"Father, are you studying, or are you plain fidgeting?" asked Doris suspiciously, pausing in the act of dusting the pile of manuscript on her father's desk.

"Just plain fidgeting, I am afraid," he admitted. "I am nervous."

"Nervous!"

"I believe that old fellow left me something in his will," came the sober confession.

"Davison?"

"Davison."

"But why should he leave you anything?"

"Well, for that matter, why shouldn't he? Didn't I have to preach his funeral sermon—hardest job of my whole ministry?"

"But what makes you think—"

"Folsom called me up and asked me to be at his office at eleven o'clock for the reading of the will. Folsom is his lawyer."

"Oh, they just want you for a witness, goosie."

"You don't witness wills when they are dead—I mean, you witness the will when the dead person made it—before he is dead, of course."

"Oh, father, I couldn't have bungled it worse myself," she cried gleefully. "But if he left you anything, I hope it was money. Maybe he left you a thousand dollars. Father, if he did leave you a thousand dollars, will you buy me a pair of two-tone gray shoes, twelve dollars? Somehow the height of my ambition seems to be two-tone gray shoes, twelve dollars."

"Two-tone gray shoes! Do they make shoes to music now?"

"Absolutely—and very expensive music, too—an orchestra at the very least. A thousand dollars!"

"Don't set your heart on it. I don't think he had any money."

"What did he have?"

"A little farm, and some chickens, and some books that were handed down to him from somebody else, and a pianola that he got by a mortgage, and a gold-headed cane—"

"That is it, father, of course—the gold-headed cane. I am sure of it. Of all things in the world that you can't use, and I don't want, a gold-headed cane comes first. So that is probably what you will get. I feel it in my prophetic soul. Cheer up, dear, I believe you can pawn it."

"Why, General, what a pessimist you are to-day. Maybe he left us the chickens."

"No such luck," she answered gloomily. "Didn't he have a handsome imported Italian pipe? Maybe he left you that. Or an old English drinking tankard—he must have had drinking tankards. Or a set of hand-carved poker chips— He would chuckle in his grave if he could wish something like that on you. Don't talk to me of wills any more, father. No wonder you are fidgety. Run along now, and if you get a gold-headed cane don't you bring it into the manse. And if you get a sterling beer mug, you give it to the heathens. Now scoot."

Laughing, her father scooted, and Doris smiled after him tenderly.

"It would be nice if the old sinner did end his bad life well by leaving father something really decent. And goodness knows father deserves it. He had to get him out of jail twice, and pray him through delirium tremens four times."

Still she would not allow her hopes to rise too buoyantly, for she had learned from a life of well-mixed joy and discomfort not to expect the very greatest and grandest of all good things—and then whatever came was welcome, because it was more than she expected.

But when along toward noon she heard the call of the telephone, she leaped excitedly to answer it.

"Yes, yes, yes, of course it is. What did you say? What—did—you—say? Do it again, father, and slowly." And then she repeated after him solemnly, word for word, "The prize Jersey cow, or the red auto he was always getting arrested for speeding. And take your choice. Mercy me! Good-by."

Doris hung up the receiver and sat down on the floor. Of all things in the world! A Jersey cow—or a naughty red car! And father was to take his choice.

A Jersey cow—or a naughty red car!

When the girls came clamoring in from school Mr. Artman had not appeared, so Doris served them with hands that trembled, and finally, when she saw that father would not come in time to break his own good news, she said:

"Mr. Davison left a will and father gets a Jersey cow or the red car—which?"

There was no more dinner after that—for the girls all began talking at once—except Treasure, who looked volumes, but never had an opportunity to break into the conversation—and how cross they were at father for not coming home to share the excitement. But maybe he was learning to drive the red car, or—

"Milk the cow," faltered Rosalie. "You don't suppose father would let them talk him into taking the silly old cow, do you?"

"Absolutely not," said Doris imperturbably. "Father knows better than to decide such a thing by himself. He will come straight home—and I choose the car."

So the girls reluctantly went off to school again.

At one o'clock a neighbor ran in. "Well, what do you think of that? Did you ever hear of such a thing? Would anybody but old Davison ever think of leaving a preacher anything in his will?"

"Mr. Davison was very thoughtful in many ways," said Doris with dignity.

"Yes, I suppose so. Well, it certainly is wonderful luck for you folks. It is a good cow, one of the best in the county. Everybody says so. Worth two hundred dollars, and only three years old. And think of the nice milk and cream and butter and—"

"You don't mean to say father took the cow," gasped Doris.

