Oh, day of rest and gladness!

There was one hour in the week when Doris felt she could lean back and sigh aloud in relief and contentment, with every member of her little family before her and mischief out of the question—the hour of the Sabbath morning worship. Father was in the pulpit, Rosalie was at her side in the choir loft—and Rosalie in the choir loft was a changed being, for some inner, inherent sense of fineness restrained the naughty fairies in her witching eyes for that one hour only. And down in the eighth pew to the right sat Treasure and Zee, very respectable, very reverent, very austere.

Rosalie never missed one word of her father's discourses, but Doris, strangely enough, once in a while went wandering. It was so blissful to see the brood safe sheltered before her eyes. It really was the only time when she could think with any degree of consistency or comfort, without fear of violent and climactic interruption.

But one morning, just as she was getting pleasantly relaxed, and father was nicely started in Point One—she opened her eyes wide, and leaned forward. There in the ninth pew next to the aisle—Deacon Fenton's pew, and how annoyed he would be when he arrived in the middle of Point Two—right there, as sure as you're born, sat that aggravating, infuriating, mysterious Mr. Wizard that nobody knew.

His eyes were upon her, and though his face remained properly grave and in keeping with a Presbyterian service, gay greeting flashed from his eyes to her, and Doris— Well, it was more than human frailty could stand. She smiled, and then she blushed, and could not keep her eyes away from that serene provoking face, though she did try desperately and was ashamed of herself all the time. Father was doing splendidly—she was subconsciously aware of that, and was so proud of him. It had never before been quite so imperatively necessary that he "do well." Rosalie looked very sweet and dignified, altogether in keeping with a manse and a church, and not a bit frivolous as she had at the Country Club da—party—that was a comfort. She was sorry she could not point out Treasure and Zee to him also, they did look so spiritual and fine in their Sunday clothes—it was really once in a lifetime to designate them as manse material. He seemed to be paying close attention to father— Whoever in the world could he be? And there came Deacon Fenton, sure enough—with his usual prejudice against the first point—and he got very red in the face, but the Exasperating Thing smiled pleasantly and shoved along in the seat, and settled down where he could see father when he looked at the pulpit, and could see Doris when he looked at the choir loft, and—Doris openly and deliberately nudged her sister.

The Exasperating Thing lowered his eyes at her reprovingly, but Doris could not resist.

"Who is that in Deacon Fenton's pew?" she whispered.

Rosalie looked that way unconcernedly—she did not seem to notice how romantic and curious and compelling he was—and shook her head. Doris subsided then, but when she came down from the choir loft and found him waiting for her at the side entrance, she was glad. She held out her hand.

"Rosalie did not know you either," she said. "I asked her. Will you come and meet father?"

"Sorry, but not to-day. It would spoil the mystery. Come along with me, Little Seeker After Thrills, I want to walk home with you. I go your very way."

"I usually stay and shake hands with the members, but it will be fun to slip away for once. Then they will be gladder to see me to-night."

So they hurried away, and Doris noticed that while many nodded to her, no one had a word of familiar friendliness for him—so she knew he was a stranger to all. It seemed odd that he could remain unknown in such a little town—he must live very quietly and to himself. He could not be a teacher, she was sure of that, for teachers, like "we preachers," are honor bound to make friends.

"Has the butterfly of the fold been in any new mischief since the dance?"

"Call it a party. We preachers do not go to dances. No, indeed, she hasn't. Didn't you notice how sensible she looked this morning? She is really very good, if she only takes time to think. She decided of her own accord and free will not to dance any more at all."

"Then since it was her own free will, I suppose you feel it was predestined, don't you?"

"Perhaps," said Doris politely, for she never could keep that free-will-predestination puzzle quite straight in her mind—though she was very sure father was right about it.

"And what have you been doing since that night?"

"Washing, and ironing, and cooking, and helping the girls with their lessons, and scolding father, and patching. What have you been doing?"

"I? Oh, I have been haunting."

"You have been—what? Now you are teasing again. I never knew any one as grown up as you who teased so much. Do you live in this part of town?"

"You know we haunts just live around in the air, and do our ghosting when the ghosting's good."

