"Ask the twins," she said tersely, "I know nothing about it."
At that moment, the luckless Carol went running through the hall. Prudence knew it was she, without seeing, because she had a peculiar skipping run that was quite characteristic and unmistakable.
"Carol!" she called.
And Carol paused.
"Carol!" more imperatively.
Then Carol slowly opened the door,—she was a parsonage girl and rose to the occasion. She smiled winsomely,—Carol was nearly always winsome.
"How do you do?" she said brightly. "Isn't it a lovely day? Did you call me, Prudence?"
"Yes. Do you know where the bottom of that chair has gone?"
"Why, no, Prudence—gracious! That chair!—Why, I didn't know you were going to bring that chair in here—Why,—oh, I am so sorry! Why in the world didn't you tell us beforehand?"
Some of the Ladies smiled. Others lifted their brows and shoulders in a mildly suggestive way, that Prudence, after nineteen years in the parsonage, had learned to know and dread.