The Reverend Mr. Artman paced soberly up and down the small living-room of his manse, as every one called the parsonage. His eyes were clouded. The lines at the corners of his kindly lips were sternly set. Now and then he glanced toward the bay-window where Doris sat, untroubled, serene, her dainty fingers cleverly transforming huge rents in small garments into triumphs of patchery. The wind, coming softly through the peach trees outside the windows, loosened tiny tendrils of hair that curled tenderly about her rosy ears.

Mr. Artman sighed drearily.

Doris, unperturbed, continued her darning, but bright lights were dancing in her blue eyes.

"Hay, ho," drawled Mr. Artman suggestively.

"Isn't it lovely and cool to-day, father?" queried his daughter sweetly.

Without answering, he walked abruptly to the kitchen door, peering anxiously into the room beyond, and closed it cautiously. The General puckered her lips earnestly over a too-small scrap of cloth vainly coping with a too-large rent. Her father went to the door opening upon the porch, and closed it also. Then he walked slowly up toward his daughter, opening his lips as though on the verge of confidence. But he turned once more, and resumed his restless pacing.

Then Doris dropped the darning into the basket beside her and faced her father.

"Father," and the voice, though soft, was imperious.

He started guiltily, and flushed.

"Come and sit down," she commanded. "If you do not speak up instantly and tell me what is on your mind I shall jump up and down and scream. You make me so nervous when you squirm around that way. What ever in the world is the matter with you?"

Her father quickly dumped the mending basket and its contents upon the floor, with masculine and ministerial lack of regard for things domestic, and appropriated the chair, drawing it close to his daughter's side.

"Hurry, hurry," came the gentle authoritative voice. "I have oceans to do. What is it?"

"Well, it is— Why, nothing special, child, what made you think—"

"You haven't gone and proposed to Miss Carlton, have you?" she gasped.

"No, thank Heaven," came the fervent answer.

"Careful, father. You mean it devoutly, I am sure, but Providence might mistake it for irreverence. Providence does not know Miss Carlton as we do, you know. Don't be afraid to tell me then—nothing else could be so terribly bad."

"Well, dearest, I was just wondering if—don't you think, perhaps—if I help a lot, and see that the girls do their share—don't you think we could get along without Miss Carlton this year?"

The General considered, her curly head cocked on one side, her brows knitted.

"I wanted to take charge right after mother died—but you were not willing."

"You were too young then, and still in school."

"Aren't you satisfied with Miss Carlton's work?" she asked slyly.

"Her work has nothing to— Yes, of course I am, dear. And she is a good woman, very good. And has been a great help to us the last three years, at a very reasonable salary."

"I have done most of the work myself, but you do not believe it," said Doris.

"Yes, of course you have, dear. And the Problem is quite old now, and between the two of you—between the three of us, I mean—"

"You mean, between me," said Doris frankly. "Your intentions are the best in the world, father darling, but if you ever broke into the kitchen you would very likely wipe dishes on sermon manuscripts—very good manuscripts, perhaps, but you can't practise on the dishes the Endeavor paid forty dollars for. And the Problem! But as you say, between me, I think perhaps I could get along without Miss Carlton nicely. She is rather hard to evade, isn't she, dearest?"

Her father flushed boyishly. "I am sure, Doris—"

"Yes, indeed, dear, so am I," she interrupted sweetly. "And I am truly proud that you have withstood so long. Stronger men than you have fallen in less persistent sieges. You have done well. But I hope you will remember that I have been praying right along that you might be given strength equal to the conquest, so don't take too much credit yourself."

"Well, I suppose the poor thing really can't help—"

"Oh, no, belovedest, of course she can't help it. Only I haven't noticed any married women finding you so irresistibly handsome, and fascinating, and all that, have you? At least, they don't come telling you about it to your face."

Then at his guilty face she laughed, and snuggled on his knee, kissing his chin adoringly.

"You are a dear sweet darling love," she said, "and I will do my best to make you comfortable, and keep the manse on four legs, or four wheels, or four—what is it a manse runs on, anyhow?"

"Four girls," he said, laughing. "Mine does, anyhow."