"Oh, let's talk sense. I expected to see you before this."

"I have seen you frequently."

"You have! I haven't seen you once, and I have been looking for you."

"One morning I saw you digging potatoes in the garden of the manse. And your father stuck his head out the window and scolded you."

"He doesn't approve of my digging potatoes, but he is so busy all the time he forgets and so if I wake up early enough I sneak out and do it to get ahead of him."

"And one morning I saw you flying down the middle of the road in a kimono, yelling at the milk man."

"We were going to have company for luncheon, and I forgot to leave a message in the bottle that I wanted cream," explained Doris, flushing.

"And one morning, very early, I saw you run out-of-doors in a shower, barefooted, and your hair hanging, and you wore your father's old coat and hat, I think, and you were gobbling tablecloths off the line."

"They did not dry, and I left them on the line over night. But the shower came up, and I had to rush after them."

"And one morning—"

"Don't you ever sleep? How does it come that you always see me some ghastly hour in the morning? Why don't you appear about three in the afternoon, when I am nicely brushed and have on a fresh dress, and look like a preacher?"

"Morning is my own particular time of day. So beware how you venture out, for you can't escape my eyes."

"You must be a milk man."

He only laughed. "Now tell me the truth, have you thought of me once since the da—party?"

"Yes, not being a regular sphinx, I have. I have thought of you very often—you are the funniest thing I ever saw. But somehow I did not expect to see you at church."

He joined her laughter.

"Come in and have dinner with us," she said warmly. "Please do. I am a wonderful cook. Zee says my mashed potatoes taste almost exactly like—plum pudding. Would you consider that a compliment?"

"By all means. But I can not come for dinner to-day. We wizards do not eat, you know. Be kind now, and get into more morning difficulties so I may laugh at you, will you?"

Doris walked into the manse with a very thoughtful air.

"I have always told Rosalie it was silly to be constantly finding mystery in every little thing—but I see now that mystery is more fun than anything else. The silly old thing—why he must be nearly as old as father. But how he does laugh! He isn't a minister, that's certain. And he isn't a doctor, for everybody knows doctors, besides they always talk shop. And he doesn't look like a worker—I mean a hard worker— Isn't it ridiculous? What do I care who he is—but it is lots of fun."

As they sat at dinner, Rosalie said suddenly, "Oh, father, you must scold the General. She is getting very worldly. She was flirting with a stranger in the congregation. She picked out a handsome man, and kept looking at him, and he smiled at her, and she asked if I knew him right in the middle of the second point."

"Could you know him in the second point if you didn't know him anywhere else?" demanded Zee.

"There wasn't a handsome man in church except father," declared Treasure.

"General, I am astonished," said their father with smiling eyes and solemn face.

"Don't you believe her. He wasn't a stranger in the first place, and in the second I only looked at him once—or twice," she finished feebly.

"Oh, what a story. He was, too, a stranger. Didn't you ask if I knew him?"

"I can't remember his name. But I met him at the Country Club da—party. I talked to him there quite a lot, and—"

"Oh, you dangerous girl! You know, father, these quiet modest ones—look out! They always make trouble. No wonder you had such a glorious time—flirting with a stranger."

"Rosalie," said Doris with intense dignity. "I did not flirt. I just talked, and we talk to everybody, don't we—we preachers?"

"But who is he?"

This, it seemed, only Providence could tell.

"Why didn't you ask him?"

Doris hedged quickly. It was all very well to play mystery with that Aggravating Thing, but she had a strong feeling it would sound ridiculous to the family, and they were such laughers.

The day of rest, truly—but always a stormy one for families of parsonage and manse.

They had not finished dinner when the superintendent of the Sunday-school called Mr. Artman to the phone.

"Miss Munsing says she will not keep her class any longer," he protested peevishly. "I want you to talk to her. Why, she is one of our very best teachers, young and lively, and her girls adore her. She says she is not capable, or some such nonsense—bright clever girl like that. You talk to her, will you? She promised to see you this afternoon."

Mr. Artman shook his head despairingly as he returned to the table.

"You women," he said. "You don't know how upsetting you are. I would have sworn that Miss Munsing was more in harmony with her work than any teacher in the school, and here she throws up her hands."

