In answer to intense and persistent pleading on the part of Treasure and Zee, the girls decided to remain in Chicago until their father also returned home. It did not seem at all expensive living in the big city, thanks partly, of course, to the continued hospitality of MacCammon and the bishop, and the doctor, and other friends of the Presbyterian fold. And since school was practically out anyhow, Rosalie knew she was missing nothing except good times, and there never was a time good enough to tempt her away from her father when he so evidently enjoyed her presence.

It was very surprising, of course, that those unaccountable little mischiefs at home were so happy in the presence of Miss Carlton, whom they had never particularly admired. But since they insisted, and since father did say it was sweet to have them with him, and since MacCammon had developed a strange partiality for the young girls at home, strongly seconding every suggestion they made, Doris and Rosalie lingered in Chicago. Their father's strength returned rapidly, and although he was kept in constant heavy shadow, there were many good and rollicking times for all of them. And in spite of the doctor's open declaration that he would never have time to bother with them after the first day, he did find many, many hours to while away in their gentle but merry presence.

"You are sure you have time? You are sure there is nobody clamoring for you to come and cut them to pieces?" Rosalie would say sweetly.

And the doctor was always comfortably and confidently sure.

And when at last the day came for getting ready to return home he hung around the little apartment sitting on things they wished to pack and getting in the way of suit-cases and bags that needed to be moved, seeming quite to forget that he was a famous surgeon and that people were waiting patiently for him to wield his knife.

"If anybody urged me particularly I think I'd take a day off and go home with you. Your father may need attention when he gets there, and I need a vacation, and I could come back on the night train. But nobody thinks of inviting me, of course."

"Please come," said Doris promptly.

"I won't invite you," said MacCammon pointedly. "The girls think you are responsible for saving their father's eyes—though anybody else could have done it just as well—and when you are around nobody pays any attention to me at all. So I think you'd better stay in Chicago, where you belong."

"There you are—isn't that gratitude for you?"

"Don't mind him," said Doris. "I am the General. Do as I say."

He looked hopefully at Rosalie.

"They sit in the front seat and entertain themselves," she said, "and never bother about me alone in the rear. I invite you to come and sit with me, and let's not say a word to them all the way home."

He accepted that invitation immediately and rushed off to make arrangements to keep his patients alive until his return.

Zee had insisted most strongly that the whole family should arrive home at the same identical minute, and not come stringing in all day, keeping them upset, and MacCammon, with his usual loyalty to her, said flatly it must be done.

"It can't be done," protested Doris. "The doctor will not let father go in the car, and how can we get there the same minute?"

"We shall start early in the morning, and your father will go on the noon train. Then we shall plan to get to town just exactly at two-twenty-seven, meet the train, pick your father up bodily, and carry him home in triumph."

"It can't be done."

"If Zee says, 'Do it,' it shall be done," said MacCammon decidedly. "Her confidence in me must not be shattered. We leave this town at eight-thirty to-morrow—allowing time for blowouts and quarrels en route. And if we see we are getting in early, we'll stop beneath a big tree outside of town and point out the scenery to the doctor, who does not know anything about any kind of scenery except bones and skin."

"But father—"

"Oh, the bishop can get him on the train and start him home. That's all bishops are good for," said MacCammon imperturbably. And he made the arrangement himself to the intense delight of Rosalie, who giggled at his elbow all the time he was discussing the plan with the bishop.

Then came the long lovely ride home, Doris and MacCammon blissfully content in the front seat, and the doctor taking a most unprofessional interest in Rosalie's softness and girlishness and gurgliness in the tonneau.

"Oh, Rosalie," Doris said to her teasingly when they were in the dressing-room at the hotel "smoothening up" for luncheon. "Oh, Rosalie, dear, do you still—er—wonder if you are too young to fall in love—with a senior?"

Rosalie laughed brightly. "I have decided, Mr. General, that I am not too young to fall in love with—anybody." And then she added, "But I know now that seniors are quite too awfully young to be fallen in love with—Bob Alden, for instance—why, he is a perfect infant!"

Surely enough, they had a long wait under the maples just outside of town, and MacCammon persisted in pointing out the different grains coming up in the fields around them, and the different birds flitting in the branches, and the different flowers nodding by the roadside—to the intense annoyance of the doctor, who said openly he did not care two cents about grains and birds and flowers, and very much preferred to concentrate on other things that interested him more.