"Why, I don't know—I suppose so—I should think he would. Whatever would your poor father do with that devilish little red car? Of course he will take the cow."

"You scared me for a minute. I thought maybe father had a mental aberration and did it! No, he will not take the cow—not by any means. He will take the car, and take it just as fast as ever he can, and—and—and—"

Of course, the neighbor lady was sure dear Doris was quite daft, but Doris was tranquilly confident. Her faith in her father's wisdom remained unshaken—he would come to her, and she had already chosen the car. It certainly was a General's prerogative—choosing things.

At four o'clock he came, smiling, his face flushed, his eyes bright and boyish.

"Most fun I've had in ten years," he said, mopping his brow. "I think if the parishioners knew how much fun it is, more of them would die, and remember me in their wills."

"You mean—"

"Never mind what I mean. I am not sure I know myself. Well, as I told you, Davison says it is for my own personal use and pleasure, mine and my family's—not for the church under any consideration—either the cow or the car. Probably, he says, in his outspoken way, I shall be fool enough to take the cow, and in that case the car is to go to his great-grand-nephew up in New London. And great-grand-nephew greatly prefers the car, so he took me out to show me the cow, and explain what a bargain she is, and how easy to milk, and how creamy the milk is, and he figured up how many pounds of milk and gallons of— No, I mean it the other way, gallons of milk and pounds of butter I will get per year, at so much per gallon and per pound, and that will mean a clear profit of—"

"Father, you poor dear, shall I call a doctor?"

"So, after seeing the cow, and she is a beauty—I said, 'How about the car? Let's give her the once-over, too, while we are at it.' He says it isn't much of a car, in terrible condition, would take a hundred dollars to put it in shape, and fairly eats gasoline—gas going up, too. And he says it is a bad car to handle, quite dangerous, in fact, has a habit of running into telephone poles and trains and things. But we backed her out of the garage, and great-grand-nephew and Folsom and I had a ride. Which do you want?"

"Mercy, father, how abrupt you are. I thought it was settled long ago. We want the car, of course."

"All right, my dear, all right, but I have a hunch that great-grand-nephew will not be particularly pleased. Lucky he lives in New London instead of here—Congregationalist, too, that's good. And when I consider that I got Davison out of jail twice for speeding the thing, I think after all it is my just deserts. All right, call Folsom up and tell him we take the car."

Doris ecstatically did, and the lawyer said he would deliver the car at their door in person the next morning at nine o'clock.

"Can't you make it eight?" pleaded Doris. "I think the children ought to be here, and they are in school, you know."

Very obligingly Mr. Folsom consented to the change of time, and the entire family sat up until eleven o'clock that night figuring out how to make motor bonnets of left-over coats and planning vacation motor trips for ten years in advance.

At five-thirty the next morning Treasure and Zee made a tour of the house, wakening every member of the family in no idle manner.

"Going to sleep all day?" Zee demanded in a peevish voice when she had shaken Rosalie four times. "Get up, so you'll be ready for the car."

"Zee Artman, you go right back to bed, and let me sleep," protested Rosalie. "Do I have to sit up all night just because the car is coming to-morrow?"

"You get out, or we'll pull you out. Treasure and I are all dressed. We're not going to have things held up at the last minute because somebody isn't down yet. Are you going to get up— Have you got the water, Treasure?"

In the face of such persistence the others were helpless, so they rushed down and had a feverish breakfast, with Zee dashing away from the table every three minutes to see if the car had come, and at seven-thirty they were grouped impatiently at the front window.

"Keep behind the curtains," Rosalie urged, "or he will think we never had a car before in our lives."

"We must call it the machine," said Zee. "Machine sounds so unconcerned."

"Motor, you little goose," said Rosalie. "Machine is what the business men call it. The highbrows say, 'The motor will be here at six.'"

"We must give it a name," said Treasure. "Let's call it the Shooting Star."

"Let's call it the Divine Spark— It is the only divine thing old Davison ever did."

"Girls," said Doris firmly, "don't you ever let me hear you speak disrespectfully of poor Mr. Davison again. He certainly had a kind and generous heart and he must have sympathized with dear father, walking all over town in all kinds of weather, and—"

"Pretty good sort, after all, wasn't he, Doris?" laughed Mr. Artman. "One post-mortem virtue like this will cover a lifetime of delirium tremens, won't it?"