"Do you mean she is giving up the class, father?" asked Treasure breathlessly.

"Just that. Says she is not capable, or something."

"Why, Treasure, isn't she your teacher? And you all love her, don't you?"

"Hum, yes," said Treasure thoughtfully. "You talk her into it, father. It would break up the class to lose her."

"What is the trouble, anyhow? Has anything gone wrong? If there has been any mix-up, you ought to know it."

"The girls are just crazy about her, and we have the best record for attendance in the whole school. I suppose she is giving up the class on account of me."

"On account of you!"

This was unanimously exclamatory. Rosalie was always problematic, and Zee was a living fount of mischief, even Doris was given to moods and fancies. But Treasure was the serene untarnished blessing of the family, always gentle, always friendly, tranquil and undisturbed. Could Treasure, the sweet, cause agony to any young shepherdess of the Sunday-school flock? The exclamation was followed by silence, long and profound.

"D—on't you like her?" asked Doris at last, in a weak voice.

"I love her with all my heart."

"Do you cut up in Sunday-school, Treasure?" asked Zee. "I am surprised. Miss Conroy has to shake her head at me sometimes—but I certainly am ashamed of you. I—I didn't think it."

"Of course I do not cut up in Sunday-school. I am surprised you would even mention such a thing."

"Well, go on, Treasure, and tell us," said Rosalie impatiently. "You are the last person in the world one would suspect of disrupting a religious organization."

"Yes, go on and tell it, pet," said her father gently.

"And talk fast, Treasure. You are so poky. I could tell six volumes while you get into the introduction."

"There isn't any introduction to it," said Treasure in her gentle voice. "You know, father, when you go over the lesson with us on Saturday night, you bring out a lot of good points that Miss Munsing does not think of."

"Yes."

"Of course, it would not be right for me to speak up and tell things she does not know—it would sound smarty—as if I were trying to show off. So I just ask questions, and sometimes she does not know the answers. Then the whole class gets into a discussion, and then I say, 'Maybe it is this way,' and I tell what you have said, and she says, 'Yes, that is it, of course.' And sometimes I think of questions that nobody has explained, and I ask—and she can't answer. This morning she got rather red, and looked nervous. But she is a dear thing, and I don't expect her to know as much as a preacher, of course. And I hope you will make her keep the class, for we could never get another teacher like her. I am truly sorry, father, and I will promise never to ask another question."

Doris flushed suddenly. "But—she ought to be free to ask questions, father. Miss Munsing should study the lessons more, and find the answers."

"I suppose it is not just pleasant for a teacher to have her scholars wiser than she," said their father slowly. "I can see how she feels about it."

"But she ought to study more," insisted Doris.

"I shall never ask anything else," declared Treasure. "We can't give up Miss Munsing. I know the rest would rather have her than some one else who could answer the whole Bible. I think I prefer her myself."

"Finish your dinner now, girls; I shall try to think of some way to manage," said Mr. Artman quietly.

When Miss Munsing came to the door Doris greeted her cordially. "Father is waiting for you in the study. Mr. Andrews telephoned that you were coming."

"I suppose you think I am just terrible to go back on my job," said Miss Munsing, lifting troubled eyes to Doris' face.

"I never think anybody is terrible," said Doris, laughing. "I am too well acquainted with my own self to sit in judgment on anybody else. Treasure says the girls will never give you up. Leave it to father. He will fix you up."

So Miss Munsing went up-stairs, and Doris and the others waited impatiently until the front door closed behind her when the interview was over. Then they trooped eagerly into the hall, waylaying their father on the stairs.

"Did you persuade her?"

"Was I the trouble?" queried Treasure.

"Yes, you were the trouble sure enough," said Mr. Artman, pinching her cheek gaily. "She felt the class should have a teacher who knew—and she said frankly that she did not know. She had thought it quite a simple matter to teach a class of young girls, using pretty stories to illustrate plain points—but she said our gentle little Treasure hurt her conscience to the point of insomnia."

"Did you tell her I promised—"

"Yes, but Miss Munsing is no quitter. She would not hear of such a thing. She said it would be bad for you, and bad for the rest, and worst of all for her. She would not even discuss it."

