"Now, Doris," began Rosalie briskly, "you must help decide my life career. They gave us a fine talk at chapel this morning, urging us to spot our high ambitions for guiding stars to work toward. Of course, we can change our minds later on if we like, we are not to be irrevocably bound to what we say, but no student 'can plan most wisely and most surely for the future, without a pole star ever shining in his mind's eye,'" she quoted patly. "Now, what are my ambitions?"

"Mercy, Rosalie, you know your ambitions better than I do," said Doris, as earnestly as though the same subject had not been discussed regularly ever since Rosalie was a freshman.

"I think I was born for the stage, barring the one accident of the ministry. But since that avenue of fame is closed, what shall I do? Shall I be a teacher—and if so, a teacher of what? I am not particularly clever, you know."

"You are very clever, indeed, and I think you would be a wonderful teacher."

"Thanks, but I have neither patience nor dignity, and all authorities agree that they are prime requisites."

"You can be as patient and dignified as anybody if you want to. And you are tactful and pleasant, both good teaching qualities. I suppose you do not feel particularly drawn to any religious work, missionary, or—or pastor's assistant, or anything like that?"

"I am interested in gymnasium work," said Rosalie. "It seems my only forte. I am very good at all outdoor sports, and I have a fine physique, and adore exercise."

"That would be nice."

"Some places I might have to teach dancing. I could handle it as one form of physical development, and if the naughty things took it into the ballroom it wouldn't be my fault, would it?"

"Not—exactly—I suppose."

"But I ought to have an extra year for special study somewhere after I finish college. Do you suppose we could manage it, father?"

Mr. Artman looked up from his mail absently. "Yes, dear, what? I am afraid I was not paying attention." His eyes wandered back to the letter in his hand.

Rosalie promptly deposited herself on his knee, pulling his arms around her.

"Doris has just decided that I would be a lovely athletic director for girls if I could have a year of special training after college. Prospects, please?"

"Maybe we could arrange it—I hope so. It would be fine. But—things might interfere."

"Always granted, of course, dearest, but am I justified in saying it is my present plan if things do not interfere?"

"Yes, to be sure, but—remember—plans have a way of going astray, dear."

"Why, father, that does not sound like you."

"I know, forgive me, but I do not feel like myself to-day. Look ahead to it, Rosalie, by all means, and count on it, and if it is right for you, it will come."

"That is the way for a preacher to talk," said Rosalie. "Then it is all settled, isn't it?"

She ran back to her chair, and her father turned anxious eyes on the letter again. He did not notice that his girls looked at him often, and very wonderingly. Presently he went to the telephone and put in a long-distance call to Chicago. Two years previous he had taken a course of study at the seminary in Chicago, and ever since had made frequent appointments with Doctor Hancock necessitating hurried trips to the city.

"Some old 'prof' at the seminary, I suppose," Doris said lightly. "They won't let us preachers settle down and preach and be comfortable nowadays. They keep us up and coming every minute, studying this and studying that, and then practising what we study on the public. It is no easy matter being a preacher any more."

And so, although the Chicago trips had grown more and more frequent, Doris gave them small heed.

But after her father had left the house the next morning, she walked soberly up-stairs to where Rosalie was dressing for school and said, "Rosalie, I hate to push my worries on to you, but—does—father act funny some way? Or do I imagine it? He seems so serious and anxious."

"He has been rather quiet lately," said Rosalie slowly.

"I am sure he is not well. I wish he did not take these Chicago trips so often. I think they expect entirely too much of us preachers. He is always tired and worried when he gets home. If we had a bishop, I think I should report it."

Rosalie said nothing.

Both girls watched their father closely when he returned home late that night. He was tired indeed, and his eyes were darkly circled. He did not laugh so freely as usual at their merry chatter, and though he was tender with them as always, he seemed distrait and absent-minded, which was not like him. And Doris pondered over it anxiously.

The next morning he came down-stairs wearing wide amber glasses, "which," he explained apologetically, "I am not wearing for style, I assure you, but the light seems rather too much for me. I think it causes the headaches."

The girls had great fun with the amber glasses, shaking their heads sadly over his worldliness, for every one knew that amber glasses were fashionable. But after that, he always wore them except when he went into the pulpit.

Two days later, when he came in to lunch, his face was as bright and smiling as it had been in the olden days when his laughter had been as spontaneous as Rosalie's or Zee's. He began talking, boyishly, before he reached his chair at the table, and the girls smiled happily at his cheerfulness.

"I met a very clever man down-town to-day, and had quite a talk with him. He is an author—a psychologist and philosopher—he wrote all those books I have been so interested in lately. Very entertaining fellow, and so I invited him to dinner to-night."

"Good night, nurse," gasped Doris. "You invited an author and a psychologist and a philosopher to dinner to-night?"

"Only one, Doris," he explained patiently.

"Father, there is something the matter with you. First you flash a bishop on us in the middle of the night, and now a psychologist-philosopher combination. Whatever in the world do you suppose he eats?"

