"Why, Zee, however did you happen to get here ahead of time?" demanded Doris, glancing up from the potatoes she was watching so closely, for potatoes have a most annoying way of burning if you leave them a minute. It had taken Doris a long time to learn that.

"Um, yes, I am a little early, I guess," said Zee, in a still small voice. She busied herself about the table without reminder from her sister, an unwonted procedure for the Imp, but Doris was too concerned with the meal to pay much heed.

Rosalie and Treasure came in together a few moments later, and Zee was sent to call their father to the table.

"And don't dawdle, Babe, for things are piping hot, and we must allow three minutes for the blessing, you know."

Zee's appetite, usually above reproach, was negligible that day, and her gay voice, always so persistent in conversation, was quite subdued. But when the meal was over she lifted modest eyes to her father's face.

"I hope you aren't very exceptionally busy to-day, father," she began ingratiatingly.

"I am. I have Davison's funeral to-morrow—and it is not easy to conduct the funeral services of a bad man in a way that will afford comfort to his mourning relatives."

"I knew you would have a hard time of it, father," said Doris sympathetically. "I was hoping they would get some one else— The Methodist minister is new here, and doesn't know Davison as we did."

"One good thing about him, father," said Rosalie, "he never killed any one that we know of. You can come down strong on that, and sort of glide over everything else we know about him."

"I suppose one should come out flat-footed and hold him up as a model to other people who won't keep to the straight and narrow," said Doris thoughtfully.

"Perhaps. But a kind Providence has made it unnecessary for us to judge, you must remember."

"We can have our opinions, like other people, but we must not air them in the pulpit," said Rosalie.

"But whatever will you say, father? He was everything a good Presbyterian is not, and—"

"Doctor Burgess used to say that death blots out all evil," said Rosalie helpfully. "Can't you play that up?"

Mr. Artman smiled at their eagerness to be of help. "I shall just speak of the rest and sweetness of death after a life of turmoil and confusion, and shall emphasize very strongly how blessed it is that the soul goes direct to the presence of God, who knows all the secret motives hidden from human eyes."

"That is downright genius," approved Doris.

"Pretty slick, I call it," smiled Rosalie.

"Will you be busy the whole afternoon, father?" asked Zee, returning to the original subject.

"Did you want something?" He turned and looked at her, and from her sober face he caught the underlying need. "I always have time for my girls, you know. What can I do for you?"

"I am sorry but I am in bad at school again."

"Again," repeated Rosalie. "Don't you mean still?"

"Miss Hodges wants you to come with me—that is, she says I can not come back until you do. She is going to ask you to give a sort of pledge of good behavior for me, and you can't do it, for I am sure to break over once in a while. So there you are. Don't you think Doris could teach me at home this year?"

"But what in the world did you do, dear?" demanded Doris.

"Well, you will be horrified, of course, Doris—but it wasn't as bad as it sounds. I did not feel well to begin with, and things went wrong from the first. Walter Dwight had some candy, and he passed it to me, and I was eating it—"

"In school?"

"Yes. And Miss Hodges saw me and told me to go to the window and throw it out—a very bad and unsanitary thing, throwing candy all over the play-grounds, but Miss Hodges makes us do it—and so I went to the window and looked out—and—I stood there a minute or so looking around to see what was going on in the playground, and I saw a robin sitting in the big maple, and I squinted my eye up at him, and aimed with the candy, and shot it at him."

Zee looked up sadly, and then lowered her eyes again. "Everybody laughed, and Miss Hodges was not at all pleased. She said I was a little nuisance."

A vague flickering smile passed from face to face around the table.

"What else?"

"She sent me into the science room to sit by myself half an hour and think. Professor was not there."

"What did you do?"

"I sat there."

"Yes?"

"Well, I kept on sitting there, and it was awfully monotonous. You know we have a skeleton in the physiology department now—I told you, didn't I? It was stuck up on the side of the wall on long hooks. And Professor's big amber glasses were on the desk—the girls say he wears them for style—so I put them on the skeleton. It looked awfully funny. And then Satan must have tempted me, for I did a terrible thing."

A long sigh went up from the table.

"The teachers' cloak-room opens from the science room."

"I see it all," said Doris solemnly.

"Go on, Zee. I don't get you, yet."

"The teachers' wraps were in the cloak-room. So I got Miss Hodges' hat and put it on the skeleton, and it looked so comical you would have laughed." A sad reminiscent smile flashed over the subdued but always impish features. "So I put her coat on too—it almost made me shiver to touch the thing, though Professor says it is very scientific, and he disinfected it with something when they got it. And I bent up its arm, and stuck her gloves in its fingers, and put her bag over the arm, and it looked for all the world like Miss Hodges in a grouch, and she is grouchy most of the time."

"Yes?"

"But I did not hear the recitation bell ring, and the door opened and in came the physical geography class and Miss Hodges. She was not at all pleased. So she invited father to come and talk me over with her."

"All right, I will go," said Mr. Artman quietly.