"What did you do, father? Of course you thought of something."

"I suggested what we have been trying to arrange for the last year—a teachers' study class. We have voted on it a dozen times, but always there was an overwhelming majority against it, because their evenings were so full of other things. And I—although there were a few who wanted it—I guess I was a quitter myself. I said if the teachers did not want or need it, I had no time to waste on it."

"No one could expect you to give up a whole evening for people who were not interested," cried Doris loyally.

"Miss Munsing and I picked out Tuesday night, and she and I are going to have a Teachers' Study Class. The others will be invited and urged to come. But Miss Munsing will be here, and I will be here—and we are going to have that class if nobody else ever does show up. It was not your fault, Treasure, and it was not Miss Munsing's fault, for she did her best. It was really I to blame, for I should have counted the evening well spent if it helped even one teacher in her work. Much obliged, Treasure."

Then he went up-stairs.

"What in the world did he mean by 'Much obliged'?" puzzled Treasure. "It was my fault, too, for now it means another evening of hard work for him, and his evenings were so busy anyhow. And then he says 'Much obliged.' Preachers are funny, even father."

Sunday afternoon in the manse was supposed to be comfortably quiet—not prosy. And for the first hour after the dinner work was finished things went smoothly indeed. The girls read their Sunday-school papers. Then Treasure and Zee had a game of Bible Prophets—enlivening it by betting pennies on the outcome—"Not gambling at all," insisted Zee. "Because the pennies go into the mission box on the kitchen shelf, no matter who wins. The only difference is, if you win, you get the credit on the Lord's account-book, and if I win, I get it."

As long as Doris did not find out why that afternoon game of Prophets was one of such intense and absorbing interest to the lively girls, all went well enough.

The Sabbath never failed to bring a problem for Rosalie.

"Oh, General," she cried, dancing away from the telephone. "Our little crowd is going for a long auto ride out to Miriam's for supper—a nice Sunday supper of bread and jelly and milk and pie—and may I go, darling General?"

"But Christian Endeavor—"

"Oh, Bud promised faithfully to bring me back in time for it. The others are going to spend the evening and sing, and roast marshmallows, but out of deference to us preachers he promised to have me home by seven."

"Ask father," countered Doris.

"Oh, General dearest, you know father ought not to be bothered on Sunday afternoon. It wouldn't be right."

"Rosalie, don't ask me. I want you to do whatever you want to, but— How many are going?"

"Twelve, I suppose. Three cars full. Bud is going to take me in his brother's runabout."

"Twelve. Then it is a regular party."

"Oh, not really, dearest. It will take an hour to get there, and then it will be nearly suppertime, and we will have to come right straight home afterward. You know Miriam's people are terribly religious—not like us preachers, of course, but very particular. One time they were dancing on Saturday night, and they sent us right home at midnight—they said there should be no dancing in their house on Sunday. I was there, but I did not dance." Rosalie laughed a little. "So the next Saturday night when we were there, Miriam's Aunt Gertrude turned the clock back an hour, to give us a little more time."

"There would not be any dancing then, that is one thing," said Doris thoughtfully.

"Well," admitted Rosalie honestly but reluctantly, "Miriam's parents are out of town, and Aunt Gertrude is the chaperon to-day."

Doris looked at her in exasperation. "You bad girl, you fooled me on purpose. Run up and ask father, dear, won't you? It will only take a minute, and he won't mind. I can't settle it for you."

"Oh, Doris, it would be mean," protested Rosalie conscientiously.

"Very well, then, Miss Rosalie, decide for yourself. I think you get along better on your own responsibility anyhow. Puzzle it out for yourself, go or not, just as you think best."

"Then I shall go," said Rosalie positively, and she went into the hall for her hat. "You think it is quite all right for me to go then, Doris?"

"I do not think one single thing about it."

"But you will not object if I go?"

"I shall not even mention it."

"Everybody else goes, and they are just as good as we are—better than Zee and I."

"Perhaps."