"Cheer up," said Rosalie. "He is a philosopher, remember, so he will be satisfied with what he gets. Food, nowadays, is the greatest test of human philosophy."

"Oh, he is all right. I am sure he eats regular things. He has bought a place out here to do his work—close to his publishers in Chicago, and far enough out to be isolated when he is on a book. It will be a great treat for me to have him here." He looked at Doris reflectively. "Let's have a good dinner, regardless of the cost, and, Doris, I hope you—I mean, I hope all of you—will look your very sweetest and act your very dearest."

"Is he married?" demanded Zee. "I believe on my soul you have a scheme to marry one of us off to him. Doris, I suppose, for I am too young, and Treasure is too good, and Rosalie is too frivolous."

"Does he write fairy stories, or—"

"He does not write fairy stories, but I believe he tells them sometimes," laughed their father. "And I have no matrimonial designs on him, I assure you, but I want him to be our friend. It will be a great pleasure to me, and a great help—and I need both."

Doris and Rosalie looked swiftly at each other at that, but neither made any comment. When Mr. Artman had gone up-stairs, still laughing with satisfaction, the four of them put their heads together.

"Let's think up a dinner fit for a—fit for a—"

"A pope," suggested Zee.

"Zee, I am surprised at you. Fit for a president."

"Since father said spare no expense, I say fried chicken, and I want the wishbone."

"A good idea. We'll have fried chicken. Now what else?"

"Let's do it up in style, and have courses. Treasure can wait on the table without spilling things, and then come quietly to her place without banging chairs. Soup—"

"Yes."

"Then chicken, mashed potatoes, and—"

"Corn fritters—I've been asking for corn fritters for six weeks."

"Well, corn fritters. Salad—"

"Olives are easy, and—"

"No, let's have a salad like regular folks. Mrs. Andrieson makes lovely thousand island dressing, and I have only one recitation this afternoon so I'll just run down after class and get her to show me how. Then we'll have head lettuce with the dressing, and—"

"And coffee with whipped cream, and—"

"For dessert—"

"Ice-cream. If I do any baking I'll be too hot to look nice. Treasure, you run over to Wilcot's and get a quart of milk and a pint of cream and a half pint of whipping cream, and Rosalie you call up the ice company and have them leave a dime's worth of ice on the first delivery without fail, and I'll freeze it first thing. And, Rosalie, I leave the salad entirely to you."

"I will go to Benson's after school and get some flowers," said Treasure. "Mrs. Benson is always glad to give me the carnations that are not fresh enough to sell, but too good to throw away. And we can pick out the best ones."

"Isn't that grand? Won't father be pleased?"

"And what shall we wear?"

This brought forth a prolonged and heated discussion of ribbons and gowns, for father had said to look their sweetest and act their dearest—and being girls, they knew the latter was impossible except when the former had been accomplished. Finally all was arranged, and the dresses were laid out nicely on their various beds, and Treasure was given a quarter to buy a new blue ribbon because she got oil on the old one sticking her head under the car to see what father was doing. And the girls rushed excitedly to school, to tell their friends carelessly that they had to hurry home to-night and could not stop to study Latin en masse, for "Father has invited a perfectly enormous author and psychologist and all that to dinner." And although none of them had a very clear idea what kind of a psychologist he was, or what he did, or why he was so perfectly enormous, the very meagerness of their information added luster to his halo.

The table that night was a dream of loveliness, and the girls had everything ready and were up-stairs taking a last final reconnoiter of their physical charms when they heard their father greeting the perfectly enormous guest.

They filed down breathlessly, eyes bright with anticipation, their hearts palpitating with the unwonted glory of it. And then—

"Why, it is only the Curious Cat," ejaculated Zee.

"Mr. Wizard," gasped Doris. "Father, you knew it all the time."

"Well, I am glad my girls have been encroaching on your hospitality, Mr. MacCammon, for otherwise we might not have the privilege of extending ours to you now."

Mr. MacCammon held Doris' hand warmly in his. "I hope the charm has not all gone with the mystery," he said. "I was ashamed to conceal my identity any longer, and besides I wished to see more of you, and I wanted to know your father. But if you have lost all interest in me now, I know I shall wish I had not come at all."

"I haven't—it isn't—not by any means," stammered Doris nervously, and hurried away to the kitchen to look after the dinner.

Oh, but wasn't she glad father had stipulated they should spare no expense? It was a wonderful, delicious dinner, and when he turned from gay banter with Rosalie and Zee, to real intense discussion with her father, and always bending warm and friendly eyes on her—really, it was too good to be true.

"But I always said I liked him," she told herself, comfortably.

After that he came often to the manse, and many times he took them all out to the Haunted House, where Mr. Artman was immediately lost in the depths of huge volumes, and where Treasure and Zee wandered off to look for baby rabbits with the Corduroy Crab, who wasn't a bit crabbish any more, and where Rosalie flung herself into a big hammock with a plate of fruit and a chatty story—and what could he do, as host, but entertain Doris, who was left without other form of amusement?