"Here she comes," shouted Zee, and the family forgot its ministerial dignity and rushed pell-mell down the stone walk.

It was a pretty car, giddy and gaudy as to color, which fascinated Zee, with a softly whirring motor that reminded Treasure of a happy little kitten, and with long low lines that Rosalie declared were very smart indeed.

"Get in, folks," said Mr. Folsom gaily, "we must give her a trial run."

So the three older girls stepped loftily into the tonneau, and Zee snuggled up between her father and Mr. Folsom in front—there may have been bigger, more wonderful, more luxurious cars—but the Artmans could not be convinced of it, and Mr. Davison improved steadily with every turn of the motor.

Mr. Folsom, enjoying their passionate delight, volunteered to spend the morning giving the minister his first lesson, and a near panic ensued.

"Oh, Doris!"

"Do we have to go to school?"

"Oh, dear, sweet, darling General, it never happened before since we were born."

"What do you think, father?" said Doris slowly.

"You are the General," came the quick response.

"Then," said Doris, in a clear triumphant voice, "step on it! What do we care for school, and work, and mending, and dishes, and— Begin, Mr. Folsom. We'll see the morning through."

It was lovely to see precious old father take that gay young interest in bolts and screws—how readily his laughter sounded—how deep and pleased his voice rang out. Poor, dear Mr. Davison—well, we preachers are only to lead, and not to judge, and Doris was very, very sure the angels in Heaven must know many good and tender things about the man who did this kindness to her father.

Some of the people of the fold thought the family had mentally run amuck. Whoever heard of an impecunious minister taking an expensive auto in preference to a money-making cow? It was incomprehensible. But even those who wondered, smiled with loving sympathy when the family bundled joyously into the motor "just to have a good time for an hour."

"But wherever in the world we are going to scare up money for gas is more than I can figure out," said Mr. Artman, looking at the girls with sober eyes. "We've got the car—but it won't run itself. It costs twenty-five cents a gallon, and we only get about eighteen miles to the gallon—"

"Don't do figures, father, it makes my head ache," pleaded Doris. "We must concentrate. Where is the money for gas? Everybody think now."

After a painful silence Treasure came forward with the first sacrifice. "I will give half of my allowance—but it is only a dollar."

Zee frowned at her. "That's a poor idea," she said. "Now I have to live up to your precedent, and give half of mine. That is another dollar." And then, with a truly herculean effort she added, "And, Doris, I will go ahead wearing stogies to school, and you can have the price of the fine shoes for gas, too."

"That is just fine for a starter," said Doris. "And since you little ones have set the example, I know I can cut down on the expense of cooking—we must use less butter, and less sugar, and other rich things. I am sure I can save a few dollars every month, and you will never notice the difference. It will take a little more planning, and a little more work preparing the food—but I am willing to do that. Put me down for at least three dollars."

Rosalie sighed. "What can I do? I have my winter clothes already, and my allowance—I can't give it up, for if I haven't any money the other girls will pay my share of things, and I can not sponge on my friends, you know." Then she added slowly, "But father gave me the money to join the Golf Club—and I only wanted to join because it is so smart—I get plenty of exercise without it. It is five dollars to join and two-fifty a month. That goes into the gas."

"Rosalie, that is lovely—and so sweet and unselfish. Now we can use the car with clear consciences, and we will enjoy it all the more because we are making a sacrifice to pay for our pleasure."

"How can I help?" asked their father suddenly. "I should like to follow your lead. Is there anything I can give up, or go without? How do men economize, anyhow? I shave and shine myself already. Cigars—I never use. Theater tickets—never even saw them. What can I give up?"

"Oh, father, I never thought of that. You do not have any money for yourself at all, do you? You always turn it right over to me. Are—we—as poor as that?"

There was tragedy in the young voice, and she broke over the words.

"Why, Doris, I did not mean it that way. I have everything I want, of course. Fortunately, a minister's clothes do not go out of style—and it saves me trouble and worry to let you spend the family fund instead of doing it myself."

"Then you shall be treasurer of the gasoline money. It will make you feel like a millionaire, you poor old soul." She ran to her desk and brought out the box of household funds. "Here is my three dollars— And don't you get reckless and spend it for tires and rugs and things."

Laughing gaily, the other girls brought out their hoarded dollars and thrust them into his hands.

"I have not felt so affluent for lo, these many years," he declared. "Let's go out for a spin in the motor, shall we? And we'd better run by the garage and fill her up—the tank is nearly empty."