"Er, father, when will you break it to Miss Carlton?"

He sighed heavily. "Why, General, I supposed—I thought—maybe it would be better for you just to tell her you are old enough to take charge yourself now, and—I think she would take it better from you."

"Oh, father, what a coward you are," she said sadly. "You call me General, and I know I rule you with a rod of iron, but I haven't much backbone in my army, I am sure of that. Well, then, I will break it to Miss Carlton." She looked thoughtfully out at the branches swaying lazily in the warm wind. "I wonder how the Problem will take it? She is so likely to object, you know."

He cleared his throat anxiously. "Oh, you can fix it up with her some way."

"I am to do that, too, am I?" laughed the General. "You'd better look up that epistle about the armor, father. You need a breastplate, and a steel helmet, and a sword of faith—and quite a lot of things. Run along then, dearest, and don't bother me. Miss Carlton will be here in a few minutes, and I must prepare my campaign."

Mr. Artman reached hastily for his hat. "I—I think I shall go down-town a while—I need some fresh air— That mean little headache again, you know—and I must see Mr. James. Pretty sick man. I may not be home for dinner to-night. Don't sit up for me—and don't let anybody else."

"A good thing we have a sick member, isn't it?" she teased. "You aren't going to get home until the storm is over, are you?" She shook her curls at him reprovingly. "Such a good, sweet, faithful preacher you are—and such an awful coward when it comes to us women."

"I tell you, Doris," he said sturdily, "I think it would be easier to face a den of lions, or a howling mob of I.W.W.'s, or any number of ordinary sinners, than one Christian woman when she wants—she makes up her mind—I mean—"

"You mean, when she is getting you ready to propose to her, I suppose. I do not blame you, father.—Fly, here she comes. Scoot out the back door, and sneak through the barn. It will be over by morning. Run, you coward, run," she cried, shooing him gaily out the back door.

Then she went back to the bay-window, and sat down with the mending, her pretty brows puckered.

"Miss Carlton is wax in my hands," she thought. "But whatever in the world will Rosalie say? If one only knew what to expect, it would not be so serious. But nobody ever can predict how our lovely little old Problem of a Rosalie will take anything."

"Still mending, dear Doris?" came a voice of studied sweetness from the doorway.

"Yes, still at it. But I did not work all the time. I have been playing with father. He is such a tease."

Miss Carlton looked around the wide room anxiously, hopefully.

"He is gone now—to see Mr. James, I think—somebody sick, anyhow. I have been having a serious time with him, Miss Carlton." She dropped the mending and looked at the older, much older woman, with frank, straightforward, innocent eyes. "They call me General, but they never want to do as I say."

"And what is our little General after now?" asked Miss Carlton, smiling. "Shall I help you get it? I do not think he will refuse it, if I ask."

"Oh, you will be like every one else; you will say it is not advisable. But they do not call me General for nothing." Doris straightened her slender shoulders, and looked very domineering. "I have made up my mind. I shall have my way."

"Wouldn't your father give in?" Miss Carlton's voice was mildly surprised. Father Artman withstood Doris very, very seldom indeed.

"Oh, yes, he gave in, of course. That is, he says I shall try it. But I know he thinks I shall tire of it soon. He does not know me, does he? I never give up, do I?"

"Not very often, no," admitted Miss Carlton rather grimly.

"Come and sit down, dear, and let me tell you," said Doris eagerly. "I think it will make you happy too. I am twenty years old, and very, oh, tremendously mature, don't you think so?"

"Well, perhaps," was the doubtful admission.

"Yes, of course. And you know how hard up we preachers always are, and we have to economize just fearfully, especially now the Problem is a junior in college—and somehow it takes lots more clothes for her in college than it ever did for me. And you have been so wonderful to us all these three years, and such a help—but now I feel that I am old enough—and that it is my duty and my priceless opportunity to take charge of the family, and then you can go home again and be free to live your own life, and though you have never complained I know how happy it will make you."

"No, indeed," came the quick protest. "I like it here. The salary is nothing extra, but you have done quite a lot of the work, you know. Oh, no indeed, little girl, you must not think of it. Why, it is just time for you to have your play days now your school is over, and we older ones can bear the burdens of life. You must not think of it."

