"Does she miss me? Does she seem sorry that I am away? Does——" His voice was so boyish and so eager there was no mistaking his attitude toward Prudence.
"Look here, Jerry, I want to know. Why are you staying away?"
"Won't Prudence tell you?"
"No."
"Then I can not. She made me promise not to tell you a word. But it is not my fault, Mr. Starr. I can tell you that. It is nothing I have done or said. She sent me away because she thinks it was right for her to do so, and—you know Prudence! It is wrong, I know. I knew it all the time. But I couldn't make her see it. And she made me promise not to tell."
In the end Mr. Starr went back to the parsonage no wiser than he left, save that he now knew that Jerry was really not to blame, and that he held himself ready to return to her on a moment's notice.
The Ladies of the Methodist church were puzzled and exasperated. They went to the parsonage, determined to "find out what's what." But when they sat with Prudence, and looked at the frail, pathetic little figure, with the mournful eyes,—-they could only sigh with her and go their ways.
The twins continued to play in the great maple, even when the leaves were fallen, "It's a dandy place, I tell you, Prudence," cried Carol. "Jerry didn't have time to put up the rope before Connie pulled him down, but we've fixed it ourselves, and it is simply grand. You can go up and swing any time you like,—unless your joints are too stiff! It's a very serious matter getting up there,—-for stiff joints, of course, I mean. Lark and I get up easy enough."
For a moment, Prudence sat silent with quivering lips. Then she burst out with unusual passion, "Don't you ever dare climb up in that tree again as long as you live, twins! Mind what I say!"
Lark looked thoughtfully out of the window, and Carol swallowed hard. It was she who said gently, "Why, of course, Prue,—just as you say."