Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 54, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 March 1917 — PRYDENCE OF THE PARSONAGE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

PRYDENCE OF THE PARSONAGE

by ETHEL HUESTON

ILLUSTRATED BY W. C . TAN N

CHAPTER Xl—Continued. —l*l 1 It did look horrible, from above as well anbeldw. Bat Jerry, when he felt the first light twinge as Connie lifted the rope, foresaw what was coming and Was ready for it. As he went down, he grabbed a firm hold on the branch on which he had stood, then he dropped to the next, and held agaiu. On the lowest limb he really clung for fifteen seconds, and took in his bearings. Connie had dropped the - rope when the twins screamed, so he had nothing more to fear from her. He saw Prudence, white, with wild eyes, both arms stretched out toward him. “O. K., Prue,” he called, and then he dropped. He landed on his feet, & little Jolted, but none the worse for his fall. He ran at once to Prudence. “I’m all right,” he cried, really alarmed by the white horror in her face. “Prudence ! Prudence!” Then her arms dropped, and with a brave but feeble smile, she swayed a little. Jerry took her in his arms. “Sweetheart!” he whispered. “Little sweetheart! Dodo you love me so much, dearest?” Prudence raised her hands to his face, and looked intensely into his eyes, all the sweet loving soul of her shining in her own. And Jerry kisSed her. The twins scrambled down from the maple, speechless and cold with terror, and saw Prudence and Jerry! Then they saw Connie, staring at them with Interest and amusement. “I think we’d better go to bed, all three of us,” declared Lark sturdily. And they set off heroically around the house. But at the corner Carol TOrned- ■ “Take my advice and go into tljp woodshed,” she called, “for all the Averys are looking out of their windows.” Prudence did not hear, but he drew her swiftly to the darkest corner of the side porch—and history repealed itself once more! ~ At twelve, Jerry went upstaTfaTlio bed, his lips tingling with the fervent tenderness of her parting kiss. He stood at his window, looking soberly out into the moonlit parsonage yard. “She is an angel, a pure, sweet, unselfish little angel,” he whispered, and his voice was broken, and his eyes were wet, “and she is going to be my wife! Oh, God, teach me how to be good to her, and help me make her as happy as she deserves.” At two o’clock, thinking again the soft shy words she had whispered to him, he dropped lightly asleep and dreamed of her. With the first pale streaks of daylight stealing into his room he awoke. It was after four o’clock. A little later —just a few min* utes later —he heard a light tap ou his door. It came again, and he bounded out of bed. “Prudence! Is anything wrong?” “Hush, .Terry, not so loud!’’ And what a strange and weary voice. “Come downstairs, will you? I want to tell yon~BdmefElnfc of the stairs. Be quiet—do not wake father and the girls. Will you be down soon?” - And in twp minutes he was down, agonizingly anxious, knowing that something was wrong. Prudence was waiting for him, and as he reached the bottom step she clutched his hands desperately. “Jerry,” she whispered. “I—forgive me—l honestly— Oh, I didn’t think what I was saying last night. You were so dear, and I was so happy, and for a while I really believed we could belong to each other. But I can’t, you know. I’ve promised papa and the girls a dozen times that I would never marry. Don’t you see how it is? I must take it back.” Jerry smiled a little, it must be admitted. This was so like his conscientious little Prudence! “Dearest,” he said gently. “You love me. Your father would never allow you to sacrifice yourself likejhat. The girls would nos hear of It. They want you to be h&ppy. And you can’t be happy without me, can you?” Suddenly she crushed close to him. “Oh, Jerry,” she sobbed, “I will never be happy again, I know. But —it is rlgfatfoirnieto stay - here aud- be the mother in the parsonage. It is wicked of me'to want you more than all of them. Don’t you see it is? They haven’t any mother. They haven't anyone but me. .Of course, they would not allow it, but they will not know anything about it. I must do it myself. And father especially must never know. I want you to go away this morning before breakfast and —never come again.” < She clung to him as she said this, but her voice did not falter. “And you must not w’rite to me any more.' For, oh, Jerry, if I see you again I ban never let you go, I know it. Will you ■do this fc • me?” “You are nervous and excited,” he said tenderly. “Let’s wait until after breakfast. Then „we’lL talk it all over with your father, and it shall be as he says. Won’t that be better?" “Oh, no. Ftr father will say whit-

ever he thinks will shake me happy. He must not know a thing about It. Prom? ise, Jerry, that you will never tffl him one - Word.” . “I promise, of course, Prudence. I will let you tell him.” But she shook her head. “He will never know. Oh, Jerry! I can’t bear td ifilbk of never seeing you again, and never getting letters from you, and it seems to kill me inside, just the thought of it.” “Sit here in my lap. Put your head on my shoulder, like that. Let me rub "your factTa little. You’re fevOTlilu Ybu are sick. Go to bed, won’t you, sweetheart? We can settle this later on.” “You must go right away, or I cannot let you go at all!” “Do you mean you want me to get my things and go right now?” “Yes.” She buried her face in his shoulder. “If—if you stay In your room until breakfast time I will lock you in, so you cannot leave me again. I know 4. lam crazy today.” “Don’t you think you owe me something, as well as your father and sisters? Didn’t God bring us together, and make ns love eaeh other? Don’t you think he intended us for each other? Do you wish you had never met me?” “Jerry!” —’’Then, sweetheart, bfe Your father loved your mother, and married her. That is God’s plan for all of us. You have been a wonderfully brave and sweet daughter and sister, I know. But surely Fairy is old enough to take your place now.” “Fairy’s going to be a professor, and —the girls do not mind her very well. And she isn’t as much comfort to father as I am. It’s just because I am most like mother, you see. But anyhow, I promised; I can’t leave them.”

