s' Aid. "We've been a
parsonage bunch all our lives, you know, and it's got to be a habit.
But we'll be as easy on you as we can. We know what it would mean to
leave two ministers' families down on you at once."

Mr. Starr's new position necessitated long and frequent absences from
home, and that was a drawback to the family comradeship. But the girls'
pride in his advancement was so colossal, and their determination to
live up to the dignity of the eldership was so deep-seated, that affairs
ran on quite serenely in the new home.

"Aren't we getting sensible?" Carol frequently asked her sisters, and
they agreed enthusiastically that they certainly were.

"I don't think we ever were so bad as we thought we were," Lark said.
"Even Prudence says now that we were always pretty good. Prudence ought
to think so. She got most of our spending money for a good many years,
didn't she?"

"Prudence didn't get it. She gave it to the heathen."

"Well, she got credit for it on the Lord's accounts, I suppose. But she
deserved it. It was no joke collecting allowances from us."

One day this beautiful serenity was broken in upon in a most unpleasant
way. Carol looked up from _De Senectute_ and flung out her arms in an
all-relieving yawn. Then she looked at her aunt, asleep on the couch.
She looked at Lark, who was aimlessly drawing feathers on the skeletons
of birds in her biology text. She looked at Connie, sitting upright in
her chair, a small book close to her face, alert, absorbed, oblivious to
the world. Connie was wide awake, and Carol resented it.

"What are you reading, Con?" she asked reproachfully.

Connie looked up, startled, and colored a little. "Oh,--poetry," she
stammered.

Carol was surprised. "Poetry," she echoed. "Poetry? What kind of poetry?
There are many poetries in this world of ours. 'Life is real, life is
earnest.' 'There was a young lady from Bangor.' 'A man and a maiden
decided to wed.' 'Sunset and, evening star,'--oh, there are lots of
poetries. What's yours?" Her senseless dissertation had put her in good
humor again.

Connie answered evasively. "It is by an old Oriental writer. I don't
suppose you've ever read it. Khayyam is his name."

"Some name," said Carol suspiciously. "What's the poem?" Her eyes had
narrowed and darkened. By this time Carol had firmly convinced herself
that she was bringing Connie up,--a belief which afforded lively
amusement to self-conducting Connie.

"Why, it's _The Ru