Prudence of the Parsonage

by Ethel Hueston

Fairy wiped her eyes, and lay back weakly on the bed. "Go on," she urged. "What happened?"

"He stopped right in the middle of a sentence about me, something real nice, too, that I was awfully interested in, and said, 'Look, Miss Starr!' Then he got down on his knees and began cautiously scraping away the sticks and leaves. Then he fished out the most horrible, woolly, many-legged little animal I ever saw in my life. He said it was a giminythoraticus billyancibus, and he was as tickled over it as though he had just picked up a million-dollar diamond. And what do you suppose the weird creature did with it? He wrapped it in a couple of leaves, and put his handkerchief around it and put it in his pocket!—Do you remember when we were eating by the creek, and I got jam on my fingers? He offered me his handkerchief to wipe it off? Do you remember how I shoved him away, and shuddered? I saw you look reprovingly at me! That's why! Do you suppose I could wipe my fingers with a handkerchief that had been in one of his pockets?"

"It wasn't the one that had the giminy billibus, was it?"

"No, but goodness only knows what had been in this one,—an alligator, maybe, or a snake. He's very fond of snakes. He says some of them are so useful. I try to be charitable, Fairy, and I believe I would give even Satan credit for any good there was in him,—but it is too much to ask me to be fond of a man who is fond of snakes. But that is not the worst. He put the giminy thing in his pocket,—his left pocket! Then he came on walking with me, on my right side. On my right side, Fairy, do you understand what that means? It means that the giminy billibus, as you call it—oh, I wouldn't swear to the name, Fairy, I do not claim to be smart, but I know how it looked! Well, anyhow, name and all, it was on the side next to me. I stopped to look at a little stick, and switched around on the other side. Then he stooped to look at a bunch of dirt, and got on the wrong side again. Then I stopped, and then he did, and so we kept zig-zagging down the road. A body would have thought we were drunk, I suppose. Four times that man stopped to pick up some wriggling little animal, and four times he deposited his treasure in one of his various pockets. Don't ask why it is impossible for me to be friends with such a being,—spare me that humiliation!"

But the fair daughter of the parsonage proved irresistibly attractive to the unfortunate professor, and he was not to be lightly shunted aside. He forsook the Presbyterian church, of which he was a member, and attended the Methodist meetings with commendable assiduity. After each service, he accompanied Prudence home, and never failed to accept her invitations, feebly given, to "come in a minute." He called as often during the week as Propriety, in the voice of Prudence, deemed fitting. It was wholly unnatural for Prudence to cater to Propriety, but Professor Rayburn did not know this. Weeks passed, a month slipped away, and another. Professor Rayburn was considered a fixture in the parsonage household by all except Prudence herself, who chafed under her bondage.

"I can't just blurt out that I think he's a nuisance," she mourned to Fairy. "Oh, if he'd just do something disgusting so I could fire him off,—Pop! Just like that. Wouldn't it be glorious?"

But the professor did not indulge in disgusting things, and Prudence continued to worry and fret. Then came a blessed evening when the minister and Fairy were away from home, and the twins and Connie were safely in their beds. Professor Rayburn sat with Prudence in the cozy living-room, and Prudence was charming, though quiet, and the professor was only human. Prudence had made tea, and as she rose to relieve him of his empty cup, he also rose to return it to the table. Laughing, they put it down on the tray, each holding one side of the saucer. Then when it was safely disposed of, Prudence turned toward him, still laughing at the silliness of it,—very alluring, very winsome. And Mr. Rayburn, unexpectedly to himself as to her, put his arms around her and kissed her. He was aghast at himself, once it was over, and Prudence,—well, let us say frankly that Prudence was only relieved, for it came to her in a flash that this was the "disgusting thing" for which she had so fervently longed.

"Mr. Rayburn!"

"That was very stupid and unpardonable of me, Prudence," he said quickly, "I really did not think what I was doing. But you were so sweet, and—I'm awfully fond of you, Prudence, you know that."

Prudence looked at him thoughtfully. She felt that this hardly gave her the desired opening. So she waited, hoping he would commit himself further. More humbled by her unnatural silence, he did go on.