"But I have thought of it," said Doris sweetly. "And father promised I should try. And I am the General."

"You have been planning all these years to go to Chicago and study, and become a missionary. You can not give up your life ambitions now."

"I have changed them," said Doris. "Father wants me, and that is enough."

"He won't let you change them for him."

"Father is the most unselfish thing in the world, I know," smiled Doris. "But father has forgotten that I ever even thought of such a thing—and since he wants me here, it is settled. I shall never think of it again."

"You won't be happy—"

"Oh, Miss Carlton," said Doris, standing up suddenly, tall and straight. "You think I won't be happy staying where father wants me, and filling father's need?"

"But it would be wicked to deny the call to service as—"

"I wanted to be a missionary because it appealed to me. But I hear no call but father's voice. If a message came from Heaven, the way would be changed for me. Right now, the path of service goes right smack into the manse, and I do not see it going out on the other side." Doris smiled winsomely.

"Wait till I talk things over with your father—he will see how absurd it is."

"He promised. Father may have his faults, though I do not know what they are, but he always keeps a promise."

"He should not have promised until he discussed things with me."

"But, Miss Carlton, we are his family, you know. And I am the oldest daughter, and very grown up. You see how it is, don't you? Of course, I do not wish to hurry you off, but I know how anxious you must be to get home, and you need not feel you have to linger on my account. I haven't planned anything to do to-morrow, and can help you with your packing the whole day long."

"I can do my own packing, thank you. And I shall do it immediately. Your father really consented to this arrangement, did he?"

"Oh, certainly he did. He sees himself that it is the proper thing to do, and will save quite a little money, and goodness knows we need it. And then the responsibility will develop my character, or—or something."

Miss Carlton flounced out of the room and up the stairs. Doris listened intently at the door.

"She is not exactly happy about it, but I am. And father is. If I only knew what the Problem would think of it. I wish Miss Carlton would go right straight away—she is angry enough to do it. Then I could tackle the Problem alone, and it would be too late to undo."

She shut her eyes very tightly and murmured softly, unintelligibly beneath her breath. "Now to make doubly sure, I shall go and concentrate. Every one says you get things if you concentrate hard enough."

She listened once more at the door that led into the hall. Miss Carlton was undoubtedly throwing her possessions violently and untenderly into her bags and trunk.

"Concentration won't hurt, for when she remembers how handsome father is she may change her mind," said the General soberly.

So she slipped back to the bay-window, and bent all her energies, and all the force of her strong young will to the task of concentration.

A little later she heard Miss Carlton at the up-stairs branch of the telephone, and though she would not dream of listening to a telephonic conversation, she did saunter carelessly to the hall door and so overheard Miss Carlton giving a hurried order for an expressman.

"Providence and concentration together are really irresistible," she smiled to herself. "I suppose, after all, I could have gotten along without the concentration, but in a crisis like this I thought it would not hurt to try everything."

She went demurely back to her mending, and after a while the expressman came and took away the trunk and bags, and finally Miss Carlton came to her.

"I am going home right now, Doris," she said, "but I do not regard this as final. We shall say I am going for a visit. And when you want me to come back, just telephone. After all, I think it is a good move. Your father will soon find out what a difference I made in the home. He will be the first to want me back." She smiled without resentment. "So I quite agree with you, little General. This just suits my purpose, and I shall stay at home until—some one comes after me."

"I know we are going to miss you," cried Doris sincerely. "You have always been kind to us, and we have never been able to pay you half what you deserved. And if we find we can't get along, and you are willing, we shall have you back in a hurry. But I am going to try, and I never yield until I have to."

So Doris paid Miss Carlton the modest sum due her and the two parted with cordiality, Miss Carlton leaving friendly messages for the other members of the household.

As soon as she was quite out of sight, Doris flew to the kitchen.

"Even the Problem is amenable to a good meal," she said. "She shall have delicious cream gravy—the little glutton—and pear preserves, and apple dumplings."

So eagerly and so passionately did she devote her energies to the task that she did not hear the door open behind her, and never knew her sister was at her elbow until a soft ripply voice said suddenly:

"Well, Mr. General, is mess nearly ready for us?"