"Oh, you bad General, you make me so cross," cried Rosalie, tossing her hat to the floor. "Why didn't you just say I couldn't go—I never disobey you, do I? Or why didn't you say I could go, then if my conscience hurt me I could say it was your fault. Now you have spoiled the whole thing!"

Rosalie ran to the telephone and called a number in a voice unruffled and sweet.

"I can not go, Bud. It is really quite a party, you know, and Sunday is the Sabbath for us preachers. It was just dear of you to bother with me—I should think you must be tired of trying to be nice to a cranky old preachy crowd."

Then she listened a moment while he voiced fervent denials.

"Oh, that is nice of you, Bud, and I know I should have loved it, but you see how it is, don't you?"

A moment later she gave a gleeful little cry, "Oh, truly, Bud, would you enjoy that? I am sure it will be all right—wait a minute, till I ask Doris. Oh, Doris, he says he does not care to go, and his brother has given him the runabout for the rest of the day, and he wants me to go for a quiet little drive with him, and— Is that all right? Oh, you darling General!"

"Of course it is all right, and ask him to come to supper here, Rosalie, and go to Endeavor with us."

So Rosalie gurgled rapturously into the transmitter and received a hearty acceptance, and then flung her arms around her smiling sister.

"Oh, General, I am so glad we decided it that way. I know they would dance—a little—I would not, of course—but I do love to drive, and I don't get a chance very often, and Bud is always so good to me. Will you have something a little bit kind of extra nice for supper?" And Rosalie danced off up the stairs, singing merrily.

Doris smiled and sighed in relief. "That settles Rosalie for this afternoon. The other girls will be up and going in a minute, I suppose, the game must be nearly over. But it is a whole lot to have Rosalie fixed."

At that moment Treasure picked up the cards and began putting them into the box, and Zee walked slowly but proudly to the kitchen. A second later Doris heard the tinkling of pennies, and Zee came back into the room.

"What were you doing, Babe?"

"Putting some pennies in the mission box," came the even answer.

"What shall we do now, Doris? We don't want to play any more."

"Haven't you something to read?"

"We've read everything in the house a dozen times. May we go over to Grahams'?"

"Oh, not to-day, dear, they are so noisy. Wait until to-morrow."

"May we make some candy, Doris? And pop corn?"

"Oh, Zee, not on Sunday. Why don't you take a walk?"

"Too hot," objected Treasure. "Let's go and make father tell us a story."

"You wouldn't bother him to-day, surely. He has to go to Waltons' at three for the wedding."

"Why can't we go to the wedding with him? We are very good at weddings."

"Not this time, dear. We weren't invited. It is just a quiet wedding on the rush—they start east this afternoon, you know."

"I don't believe in weddings on the rush—they ought to take their time and have old shoes and rice and refreshments," insisted Zee stubbornly.

"What shall we do then, Doris? You ought to think of something."

Doris racked her brain. She had to rack her brain every Sunday afternoon, but somehow she could not keep a supply of ideas in storage.

"Why don't you go to the meadow and pick some goldenrod?" she suggested finally. "Bud is coming to tea with Rosalie, and think how it will please her."

Treasure and Zee looked at each other, and as neither could think of a plausible objection, they acted upon the plan.

When they were gone, Doris got up, luxuriously, and lifted her arms high above her head.

"Oh, day of rest," she breathed fervently, and wandered comfortably through the house and into the yard. Sunday was a blissful day, after all.

Later in the afternoon she arranged the table attractively for tea, and made a pile of dainty sandwiches. And it was in the midst of this occupation that she was interrupted by the jingling of the telephone.

"Is this Miss Artman? Miss Doris— Do you recognize my voice?"

"Oh, Mr. Wizard, I wish I didn't. Then you would have to tell me."

He laughed at that, and his laugh was as pleasantly aggravating by telephone as in person.

"However did you come to call me up?" she asked.

"Sad news, my friend, sad news. Two young girls claiming to belong to you are under arrest out here on a charge of trespassing."

Doris trembled so she nearly dropped the receiver.

"Arrest?" she faltered.

