Part 32 (1/2)

”That will be very nice indeed, and of course I do not object. It will be a forty years' delight and wonder to the twins! Yes, I will be glad to have you go. But you can still have your month at Grace's if you wish.”

”But I do not wish,” protested Prudence promptly. ”Honestly, father, I'll write her the sweetest kind of a letter, but--oh, please do not make me go!”

”Of course, we won't make you go, you goose,” said Fairy, ”but I think you are very foolish.”

”And you can go, Fairy,” cried Prudence hospitably. ”Aunt Grace loves you so, and you've worked so hard all year, and,--oh, yes, it will be just the thing for you.” Prudence wished she might add, ”And that will let me out,” but she hardly dare say it.

”Well, when does your Des Moines tour come off? I must know, so I can tell Babbie about the house party.”

”Let Babbie choose his own date. Jerry says we shall go whenever I say--I mean whenever you say, father,--and we can decide later on.

Give Babbie first choice, by all means.”

That was the beginning of Prudence's golden summer. She was not given to self-a.n.a.lysis. She did what seemed good to her always,--she did not delve down below the surface for reasons why and wherefore. She hadn't the time. She took things as they came. She could not bear the thought of sharing with the parsonage family even the least ardent and most prosaic of Jerrold's letters. But she never asked herself the reason. It seemed a positive sacrilege to leave his warm, life-pulsing letters up-stairs in a bureau drawer. It was only natural and right to carry them in her dress, and to sleep with them under her pillow. But Prudence did not wonder why. The days when Jerry came were tremulously happy ones for her,--she was all aquiver when she heard him swinging briskly up the ramshackle parsonage walk, and her breath was suffocatingly hot. But she took it as a matter of course. The nights when Jerry slept in the little spare bedroom at the head of the stairs, Prudence lay awake, staring joyously into the darkness, hoping Jerry was sound asleep and comfortable. But she never asked herself why she could not sleep! She knew that Jerry's voice was the sweetest voice in the world. She knew that his eyes were the softest and brightest and the most tender. She knew that his hands had a thrilling touch quite different from the touch of ordinary, less dear hands. She knew that his smile lifted her into a delirium of delight, and that even the thought of sorrow coming to him brought stinging tears to her eyes.

But why? Ah, Prudence never thought of that. She just lived in the sweet ecstatic dream of the summer, and was well and richly content.

So the vacation pa.s.sed, and Indian summer came. And the girls went back to their studies once more, reluctantly, yet unaccountably glad even in their reluctance. It is always that way with students,--real students. They regret the pa.s.sing of vacation days, but the thought of ”going back to school” has its own tingling joys of antic.i.p.ation.

It was Sat.u.r.day evening. The early supper at the parsonage was over, the twins had washed the dishes, and still the daylight lingered.

Prudence and Jerry sat side by side, and closely, on the front porch, talking in whispers. Fairy had gone for a stroll with the still faithful Babbie. Connie and the twins had evidently vanished. Ah--not quite that! Carol and Lark came swiftly around the corner of the parsonage.

”Good evening,” said Lark politely, and Prudence sat up abruptly. The twins never wasted politeness! They wanted something.

”Do you mind if we take Jerry around by the woodshed for a few minutes, Prue?”

”I'll come along,” said Prudence, rising.

”Oh, no,” protested Lark, ”we do not want you,--just Jerry, and only for a little while.”

Prudence sniffed suspiciously. ”What are you going to do to him?” she demanded.

”We won't hurt him,” grinned Carol impishly. ”We had intended to tie him to a stake and burn him alive. But since you have interceded on his behalf, we'll let him off with a simple scalping.”

”Maybe he's afraid to come,” said Lark, ”for there are two of us, and we are mighty men of valor.”

”That's all right,” Prudence answered defensively. ”I'd sooner face a tribe of wild Indians any day than you twins when you are mischief-bent.”

”Oh, we just want to use him a few minutes,” said Carol impatiently.

”Upon our honor, as Christian gentlemen, we promise not to hurt a hair of his head.”

”Oh, come along, and cut out the comedy,” Jerry broke in, laughing.

”I'll be back in two minutes, Prue. They probably want me to shoo a chicken out of their way. Or maybe the cat has been chasing them.”

Once safely around the corner, the twins changed their tactics.

”We knew you weren't afraid,” said Lark artistically, ”we were just teasing Prudence. We know we couldn't hurt you.”

”Of course,” emphasized Carol. ”We want to ask a favor of you, that's all. It's something we can't do ourselves, but we knew you could do it, all right.”

Jerry perceived the drift of this argument. ”I see! I'm paid in advance for my service. What's the job?”

Then the twins led him to the woodshed. This woodshed stood about twenty feet from the back door of the parsonage, and was nine feet high in front, the roof sloping down at the back. Close beside the shed grew a tall and luxuriant maple. The lower limbs had been chopped off, and the trunk rose clear to a height of nearly twelve feet before the ma.s.sive limbs branched out. The twins had discovered that by climbing gingerly on the rotten roof of the woodshed, followed by almost superhuman scrambling and scratching, they could get up into the leafy secrecy of the grand old maple. More than this, up high in the tree they found a delightful arrangement of branches that seemed positively made for them. These branches must be utilized, and it was in the act of utilizing them that they called upon their sister's friend for help.