Prudence of the Parsonage Part 38

"No,--this is Sat.u.r.day."

"Oh, of course. Well, bring them up, I want to see them."

Just then the distant whistle of a locomotive sounded through the open window, but she did not notice her father's sudden start. She nodded up at him again, and repeated, "I want to see my girls."

Her father sent them up to her at once, and they stood at the foot of the bed with sorry faces, and smiled at her.

"Say something," whispered Carol, kicking Lark suggestively on the foot. But Lark was dumb. It was Carol who broke the silence.

"Oh, Prudence, do you suppose the doctors will let me come in and watch them bandage your head? I want to begin practising up, so as to be ready for the next war."

Then they laughed, and the girls realized that Prudence was really alive and quite as always. They told her of Connie's sad experience, and Prudence comforted her sweetly.

"It just proves all over again," she declared, smiling, but with a sigh close following, "that you can't get along without me to look after you. Would I ever go to bed without making sure that Connie was safe and sound?"

Down-stairs, meanwhile, Mr. Starr was plotting with Fairy, a willing a.s.sistant.

"He'll surely be in on this train, and you must keep him down here until I get through with Prudence. I want to tell her a few things before she sees him. Bring him in quietly, and don't let him speak loudly. I do not want her to know he is on hand for a few minutes.

Explain it to the girls, will you?"

After sending the younger girls down-stairs again, he closed the door of Prudence's room, and sat down beside her.

"Prudence, I can't tell you how bitterly disappointed I am in you."

"Father!"

"Yes, I thought you loved us,--the girls and me. It never occurred to me that you considered us a bunch of selfish, heartless, ungrateful animals!"

"Father!"

"Is that your idea of love? Is that----"

"Oh, father!"

"It really did hurt me, Prudence. My dear little girl, how could you send Jerry away, breaking your heart and his, and ours, too,--just because you thought us such a selfish lot that we would begrudge you any happiness of your own? Don't you think our love for you is big enough to make us happy in seeing you happy? You used to say you would never marry. We did not expect you to marry, then. But we knew the time would come when marriage would seem beautiful and desirable to you. We were waiting for that time. We were hoping for it. We were happy when you loved Jerry, because we knew he was good and kind and loving, and that he could give you all the beautiful things of life--that I can never give my children. But you thought we were too selfish to let you go, and you sent him away."

"But father! Who would raise the girls? Who would keep the parsonage?

Who would look after you?"

"Aunt Grace, to be sure. We talked it over two years ago, when her husband died. Before that, she was not free to come to us. But she said then that whenever we were ready for her, she would come. We both felt that since you were getting along so magnificently with the girls, it was better that way for a while. But she said that when your flitting-time came, she would come to us gladly. We had it all arranged. You won't want to marry for a year or so, yet. You'll want to have some happy sweetheart days first. And you'll want to make a lot of those pretty, useless, nonsensical things other girls make when they marry. That's why I advised you to save your burglar money,--so you would have it for this. We'll have Aunt Grace come right away, so you can take a little freedom to be happy, and to make your plans. And you can initiate Aunt Grace into the mysteries of parsonage housekeeping."

A bright strange light had flashed over Prudence's face. But her eyes clouded a little as she asked, "Do you think they would rather have Aunt Grace than me?"

"Of course not. But what has that to do with it? We love you so dearly that we can only be happy when you are happy. We love you so dearly that we can be happy with you away from us,--just knowing that you are happy. But you--you thought our love was such a hideous, selfish, little make-believe that----"

"Oh, father, I didn't! You know I didn't!--But--maybe Jerry won't forgive me now?"

"Why didn't you talk it over with me, Prudence?"

"I knew you too well, father. I knew it would be useless.

But--doesn't it seem wrong, father, that--a girl--that I--should love Jerry more than--you and the girls? That he should come first?

Doesn't it seem--wicked?"

"No, Prudence, it is not wicked. After all, perhaps it is not a stronger and deeper love. You were willing to sacrifice him and yourself, for our sakes! But it is a different love. It is the love of woman for man,--that is very different from sister-love and father-love. And it is right. And it is beautiful."

"I am sure Jerry will forgive me. Maybe if you will send me a paper and pencil--I can write him a note now? There's no use waiting, is there? Fairy will bring it, I am sure."

But when a few minutes later, she heard a step in the hall outside, she laid her arm across her face. Somehow she felt that the wonderful joy and love shining in her eyes should be kept hidden until Jerry was there to see. She heard the door open, and close again.

"Put them on the table, Fairy dearest, and--leave me for a little while, will you? Thank you." And her face was still hidden.

Then the table by the bedside was swiftly drawn away, and Jerry kneeled beside her, and drew the arm from her face.

"Jerry!" she whispered, half unbelievingly. Then joyously, "Oh, Jerry!" She gazed anxiously into his face. "Have you been sick? How thin you are, and so pale! Jerry Harmer, you need me to take care of you, don't you?"

But Jerry did not speak. He looked earnestly and steadily into the joyful eyes for a moment, and then he pressed his face to hers.