"Well, practically. You see there is a big sign up which says, 'No trespassing,' and along came two young girls walking beside the creek, picking flowers, and shooing birds, and chasing rabbits, as natural as life. Out jumps a wild and angry game-keeper—so-called. He says, 'Didn't you see that sign, "No Trespassing"?' The little dark one began to cry, but the other one said, 'We are not trespassing, we are picking flowers.' 'They are my personal flowers,' said the game-keeper. 'Nothing of the kind, they are God's, you didn't even plant them, for they are wild.' Then I arrive, like mercury on the wings of the wind, and the dark one was still weeping—"

"Zee doesn't cry," wailed Doris.

"She does cry. She not only cries, she bellows. But the slender, white one insisted they were not trespassing because they are preachers and preachers do not trespass. What shall I do with them?"

"I do not know," faltered Doris. "Father is at a wedding, and— Who is the cross old bear, anyhow?"

"Search me," he said blithely. "I think maybe I can bribe him off. At present the girls are seated comfortably on a fallen tree eating apples, the baby has quit bellowing, and the game-keeper is gathering some late roses for them. Holding them in sweet confinement until you guarantee that they are yours. I guess I can fix it up with the old man. Don't worry then, I shall give it my personal attention, and see that your erring and trespassing—for they were trespassing beyond a doubt, manse to the contrary notwithstanding—sisters are restored to the shelter of the fold. Don't worry. Aren't you glad you have a mysterious wizard flitting about to shield your—your—your—I can not think of a word to do them justice— Anyhow, to keep your sanctified but erring family out of jail?"

Then he hung up the receiver before Doris could even thank him.

How agonizingly she waited—and how calmly and confidently they came at last—the calloused little wretches—Zee bearing a bountiful armful of goldenrod and crimson roses, and Treasure laden with luscious fruit.

"Well, for goodness' sake," exclaimed Zee when she saw Doris, white and trembling. "Did you think they could really arrest us—preachers? Impossible! Of course the old reprobate—I use it scripturally, so don't get excited—of course he scared me right at first, I wept a little, very effectively, and Treasure put her arm around me and said she wouldn't let him hurt me. He was very cross. We call him the Corduroy Crab, for short—and because we don't know anything else to call him."

"You might know we would not let them arrest us, Doris," said Treasure gently. "You should not have worried."

"Of course, he was simply foaming at the mouth. He was going to march us home in disgrace, to report us. But Treasure sat right down, and said we would come and report ourselves, but we would not be marched through town in disgrace. Treasure came out like a brick; I was surprised at her."

"What were you doing all the time, Miss Zee?"

"Well," confessed Zee reluctantly, "I was behind Treasure most of the time. And then the other fellow—I wonder who in the world he was?"

"He made me angrier than the Crab did; he thought he was so funny!"

"He was going along, and came in to see the excitement. And he laughed at us—the hateful thing. And when we said we belonged to the manse he laughed more than ever. He was not a farmer, I am sure—he wore a silk shirt, did you notice that, Treasure? We call him the Curious Cat—Curious because he was so funny, and Cat because he laughed. He gave the old Crab some money and said he would assume responsibility for us, and he told us to wait until he telephoned to verify us, or something, and he asked the Crab to pick us some regular flowers to atone for his irreverence in assaulting a manse, as it were, and the Crab really was pretty decent after that. When the Cat went to telephone, I asked who he was, and the Crab rolled up his eyes and said he never laid eyes on him before. And then the Cat came back, and brought us home in his car."

"Where was it?" asked Doris curiously.

"It was in the hickory grove, this side of the tumble-down house—I did hear that some one had bought the place, but I did not believe it. Every one says it is haunted. But of course haunts do not work in the day-time, and the flowers were gorgeous. We got quite chummy with the Corduroy Crab before we left, and asked if we might have a picnic there some time, and he said yes."

"However did you get away out there, anyhow?"

"Oh, the Maples came along in their car and asked if we wanted a ride, and when we got out there and saw how fine the flowers were we said we would get a ride back easy enough."

"Here comes father!"

The girls raced down the stone walk to meet him, and Doris returned to the kitchen.

"Did you ever hear such a thing in your life?" she thought to herself. "How does he get every place—and how does he know everything— Oh, I think I'll take a walk out there myself some of these fine days—maybe I'll get arrested, too!"