Then came the last flying rush to the station, where father was met and welcomed as though he had not been seen only a few hours before, and they sped quickly to the manse.

"Do hurry," Doris begged. "I know they have a surprise for us, and I can't wait."

The surprise was evident as soon as they entered the door. For all the manse was softly, sweetly shaded, with silky green and rose-colored curtains before every window. Every light was covered with dainty shades of the same soft colors. There was no glare, no bright splashes of light, no gleam, from any corner.

The doctor himself removed the heavy goggle glasses from their father's eyes.

"This can't hurt anybody," he declared. "It is charming. Look around, man."

"Why, you dear little girls," said Mr. Artman. "Did you do this for me?"

"For all of us," said Treasure. "We knew it would make us all happy if you could be right in the home with us, and comfortable, not shut up by yourself in a dark room alone up-stairs, and so we did it for the whole family."

"Where is Miss Carlton?" asked Doris.

"She left yesterday," said Zee. "We wanted to have the house to ourselves."

"But wherever did you get the money?" wondered Doris.

"Ladies' Aid," they shouted triumphantly. "We were going to do it with cheaper stuff out of our allowance—but when they heard about it they chipped in—and, oh, how we have worked." Zee danced about on joyous toes. "And the house cleaning is all done—and come up-stairs and see father's room."

There was not even a white coverlet on the bed in his room, only the very palest and softest of colors—and upholstering on the chairs in deep green tones—even the paper on the wall was changed.

"Whoever in the world—" gasped Doris.

"Bangs and the Corduroy Crab," exulted Zee. "They worked and worked, and made the whole room over. Isn't the Curious Cat a darling not to tell you? He knew it all the time."

Doris held out her hand to him impulsively, and he took it, and kept it in his.

"And that isn't all—sit down, everybody," cried Zee nervously. "We haven't half shown you everything. Sit down, and— You tell it, Treasure, your part comes next."

"You tell it, Zee, you talk more—I mean better, than I do."

"Well," began Zee, nothing loath, perching herself on her father's knee and beaming around on them like a fairy godmother, "you see when we first knew about father's eyes, and Doris and Rosalie were doing everything for father, we felt just terribly badly, because we couldn't do anything, and we felt so useless, we just hated to be alive. And so we talked to our nice old Cat—"

"Zee!"

"It is a compliment, Mr. MacCammon," she said, smiling on him warmly. "And between the three of us we figured and schemed—for we were determined to do our share, and—and—come up to the manse, you know. We wanted to rise to the—the occasion with the rest of you, even if we are young and usually in trouble. And so guess what Treasure did."

"Tell us," begged Doris.

"Nobody can ever tell what either of you ever did," said Rosalie.

"Well, she began going to domestic science classes, hours and hours and hours. And when Miss Carlton was here, they worked every minute, both of them, like—like dogs—cooking and baking, and learning stuff, and Treasure is a perfectly wonderful cook—better than Doris herself. She can cook anything in the world, and bake bread, and—she can cook the whole meal, all by herself, and she loves it, and she is going to do it all the time after this, so Doris will have more time for father, and to help with the church, and to—entertain Mr. MacCammon, and so forth."

"Honestly?"

"Wait till dinner, and you shall see."

"And, father," began Treasure gently, "you know I do not care for school much, and now I have finished high school, I thought maybe you would not make me go to college. I can't teach or anything. I am too afraid to get up before folks, and—won't you please let me stay at home and be your cook, and just study music, and a few little things like that?"

"Why, Treasure!"

"Well, think it over," said Zee. "It is open for consideration anyhow."

"Tell about your part, Zee."

"Oh, mine is not important," said Zee, "the cooking is the big job."

"It is, too, important," cried Treasure indignantly. "Poor little Zee has been darning and mending every minute for the last month—and her fingers are all pricked up, and she got so tired of it—but she can do it just fine, and she is going to all the rest of the time—and she and I have been making beds and sweeping, and we are awfully smart at it—if we do say so ourselves—and so, Miss General, you are out of a job. Zee and I take the whole house."

"But what am I to do?" asked Doris dazedly.

MacCammon squeezed her fingers suggestively, but Doris could not or would not get the message.