Zee sighed heavily. "I hope you understand, father, that I know it was a perfectly repre—repre—"

"—hensible," prompted Treasure softly.

"Yes, reprehensible thing to do, and I am fearfully ashamed of it. And it makes me sick to think I had to bother you when you are busy. But Miss Hodges need not have been so huffy about it. She's got a little more flesh, but her disposition isn't half as good as a skeleton's."

"Zee, you must not speak disrespectfully and flippantly of your teachers. It is not right, and it is not kind. If Miss Hodges has a room full of children as full of mischief as you are, it is no wonder she is sometimes impatient and nervous."

Zee subsided.

Mr. Artman rose from the table rather wearily and Zee brought his hat for him humbly.

"I hope you believe that I am sorry, father," she said as they set out together.

"I think you are sorry to bother me, but I must admit that I do not think you are sorry you annoyed Miss Hodges."

"I do think it was rather a good joke on her," admitted Zee.

"Miss Hodges is doing one good and noble thing. She is working hard, long hours and very wearily to earn money for herself and her mother and that little nephew who lives with them. She has to labor for her very bread, and for theirs also. Any one who makes life harder than need be for those who must toil for their existence is—excuse me, dear—but any one who does that is either needlessly cruel or criminally thoughtless. Whether she is the type of woman you like, whether she appeals to you personally or not—that is nothing. The fact remains that she is working for her life—and I hate to think it is my little girl making things hard for her."

Zee marched along beside him sturdily, without speaking for a while. Her dark merry eyes were clouded. Her rosy lips were a straight scarlet line. Two blocks, three blocks, they traversed in silence. Then she slipped little clinging fingers into his hand, and said softly:

"Father, I am sorry now—and I won't ever, any more. I have tried to tease her, and I like to make the other kids laugh. But I never thought of it the way you told me. Will you try not to be ashamed of me?"

His hand closed over hers companionably.

"And, father, you need not believe me to-day—that I am sorry. Wait and I will prove it to you. For don't you think I see that we preachers have to make things easier for folks, instead of harder?"

"I do believe you, of course, Baby," he said, smiling down on the sober face.

Even he could not repress a smile when Miss Hodges came in wearing her coat and hat, with the bag in the crook of her arm—for in his mind, schooled to imaginative flights by a long life with merry daughters—he could see the scientific skeleton similarly garbed.

Miss Hodges' face was grave, but not unfriendly.

"I think Zee can fix this up with you herself, Miss Hodges," he said, holding her hand warmly in his. "I need not say how much I regret it—but Zee and I have been talking together—and I want her to speak for herself."

"I am sorry this time, truly—not just for playing pranks, for somehow that never seems really bad to me—it must be the original sin, I suppose. But I am sorry that I have just openly tried to make things mean and hateful for you. I never thought of it that way before. I thought it was sort of your job to put up with the mischief. I can't promise to be an angel like Treasure, for I was not born like that. But I am going to try very hard not to annoy you, and I'd like to be friends, if you don't mind."

Thinking it over afterward, Father Artman felt that Zee had left many loopholes for future escapades, but her voice had been sincere, and her eyes honest, and Miss Hodges had accepted the apology promptly. And knowing his girls, Mr. Artman felt confident that Zee's loyalty to the manse would keep her from open disgrace again.

"Something just has to be done about that Zee," Rosalie said to Doris. "And it certainly is up to you, General. Why, she gets more scatter-brained and harum-scarum every day. Can't you steady her up a little?"

"How? It is all right to say it is up to me—but who can take a puff of thistledown like Zee and steady it? She does not grow that way."

"Well, this will hold her down for a week or so, but you'd better think up some way of handling her. Something has to be done, and right away, too. Why, she is fourteen, and in high school. I was practically a young lady when I was in high school."

"You were practically a young lady when you were in kindergarten," said Doris gaily. "My, what pretty airs you did put on. You always would carry the finest handkerchiefs, and how you would scheme to get a fresh ribbon oftener than anybody else."

It did seem that so severe a lesson as this should be sufficient even for the Imp. Yet the very next morning Doris found herself involved once more. Going to the girls' closet on an errand, she was surprised to find Zee's school shoes, sensible, comfortable, roomy shoes of enduring calf-skin. The "Sunday shoes," of nice shiny patent leather, were not in sight. Yet Zee had gone to school.

"She is almost as problematic as Rosalie herself," said Doris.

She knew Zee's passion for the Sunday shoes, and that the calf-skin ones were abhorred by her fastidious young soul. But that she would openly revolt and toss all orders to the winds—Doris grieved over it heavily. But she would not take this to father, poor soul, he had trouble enough with her yesterday, and Davison's funeral to-day was grief enough.

When Zee came into the dining-room at noon she wore the calf-skin boots. Doris could hardly believe her eyes. Yet there they were—and a serene smile on Zee's merry face.

"Miss Hodges and I got along like cooing doves this morning," she announced triumphantly. "She said I had my lesson perfectly, and I said her new hat was very becoming."