“Your father expectS TOU to marry, and to marry me. I told him about it myself, long ago. And he was perfectly willing. He didn’t say a word against it.” “Of course he wouldn’t. That’s just like father. But still, I promised. And what would the girls say if I should go back on them? They have trusted me, always. If I fail them, will they ever trust anybody else? If you love me, Jerry, pjease go, and stay away.” But her arm tightened about his neck. “I’ll wait here until yon get your things, and we can-v-say goodby. And don’t forget your promise.” “Oh, very well, Prudence,” he answered* half irritably, “if you insist on ordering me away from the bouse like this, I ca». only go. But —” “Let’s not talk any more about It, Jerry. Please. I’ll wait until you come down.” When he came down a little later, with his suitcase, bis face was white and strained. She put her arms around his neck. “Jerry,” she whispered. “I want to tell you-that-I love you so much that—l could'go away with you, and never see any of them any more, or papa, or the parsonage, and stuff eel rich, If I just had you! You—everything in me seems to be all yours. I—love you.” Her tremulous lips were pressed against his. “Oh, sweetheart, this is folly, all folly. But I can’t make you see it It is wrong, it is wickedly wrong, but —” “But I am all they have, Jerry, and—--4 (promised.” “Whenever you want me. Prudence, just send. 11l never change. I’U always be just the same.'' God yon for toe, I know, and —I’ll be waiting”. . “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” she whispered passionately, sobbing, quivering in Wa arms. It was he who drew away. _ “Good-by, sweetheart.” he said quietly, great pity In his heart for the girl Who itrber desire to do right was doing

such horrible wrong. “Good-by, sweetheart. Remember, I will be waiting. Whenever you send, I will come.” He stepped outside, and closed the door. Prudende, stood motionless,' her hands clenched, until she could .no longer hear his footsteps; Then she dropped on the floor, and lay there, face downward, until she heard Fairy moving in her room upstairs. Then she went into the kitchen and built the fire for breakfast CHAPTER XII. * She Comes to Grief. Fairy was pne of those buoyant, warm-blooded girls to whom sleep is indeed the great restorer. Now she Stood in the kitchen door, tall, cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, and smiled at her sister’s solemn back. “You are the little mousey, Prue,” she said, in her full rich voice. “I didn’t hear you come to bed last night, and I didn’t hear you getting out this morning. Why, what is the matter?” For Prudence had turned her face toward her sifter, and it was so white and BQ~unnatural that Fairy was shocked. “Prudence! You are sick! Go to bed and let hia get breakfast. Here, get out of this, and I will —” “There’s nothing the matter withlne. I had a headache, and did not sleep, but I am all right now. Are the girls up yet?”

Fairy eyed her suspiciously. “Jerry is out unusually early, too, isn’t he? His door is open.” “Jerry has gone. Fairy.” Prudence’s back was presented to view once more, and Prudence was stirring the oatmeal with vicious energy. “He left early this morning—I suppose he is half-way to Des Moines by now.” "Oh!” Fairy’s voice was noncommittal. “When is he coming 'back?” “He isn’t coming back. -Please, hurry, Fairy, and.call the others. The oatmeal is ready.” Fairy went soberly up the stairs,, ostensibly to call her sisters. “Girls,” she began, carefully closing the door of their room behind her. “Jerry has gone, and isn’t coming back any more. And for goodness’ sake, don’t keep asking questions about it. Just eat your breakfast as usual, and have a little tact.” “A lovers’ quarrel,” suggested Lark, her eyes glittered greedily. “Nothing of the sort. And don’t keep, staring at Prue, either. And do not keep talking about Jerry all the time. You mind me, or i will tell papa.” “That’s funny,” said Carol thoughtfully. “We saw them kissing each other like mad in the back yard last night—and this morning he has gone to return no more. They are crazy.” “Kissing! In the back yard! What are you talking about?’ Carol explained, and Fairy looked still more thoughtful and perturbed. She opened the door, and called out to them lb a loud and breezy* voice: “Hurry, girls, for breakfast is ready, and there’s no time to-waste in a par-, sonage on Sunday morning.” Then she added in a whisper, “And don’t you mention Jerry, and don’t ask Prudence what makes her so pale, or you’ll catch it!”

Then she went to her father’s door. “Breakfast is ready, p pa,” she called clearly. She turned the knob softly, and peeped in. “May I come in a minute?” Standing close beside him, she told him all she knew of what had happened. “Prudence is ghastly, father, just ghastly. And she can’t talk about it yef T so be you say, will your AndHwas-due to Fairy’s kindly ad"monitions that the parsonage family took the departure of Jerry so calmly. That was the beginning of Prudence’s bitter winter, when the brightest sunshine was cheerless and dreary, and when even the laughter of her sIlteST smote harshly upon her ears. She tried to be as always, but in her eyes the wounded look lingered, and her face grew so pale and thin that her father and Fairy, anxiously watching, were filled with grave concern. She remained almost constantly in the parsonage, reading very little, sitting most of her leisure time staring out the windows. Fairy had tried to win her confidence, and had failed. “You are a arling, Fairy, but I really do not,want to talk about it. Oh, no, indeed, it is all my own fault. 1 told him to go, and not come again. No, you are wrong, Fuiry, I do not regret it, Ido not want him to come any more.” Mr. Starr, too, had tried. “Prudence,” he said gently, “you know very often c men do things that to women- seem wrong and wicked. And maybe they areT But men and women are different by nature, my dear, and we must remember that. I have satisfied myself that Jerry is good, and clean,, and.man-, ly. I do not think you should let any foolishness of his in the past come between you now.” (TO BE CONTINUED.)

"Whenever You Send, I Will Come.”