Then they hastily brought the discarded seat from the barn, and with the help of Jerry it was shoved up on the woodshed. From there, he lifted it to the lowest limb of the old maple, and a second later he was up himself. Then it was lifted again, and again he followed,--up, and up, and up,--the loose end of the donated rope trailing loose on the ground below. The twins promptly,--as promptly as possible, that is,--followed him into the tree.

"Oh, yes, we'll come along. We're used to climbing and we're very agile. And you will need us to hold things steady while you hammer."

And Jerry smiled as he heard the faithful twins, with much grunting and an occasional groan, following in his wake.

It was a delightful location, as they had said. So heavy was the leafy screen that only by lifting a branch here or there, could they see through it. The big seat fitted nicely on the two limbs, and Jerry fastened it with the rusty nails. The twins were jubilant, and loud in their praises of his skill and courage.

"Oh, Jerry," exclaimed Carol, with deep satisfaction, "it's such a blessing to discover something really nice about you after all these months!"

"Now, we'll just----"

"Hush!" hissed Lark. "Here comes Connie. Hold your breath, Jerry, and don't budge."

"Isn't she in on this?" he whispered. He could hear Connie making weird noises as she came around the house from the front. She was learning to whistle, and the effect was ghastly in the extreme.

Connie's mouth had not been designed for whistling.

"Sh! She's the band of dark-browed gypsies trying to steal my lovely wife."

"I'm the lovely wife," interrupted Carol complacently.

"But Connie does not know about it. She is so religious she won't be any of the villain parts. When we want her to be anything real low-down, we have to do it on the sly. She would no more consent to a band of dark-browed gypsies than she would----"

Connie came around the corner of the parsonage, out the back walk beneath the maple. Then she gave a gleeful scream. Right before her lay a beautiful heavy rope. Connie had been yearning for a good rope to make a swing. Here it lay, at her very feet, plainly a gift of the G.o.ds. She did not wait to see where the other end of the rope was.

She just grabbed what she saw before her, and started violently back around the house with it yelling, "Prudence! Look at my rope!"

Prudence rushed around the parsonage. The twins shrieked wildly, as there was a terrific tug and heave of the limb beside them, and then--a crashing of branches and leaves. Jerry was gone!

It did look horrible, from above as well as below. But 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 again. 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, a 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!

Do--do you love me so much, my 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I think we'd better go to bed, all three of us," declared Lark st.u.r.dily. And they set off heroically around the house. But at the corner Carol turned.

"Take my advice and go into the woodshed," she said, "for all the Averys are looking out of their windows."

Prudence did not hear, but he drew her swiftly into the woodshed. Now a woodshed is a hideously unromantic sort of place. And there was nothing for Prudence to sit on, that Jerry might kneel at her feet. So they dispensed with formalities, and he held her in his arms for a long time, and kissed her often, and whispered sweet meaningless words that thrilled her as she listened. It may not have been comfortable, but it was evidently endurable, for it is a fact that they did not leave that woodshed for over an hour. Then they betook themselves to the darkest corner of the side porch,--and history repeated itself once more!

At twelve, Jerry went up-stairs to bed, his lips tingling with the fervent tenderness of her parting kiss. At one o'clock, 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, G.o.d, teach me how to be good to her, and help me make her as happy as she deserves."

At two o'clock he lay on his bed, staring into the darkness, thinking again the soft shy words she had whispered to him. And he flung his arms out toward his closed door, wanting her. At three o'clock 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 minutes later,--he heard a light tap on his door. It came again, and he bounded out of bed.

"Prudence! Is anything wrong?"

"Hush, Jerry, not so loud!" And what a strange and weary voice. "Come down-stairs, will you? I want to tell you something. I'll wait at the foot of the stairs. Be quiet,--do not wake father and the girls. Will you be down soon?"

"In two minutes!"

And in two minutes he was flown, 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--I 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 have said that because you were not awake. You did not love. But you are awake now. You love me. Your father would never allow you to sacrifice yourself like that. The girls would not hear of it. They want you to be happy. 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 right for me to stay here, and 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 any one 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 write to me any more. For, oh, Jerry, if I see you again I can never let you go, I know it. Will you do this for me?"

"You've been up all night, haven't you, dearest?"

"Yes,--I remembered, and then I couldn't sleep."

"What have you been doing all night? It is morning now."

"I walked up and down the floor, and pounded my hands together," she admitted, with a mournful smile.

"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. For father will say whatever he thinks will make me happy.

He must not know a thing about it. Promise, Jerry, that you will never tell 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 to think of never seeing you again, and never getting letters from you, and-- It seems to kill me inside, just the thought of it."

"Sit down here in my lap. Put your head on my shoulder, like that.

Let me rub your face a little. You're feverish. You are sick. Go to bed, won't you, sweetheart? We can settle this later on."

"You must go right away, or I can not 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 can not leave me again. I know it. I am crazy to-day."

"Don't you think you owe me something, as well as your father and sisters? Didn't G.o.d bring us together, and make us love each other?

Don't you think He intended us for each other? Do you wish you had never met me?"

"Jerry!"