When the girls came to the kitchen to say good-by to Doris before starting back to school, she left her work and followed them to the front door. Zee still wore the heavy shoes, but she hung about impatiently, plainly waiting till Doris should return to her work. At last, depressed in attitude, the two girls started away, and Doris disappeared. Just a moment later came the sound of skipping running steps, and Zee slipped in and darted for the stairs.

"Zee!"

Zee halted abruptly, one foot poised for the step.

"Were you going up to change your shoes?"

"Y—yes."

"Don't you know you are not allowed to wear your Sunday shoes to school?"

"Y—yes."

"Then why, please?"

"Because I hate calf-skin shoes, I hate 'em, I hate 'em. Big ugly clumsy clod-hoppery stogies! I think they are abominable. I'll bet they were the thorn in the flesh Peter talked about—or was it Paul? Anyhow, I can't think of any worse kind of a thorn. I think they are downright wicked. And I won't wear them—unless I have to," she added hastily, noting the military firmness in the General's face.

"I am sorry, Zee, since you hate them so terribly. They are not pretty, I know. But if you wear the Sunday ones to school, they wear out so fast, and they are so expensive. And, oh, my dearest, we could never afford it on father's salary, you know that. But I will compromise with you, for I don't like to make you wear things you despise. If you will wear these out, when they are gone, your next pair of school shoes shall be, not patent leather, but much finer and softer than these—oh, much finer."

"Oh, that is just ducky of you, General," said Zee gratefully. "But mayn't I wear the others—just this afternoon?"

"No, absolutely not. You were very deceitful and disobedient, slipping in to change them on the sly, that way, and you shall not wear the others by any means."

But the next morning, as Doris stood at the window watching the girls as they walked away, she noted a curious bulging under the side of Zee's sweater.

What could it be, she wondered? Then like a flash, she ran up the stairs. The Sunday shoes were gone—also the calf-skin ones. Grimly she waited until Zee came home.

"Zee," she began softly, so father might not overhear, poor father, having so much trouble with bad people who would die and require funeral services, and good people who would live and never go to church—certainly he should not be bothered with Zee's shoe situation.

"Did you wear your calf-skin shoes to school this morning?"

"Y—yes, I wore them to school," said Zee with an almost imperceptible emphasis on the "to."

"Did you take the Sunday ones with you?"

"Yes. Doris, I can't bear those old stogies, and so I just wore them to school, and then I changed them in the cloak-room, and you can see yourself it wouldn't wear them out any—the good ones, I mean—just wearing them inside the school-room and not walking in them."

"But you disobeyed."

"I know it," said Zee cheerfully.

"And you tried to deceive me."

"I know it."

"Now I have to punish you."

"All right, General, but let me tell you in advance that whenever I can sneak those Sunday shoes to school, I am going to. So you'd better make it a good punishment while you are at it, so you won't have to do it over and over."

Doris looked at her sister soberly, and her heart swelled with pity, for the sentence she was about to pronounce was dire indeed.

She took the fine shoes from Zee. "This is the punishment. You can not wear the fine shoes again any place for six weeks—not to church, nor any place—just the stogies, everywhere you go. And you shall not have these again at all until you promise on your word of honor that you will not wear them without permission. I know you will not break a solemn promise."

Zee's face paled with the solemnity of it. "Oh, Doris!"

"You can talk it over with father if you like. I wanted to keep him from worry, but go to him if you wish."

"Nothing doing," said Zee flatly. "He has that way of looking that makes you so ashamed of yourself. I think it is an imposition for fathers to look like that, that's what I think. Tell me one thing—does the promise still hold good about the new shoes—that they are to be finer and softer than these when they are worn out?"

"Yes—when these are worn out."

"These will last a year, I know."

"Oh, Baby, you know we preachers can't afford to throw away perfectly good shoes like these."

"Can't we give 'em to the heathen? They are awfully good shoes for the heathen, Doris. Why, they would last forever, and keep the snakes off, and— Shoes like that were just intended for heathen."

"I am afraid we can't, Zee. Sometimes I think there is quite a lot in common between the heathens and us preachers—and this is another bond of sympathy. So we will stick to the shoes ourselves."

Zee looked very sad indeed as the shiny shoes were taken up-stairs and carefully locked in an old trunk. Then sudden determination dawned in her dark bright face.

She raced into the yard, and began a desperate course of exercise, jumping, running, clambering up and down. Gentle Treasure, trailing her devotedly, was put to woeful plights. And Doris, looking out, could hardly believe her eyes when she saw the violent performance of lazy little Zee. Then came revelation.

"I am sorry for you, Treasure," panted Zee, pausing a moment. "But I am going to run and jump and climb and jar the life out of these old stogies."

For a moment Doris hesitated. Then she turned resolutely and closed the window.

"Providence had to overlook quite a little, even in the saints in the Bible," she said to herself excusingly. "I guess I can overlook a few things myself. Isn't it strange," she said to Rosalie, "that somehow the naughtier folks act the sweeter they seem?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," laughed Rosalie. "But if you mean me, I quite agree with you."