Mr. Harold drew out a bulky book from his pocket, and handed Connie a crisp new bill. Her eyes sparkled as she received it.
"But, Connie," he continued, "I feel that I ought to give you this. We Methodists have done a wicked thing in forgetting our November payments, and I will just give you this bill to make up for it."
But Connie shook her head decidedly. "Oh, no! I'll have to give it back, then. Father would not stand that,—not for one minute. Of course, parsonage people get things given to them, quite a lot. And it's a good thing, too, I must say! But we don't hint for them, Mr. Harold. That wouldn't be right." She held out the bill toward him, with very manifest reluctance.
"Keep it,—we'll call it a loan then, Connie," he said. "And you may pay me back, five cents at a time, just as is most convenient."
The four older girls were at the table when Connie arrived. She exhaled quiet satisfaction from every pore. Prudence glanced at her once, and then looked away again. "She has reconciled herself," she thought. Dinner was half over before Constance burst her bomb. She had intended waiting until they were quite through, but it was more than flesh and blood could keep!
"Are you going to be busy this afternoon, Prudence?" she asked quietly.
"We are going to sew a little," said Prudence. "Why?"
"I wanted you to go down-town with me after school."
"Well, perhaps I can do that. Fairy will be able to finish the coat alone."
"You needn't finish the coat!—I can't wear father's coat to church, Prudence. It's a—it's a—physical impossibility."