Part 3 (1/2)

”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.