"Oh, Rosalie," cried Doris, flinging floury arms about the girl at her side. "Oh, you dear little darling, I am so glad you came."

"Why so mushy?" demanded Rosalie in a voice so soft and gurgling and throaty it made one think of tinkling waterfalls, and silver moonshine, and irresistible dimples. "Don't I always come? Why all the exclamations at me?"

"Because I love you, and because I am happy, and because—you scoot to the phone, will you, and call up Mr. James' residence and tell father I want him to come home to dinner to-night without fail, for very extra special reasons—apple dumplings, but you needn't tell him over the phone—and hurry, dear, before he leaves there."

The General looked soberly after her sister as she danced lightly out of the kitchen. Rosalie was quite too terribly lovely for anything—that was really what made her such a Problem. And her eyes were full of dazzling witching lights, and dangerous dark shadows, her lips were rosy, pouty, tempting lips, her skin was a pearly pink and white, and her voice melting melody.

"She is Problem enough now—what will she be a little later on?" thought the General anxiously as she took a loving look at her dumplings.

"Where is Miss Carlton?" asked Rosalie, returning promptly. "Father says he will come immediately. Aren't the girls home yet? I suppose I must set the table then. I think you should speak to them, Doris—they are never here when you want them. Where is Miss Carlton? Won't she be here for dinner?"

"No, not—"

"Goody!—Doris, do you think she—has her eye on father?"

"Why, Rosalie, whatever put such a notion as that into your head?" Doris was all wide-eyed astonishment.

"Well, perhaps it is not nice of me to mention it, but she is always tagging him about, and telling him how clever he is, and she is always saying how much we need a mother— Oh, she's all right, of course—not my type at all, but—I am glad she won't be home for dinner. Doris, will you ask father if we may go to the Country Club da—party next week? They may dance, but we won't have to. I could do it though as easy as not. This is the first time they have asked us to a strictly town affair, and we just have to go. This is the way they dance that new step the girls are raving about. See? Three steps this way, one, two, three; one, two, three; hippity hip—"

"Rosalie!" gasped Doris. "Wherever did you learn that?"

"Amy taught me. She takes regular dancing lessons from a man, a dollar a lesson, and then she teaches me. It is just like gym, you know, only at a dance there are men. Miss Graham says I am very graceful, and with my slender ankles and high insteps I would look lovely in dancing slippers. Now, Doris, don't be horrified, I am not going to dance. But you tell father we are invited, and— You sit out the dances, you know, if you are a preacher and can't dance—and you get behind a big fern, and the men tell you how lovely you are, and how much nicer it is to sit out with you than to go stumbling around over other girls' toes, getting their collars all sweated out, and how sweet and cool you look, and—"

"Rosalie!"

"They do not mean it, Doris, they just talk that way. And I know they do not mean it, so it does me no harm. And it is lots of fun. They all do it."

"They do not talk that way to me," said Doris virtuously.

"No, you do not give them a chance. If a man says you have beautiful blue eyes, you look him straight in the face and say, 'Yes, thank goodness, I need something to make up for my pug nose.' That is no way to talk to a man. You ought to drop your lashes like this, and then look up suddenly, and away again quickly, and laugh a little and say, 'Oh, you talk that way to every one—you do not mean it,' and then they say you are the only girl in the world—"

"Rosalie Artman, I think you are perfectly terrible. Where in the world do you learn all that silly stuff?"

"I do not learn it," laughed Rosalie. "I do not have to. It was born in me. I sort of breathe it. Tra, la, la, lalala. I can do a toe dance, Doris. I will teach you. Does father go to the Sessions to-night? Then we will have a lesson while he is gone. Oh, there come—"

"Rosalie, I want to ask you— Don't you think we ought to get along without Miss Carlton now? She is so sort of prim, and bossy—and it costs eighteen dollars a month—and if we do you can have nicer clothes, you know."

"Wouldn't be proper," said Rosalie lightly. "Beautiful girls must be properly guarded. And besides, I would have to do more work, and I don't like to work."

