said Lark. "We're bound to see him."
"Where does he live? What was he doing in the hickory grove?" inquired
Mr. Starr with a strangely sinking heart, for her eyes were alight with
new and wonderful radiance.
"He lives in Des Moines. He was just walking into town, and took a short
cut through the grove."
"Walking! From Des Moines?"
Prudence flushed uncomfortably. "I didn't think of that," she said.
"But I do not see why he should not walk if he likes. He's strong and
athletic, and fond of exercise. I guess he's plenty able to walk if he
wants to. I'm sure he's no tramp, father, if that is what you are
thinking."
"I am not thinking anything of the kind, Prudence," he said with dignity.
"But I do think it rather strange that a young man should set out to walk
from Des Moines to Mount Mark. And why should he be at it so early in
the morning? Doesn't he require sleep, as the rest of us do?"
"How should I know? I guess if he likes to be but in the morning when it
is fresh and sweet, it is all right. I like the morning myself. He had
as much right out early as I had. His clothes were nice, and he is a
Harvard graduate, and his shoes were dusty, but not soiled or worn.
Anyhow, he is coming at four o'clock. If you want to ask if he is a
tramp, you can do it." And Prudence burst into tears.
Dramatic silence in the cheerful sitting-room! Then Fairy began bustling
about to bathe the face and throat of "poor little Prudence," and her
father said sympathetically:
"You're all nervous and wrought up, with the pain and excitement,
Prudence. I'm glad he is coming so we can thank him for his kindness.
It was mighty lucky he happened along, wasn't it? A Harvard graduate!
Yes, they are pretty strong on athletics at Harvard. You'd better
straighten this room a little and have things looking nice when he gets
here," said Father Starr, with great diplomacy. And he was rewarded, and
startled, by observing that Prudence brightened wonderfully at his words.
"Yes, do," she urged eagerly. "Get some of the roses from the corner
bush, and put them on the table there. And when you go up-stairs, Fairy,
you'd better bring down that little lace spread in the bottom drawer of
our dresser. It'll look very nice on this bed.--Work hard, girls, and
get everything looking fine. He'll be here at four, he said. You twins
may wear your white dresses, and Connie must put on her blue and wear her
blue bows.--Fairy, do you think it would be all right for you to wear
your silk dress? Of course, the silk is rather grand for home, but you
do look so beautiful in it. Father, will you put on your black suit, or
are you too busy? And don't forget to wear the pearl cuff buttons Aunt
Grace sent you."
He went up-stairs to obey, with despair in his heart. But to the girls,
there was nothing strange in this exactness on the part of Prudence.
Jerrold Harmer was the hero of the romance, and they must unite to do him
honor. He was probably a prince in disguise. Jerrold Harmer was a
perfectly thrilling name. It was really a shame that America allows no
titles,--Lord Jerrold did sound so noble, and Lady Prudence was very
effective, too. He and Prudence were married, and had a family of four
children, named for the various Starrs, before one hour had passed.
"I'll begin my book right away," Lark was saying. She and Carol were in
the dining-room madly polishing their Sunday shoes,--what time they were
not performing the marriage ceremony of their sister and The Hero.
"Yes, do! But for goodness' sake, don't run her into a mule! Seems to
me even Prudence could have done better than that."
"I'll have his automobile break down in the middle of the road, and
Prudence can run into it. The carbureter came off, and of course the car
wouldn't run an inch without it."
"Yes, that's good," said Carol approvingly. "It must be a sixty
cylinder, eight horsepower--er--Ford, or something real big and costly."
"Twins! You won't be ready," warned Prudence, and this dire possibility
sent them flying upstairs in a panic.
While the girls, bubbling over with excitement, were dressing for the
great event, Mr. Starr went down-stairs to sit with Prudence. Carol
called to him on his way down, and he paused on the staircase, looking up
at her.
"Lark and I are going to use some of Fairy's powder, father," she said.
"We feel that we simply must on an occasion like this. And for goodness'
sake, don't mention it before Him! It doesn't happen very often, you
know, but to-day we simply must. Now, don't you say anything about
falling in the flour barrel, or turning pale all of a sudden, whatever
else you do. We'd be so mortified, father."
Mr. Starr was concerned with weightier matters, and went on down to
Prudence with never so much as a reproving shake of the head for the
worldly-minded young twins.
"Father," began Prudence, her eyes on the lace coverlet, "do you think it
would be all right for me to wear that silk dressing-gown of mother's? I
need something over my nightgown, and my old flannel kimono is so ugly.
You know, mother said I was to have it, and--I'm twenty now. Do you
think it would be all right? But if you do not want me to wear it----"
"I do want you to," was the prompt reply. "Yes, it is quite time you
were wearing it. I'll get it out of the trunk myself, and send Fairy
down to help you." Then as he turned toward the door, he asked
carelessly, "Is he very good-looking, Prudence?"
And Prudence, with a crimson face, answered quickly, "Oh, I really didn't
notice, father."
He went on up-stairs then, and presently Fairy came down with the dainty
silk gown trimmed with fine soft lace. "I brought my lavender ribbon for
your hair, Prudence. It will match the gown so nicely. Oh, you do look
sweet, dearest. I pity Jerrold Harmer, I can tell you that. Now I must
hurry and finish my own dressing."
But with her foot on the bottom stair, she paused. Her sister was
calling after her. "Send father down here, quick, Fairy."
Father ran down quickly, and Prudence, catching hold of his hands,
whispered wretchedly, "Oh, father, he--he is good-looking. I--I did
notice it. I didn't really mean to lie to you."
"There, now, Prudence," he said, kissing her tenderly, "you mustn't get
excited again. I'm afraid you are too nervous to have callers. You must
lie very quietly until he comes. That was no lie, child. You are so
upset you do not know what you are saying to-day. Be quiet now,
Prudence,--it's nearly time for him to come."
"You are a dear good father," she cried, kissing his hands passionately,
"but it was a lie. I did know what I was saying. I did it on purpose."
And Mr. Starr's heart was heavy, for he knew that his fears were realized.