s of the church was in Mount Mark for a business conference
with the religious leaders, and was to spend the night at the parsonage.
The meeting was called for eight-thirty for the convenience of the
business men concerned, and was to be held in the church offices. The
men left early, followed shortly by Fairy who designed to spend the
evening at the Averys' home, testing their supply of winter apples. The
twins and Connie, with the newest and most thrilling book Mr. Carnegie
afforded the town, went up-stairs to lie on the bed and take turns
reading aloud. And for a few hours the parsonage was as calm and
peaceful as though it were not designed for the housing of merry
minister's daughters.

Aunt Grace sat down-stairs darning stockings. The girls' intentions had
been the best in the world, but in less than a year the family darning
had fallen entirely into the capable and willing hands of the gentle
chaperon.

It was half past ten. The girls had just seen their heroine rescued from
a watery grave and married to her bold preserver by a minister who
happened to be writing a sermon on the beach--no mention of how the
license was secured extemporaneously--and with sighs of gratified
sentiment they lay happily on the bed thinking it all over. And then,
from beneath the peach trees clustered on the south side of the
parsonage, a burst of melody arose.

"Good morning, Carrie, how are you this morning?"

The girls sat up abruptly, staring at one another, as the curious ugly
song wafted in upon them. Conviction dawned slowly, sadly, but
unquestionably.

The Slaughter-house Quartette was serenading Carol in return for her
winsome smiles!

Carol herself was literally struck dumb. Her face grew crimson, then
white. In her heart, she repeated psalms of thanksgiving that Fairy was
away, and that her father and the bishop would not be in until this
colossal disaster was over.

Connie was mortified. It seemed like a wholesale parsonage insult. Lark,
after the first awful realization, lay back on the bed and rolled
convulsively.

"You're an influence all right, Carol," she gurgled. "Will you listen to
that?"

For _Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown_ was the second choice of her cavaliers
below in the darkness.

"Rufus Rastus," Lark cried, and then was choked with laughter. "Of
course, it would be--proper if they sang hymns but--oh, listen!"

The rollicking strains of _Budweiser_ were swung gaily out upon the
night.

Carol writ