"Father is proper enough for anybody," said Doris with spirit. "And I do all of the work anyhow."

"Could I have a regular evening dress, V in the back and no sleeves?" demanded Rosalie with glittering eyes. "Isn't it funny, the less there is to a dress, the more there is to the cost? All the girls have evening dresses, and I have the nicest shoulders in the whole gym. But Miss Carlton would never go. You couldn't fire her off."

"Who is the General?" demanded Doris loftily. "If I say go, she goes in a hurry."

Rosalie looked up quickly.

"You bad General, she is gone already, isn't she?"

"Yes; do you mind?"

"Are you sure father won't go trotting after her, and marry her on the sly?"

Doris lifted horrified eyes skyward.

"Well, I am sure I do not care. I think I am rather glad. Whenever I got my dates mixed, and had two or three callers at once, she was always shocked. She said the boys didn't act that way when she was a girl. I rather suppose they didn't. But what Miss Carlton was and what I am are two remotely different things. Why, you would hardly believe we are both feminine, would you?"

"No," said Doris honestly. "One can't think of any two things more different. You are such a—such—"

"Problem," laughed Rosalie. "Don't I know it? Well, you can not solve me, Doris, so don't try. But I am just like those horrible trigonometry nightmares—you can't figure them out to save your life, but they are quite perfectly all right in spite of you."

Doris turned to give her sister a warm adoring look. "I know that," she said happily. "Only, however in the world you manage to say such wonderful things with your eyes, Rosalie—I've tried and tried—alone, of course," she added hastily. "I wouldn't before people for anything. But I can't take people's breath away as you do."

Rosalie's voice rippled into mellow laughter. "You will learn. No, you never will, Doris. You will fall in love, and marry a perfectly adorable man, and have perfectly wonderful babies, and be as happy as the day is long. And I will fritter along and sparkle along, and have a hundred beaus, and Miss Carlton and I will finish up together. There come those bad girls. Now you just scold them, General. Don't you stand for this nonsense any more. Why, I have had to set the table every night for a week."

The younger sisters came into the room together, as they went everywhere together. They were very nearly of the same height, though one was two years older.

"Are you tired, Treasure?" asked Doris quickly.

"I haven't done anything but laugh all afternoon," came the answer. "Why should I be tired?"

Doris looked tenderly from the face of one little sister to the other. Treasure's eyes were clear, serene and limpid. Her delicately tinted olive face was fine and spiritual. And right by her side stood Zee, the baby of the manse, thirteen years old, dark curls a-tangle, dark eyes a-sparkle, red cheeks aglow.

"Oh, you little Imp!" cried Rosalie. "You look just awful."

"I do not think so," said Treasure quickly. "She looks lovely all blown about like that."

Zee laughed at them both with charming unconcern. "Do I have to brush myself down before dinner?" she demanded, edging toward her corner of the table.

"Indeed you do; wash down, and brush down, and rub down, and do it quickly, for here comes father."

Zee obediently skipped up the stairs, and Rosalie ran to the hall to greet her father.

"And how is the Blessing of the Manse?" he asked, crossing the room, with Rosalie still clinging to his arm, to look tenderly into Treasure's soft fine face.

"Perfectly all right," came the even answer.

"But not very healthy," put in Zee slyly, coming back in haste. "Didn't I do a quick job, General? Treasure is all right, but not very healthy. That is why she is a blessing. Haven't you noticed, Rosalie, that blessings are very, very frail? Maybe if I looked sickish you would call me a blessing, too?"

"Is she gone, General?" came the anxious whisper as the father drew near his oldest daughter. "And how did the Problem take it?"

"Gone, father, and the Problem is glad of it—we might have known she would be whatever we did not expect. Now I am the General in very truth, and supper is ready—Zee, don't rush. Just a minute, dear, the pear preserves won't evaporate. You mustn't hurry father into the blessing."

When the blessing had been asked on their food the father looked about the little round table, and his face was richly satisfied.

"This is something like," he said, smiling into the faces of his four girls.

"Yes, it is now," said Rosalie. "But you just wait till the General gets started. She will never let us slide along and be comfortable as Miss Carlton did. Wait till she has time to think up orders!"