l and Connie must not even stay in the kitchen with you."

"I believe I'll go to bed now, too," said Lark, with a thoughtful glance
at her two sisters, already curled up snugly and waiting for the
conclusion of the administering of justice. "If you don't mind,
Prudence."

Prudence smiled a bit ruefully. "Oh, I suppose you might as well, if you
like. But remember this, Lark: No more deaths, and murders, and
mysteries, and highway robberies."

"All right, Prudence," said Lark with determination. And as Prudence
walked slowly down-stairs she heard Lark starting in on her next story:

"Once there was a handsome young man, named Archibald Tremaine,--a very
respectable young fellow. He wouldn't so much as dream of robbing, or
murdering, or dying."

Then Prudence smiled to herself in the dark and hurried down.

The family had been in the new parsonage only three weeks, when a
visiting minister called on them. It was about ten minutes before the
luncheon hour at the time of his arrival. Mr. Starr was in the country,
visiting, so the girls received him alone. It was an unfortunate day for
the Starrs. Fairy had been at college all morning, and Prudence had been
rummaging in the attic, getting it ready for a rainy-day and winter
playroom for the younger girls. She was dusty, perspirey and tired.

The luncheon hour arrived, and the girls came in from school, eager to be
up and away again. Still the grave young minister sat discoursing upon
serious topics with the fidgety Prudence,--and in spite of dust and
perspiration, she was good to look upon. The Reverend Mr. Morgan
realized that, and could not tear himself away. The twins came in, shook
hands with him soberly, glancing significantly at the clock as they did
so. Connie ran in excitedly, wanting to know what was the matter with
everybody, and weren't they to have any luncheon? Still Mr. Morgan
remained in his chair, gazing at Prudence with frank appreciation.
Finally Prudence sighed.

"Do you like sweet corn, Mr. Morgan?"

This was entirely out of the line of their conversation, and for a moment
he faltered. "Sweet corn?" he repeated.

"Yes, roasting-ears, you know,--cooked on the cob."

Then he smiled. "Oh, yes indeed. Very much," he said.

"Well," she began her explanation rather drearily, "I was busy this
morning and did not prepare much luncheon. We are very fond of sweet
corn, and I cooked an enormous panful. But that's all we have for
lunc