"We must give it a name," said Treasure. "Let's call it the Shooting Star."
"Let's call it the Divine Spark— It is the only divine thing old Davison ever did."
"Girls," said Doris firmly, "don't you ever let me hear you speak disrespectfully of poor Mr. Davison again. He certainly had a kind and generous heart and he must have sympathized with dear father, walking all over town in all kinds of weather, and—"
"Pretty good sort, after all, wasn't he, Doris?" laughed Mr. Artman. "One post-mortem virtue like this will cover a lifetime of delirium tremens, won't it?"
"Here she comes," shouted Zee, and the family forgot its ministerial dignity and rushed pell-mell down the stone walk.
It was a pretty car, giddy and gaudy as to color, which fascinated Zee, with a softly whirring motor that reminded Treasure of a happy little kitten, and with long low lines that Rosalie declared were very smart indeed.
"Get in, folks," said Mr. Folsom gaily, "we must give her a trial run."
So the three older girls stepped loftily into the tonneau, and Zee snuggled up between her father and Mr. Folsom in front—there may have been bigger, more wonderful, more luxurious cars—but the Artmans could not be convinced of it, and Mr. Davison improved steadily with every turn of the motor.
Mr. Folsom, enjoying their passionate delight, volunteered to spend the morning giving the minister his first lesson, and a near panic ensued.
"Oh, Doris!"