They had not finished dinner when the superintendent of the Sunday-school called Mr. Artman to the phone.
"Miss Munsing says she will not keep her class any longer," he protested peevishly. "I want you to talk to her. Why, she is one of our very best teachers, young and lively, and her girls adore her. She says she is not capable, or some such nonsense—bright clever girl like that. You talk to her, will you? She promised to see you this afternoon."
Mr. Artman shook his head despairingly as he returned to the table.
"You women," he said. "You don't know how upsetting you are. I would have sworn that Miss Munsing was more in harmony with her work than any teacher in the school, and here she throws up her hands."
"Do you mean she is giving up the class, father?" asked Treasure breathlessly.
"Just that. Says she is not capable, or something."
"Why, Treasure, isn't she your teacher? And you all love her, don't you?"
"Hum, yes," said Treasure thoughtfully. "You talk her into it, father. It would break up the class to lose her."
"What is the trouble, anyhow? Has anything gone wrong? If there has been any mix-up, you ought to know it."