"Oh, but you wait till the bishop comes," Rosalie whispered to Doris, when they were safe in the manse again. "What will he say to these carryings on? Your very own bishop—"

"He is not my very own bishop. And if he is, I will not have him. And it certainly is nothing to the bishop if father has a friend."

"I do not imagine the dear bishop cares two cents how many friends father has. But what your bishop will say to you is more than I can imagine. And who but a serious sensible girl would ever dream of bandying with a bishop? Frivolous and all as I am, General, I should never be guilty of trifling with a bishop's affections."

"He hasn't any."

"Oh, yes, he has. He has oceans of them. But what difference does it make to you how many affections he has?"

"No difference at all," admitted Doris, laughing. And she added, flushing a little, but still laughing, "But I should really like to know whether—father's friend—has any."

And then she ran away, before Rosalie could catch and shake her.

The Chicago trips were very frequent now, and in spite of his evident pleasure in the new and brilliant friend, Mr. Artman grew more preoccupied. Sometimes Doris could hear him pacing up and down his room at night, when he should have been asleep. And very often he pushed his plate away from him at the table, and could not eat, although Doris had patiently and painstakingly prepared the dishes he loved best. And every day he spoke of little headaches, and kept the blinds lowered in his room, working with the amber glasses. And many times, when they thought he was working, he was sitting at his desk with his head in his arms.

"Oh, Rosalie, I can't stand it," Doris cried at last. "I know there is something wrong with father. But some way—I can't ask him. I am afraid to. I know he is sick."

"No, he is not sick, Doris. I know what it is."

"Rosalie!"

"One day I got a Chicago city directory—oh, long ago, when he first began making these trips to see Doctor Hancock—I got a directory, and looked the doctor up. He is not a minister, as you thought. He is an oculist."

"Father's eyes!"

"Yes. And last week I wrote to the doctor myself, and told him we were worried about father, and asked him to tell me. He says father's eyes are very bad, and he must have an operation as soon as possible. It should have been done some time ago, but father has been putting it off. And the doctor says by all means he should rest his eyes for several months, a year if possible, without using them one little bit."

For a moment all the bright room went swimming before Doris. Then she cried out, in pain and self-reproach.

"Oh Rosalie, I was happy myself, and I forgot to look after father. It was you who thought of him."

"That is nothing. Do you remember, Doris, away last fall, when you said I must begin to solve my problems for myself? I have been trying to, that is all. And father is one of them. Somehow, as long as I could throw my worries off on you and father, I was glad to do it, and did not care what came of it. But when you put things squarely up to me, I found to my surprise that I had a sort of personal pride that kept pulling me up to the mark. You were pretty slick, General. And so I have been sort of looking ahead, and trying to help plan for father."

"I am going to have it out with him right now. He shan't bear it alone any longer."

She went softly up-stairs, and into her father's room, which was always in shadow now, although Doris in her happiness had thought nothing of it, and crept very quietly into her father's arms.

"Let's talk it over, father. How soon do you plan to have the operation on your eyes? Is Doctor Hancock the very best you can get? Tell me what arrangements you have made."

"Let's talk it over, father"

"Oh, Doris," he cried brokenly, dropping his head on her arm and holding her very close, "do you know? I have tried so hard to tell you—but I hadn't the heart. Yes, let's talk it over." And then, in quick broken sentences, without a trace of bitterness, he told her how his eyes had been growing constantly weaker and weaker, and how the doctor had tried in every way to strengthen them and to arrest the trouble, but now the operation was unavoidable and could not be put off long, and it would mean so many months of idleness—and how could he preach without his eyes? And he was too young to be "supered"—how could he step aside for the rest of his life? And how could he rest, with four young girls to keep going?

Talking it over was a comfort. His voice grew gradually firmer and his face brighter. Now that he had the bright eyes of Doris beside him, blindness seemed more remote, and more impossible. New strength came to him from her vivid warm vitality. And in trying to buoy her with hope, hope came to him also. Two hours they sat there, just talking, saying again and again that there was a way, only they did not see it—not just yet.

"I am going to tell the girls, father. They are old enough—and it will hurt them to be shut out of what touches you so closely. And Rosalie—father, Rosalie is coming out just fine."

Quickly she told him of Rosalie's way of finding out, and of her quiet confident facing of facts—so unlike the problematic butterfly they had worried over so many, many times.

"Send her up to me, will you? I think she will do me good." And while Rosalie was with her father Doris told Treasure and Zee.

"Just be quiet about it to-night. After a while it will come natural. But we must not talk much, for father feels very badly. Just let him see that we are sorry—and we must all be very positive there is a grand way out for us, and we must find it."

There had never been such sweet and tender harmony in the manse as on that night—the sorrow falling on each one alike drew them very close together. And when they went to bed at last, each one in characteristic way thanked God that there were five to bear the hurt, for grief divided by five, after all, is only one-fifth a grief.