"You are to play with father, and call on the sick," said Zee glibly. "We've got it all figured out. You and father and Rosalie are to play all summer, go camping, and fishing and hunting—and go driving around the country to conventions and chautauquas, and—and—everything."

"Oh, that blessed car," said Doris. "Oh, dear Mr. Davison, how good and kind he was."

"Doris will have Mr. Davison haloed before long. He has grown constantly better since the day of his death."

"It taught me a lesson, Rosalie. I never believed there was any good in that man at all—but now I know there must have been a divine spark in him all the time, and maybe if we had not been so sure he was no good, we might have fanned the spark a little before he died. I feel guilty about Mr. Davison—my conscience hurts."

"But, girls, you are so young—" protested Mr. Artman.

"Just try us, father, that is all. We've got the goods—you watch us deliver," cried Zee, and for once Doris did not reprove her for the slang.

"There does not seem much need for a minister here, then," he said, laughing. "With Rosalie taking my Sunday-school class, and Doris selecting my sermons, and both of them looking up references—what is the use of having a preacher?"

"You must still listen to the troubles, and weep with the sad, and rejoice with the gay—and you must still do the marrying and the burying and the baptizing," said Rosalie quickly.

Treasure and Zee nudged each other, and giggled ecstatically. For they knew what the others did not—that in all the loyal little church there was a covenant of joy passing around from one to another. "Let's go to him in gladness, rather than in complaint," was the new byword. And the people were storing up bits of happiness to take to him from day to day, little triumphs of business, spicy portions of humor and fun—and the daily annoyances and the petty grievances were being pushed aside and forgotten. For in time of stress and calamity, the heart of the church beats true. Of course, when sorrow comes, it is the minister's portion to enter into the innermost recesses of the soul, for that is his inalienable right, as pastor of human hearts, and no physical weakness of his own can weaken his fount of sympathy and tenderness.

But because they loved him, all the church was learning to look up, and laugh. And somehow it made worship sweeter when there was joy and gratitude and faith among them and they were lifted out of the narrow circle of self.

No wonder, then, that Mr. Artman, in the soft light of the room that had been his sanctuary for years, with his baby girls in his arms, and with the two strong radiant daughters standing near him, felt that the manse was a place of benediction and of peace.

"I used to wonder—if I could rear my girls alone," he said, smiling, though his voice was tremulous. "There were so many problems—and it was hard to see if we were coming out just right—I used to wonder if I knew enough to handle it."

Zee patted his shoulder reassuringly. "We never doubted it, father," she said, in a most maternal voice.

"Of course, we had lots of trouble, father, getting grown up," said Treasure. "But you might know that when the time came—we would be—"

"There with the goods," put in Zee impishly.

"We just naturally rose to the standard of the manse," said the General grandly.

MacCammon had not released his hold of Doris' hand, and now he drew her outside the room and closed the door.

"Doris," he said, "I can't wait any longer. I am afraid the bishop might send a telegram, or come flying in by aeroplane. And I want to make sure of belonging to this family right away. You are wonderful—all of you—the whole family."

"It is the manse," said Doris, smiling. "It keeps us up, and coming. We have to live up to it."

"It is the manse, partly, perhaps," he said, "but it is mostly—"

"I know—it is mostly father. Nobody could doubt that. Did you ever see a father like him?"

"I never did, and I never saw a Doris like you. Please excuse me, dearest, for making you think of me, when your heart is full of your father, and your sisters, and your manse—but I love you very much. When your father's eyes are strong and well, and when Rosalie has finished college, and when Treasure is really ready for promotion to a captaincy—then will you come and make me happy?"

Doris flushed warmly, and lifted her eyes to his face, looking steadily at him.

"Do not think it is just selfishness, dearest, my trying to intrude on your sacred hour of coming home, but—"

"You could not intrude," she said softly. "For you belong in the home-coming. It would not be coming home at all if you were not here."

Her lips were quivering, and the tears rushed to her eyes as he put his arms around her.

After a time, Zee opened the door and whirled out upon them.

"Mercy!" she said. "I was coming after you. Father wants everybody to be right there every minute."

"I know now there never was any chance for the bishop," said MacCammon, smiling. "Oh, the poor bishop! That bad little Rosalie was just scaring me."

"That bad little Rosalie is turning out to be a great and glorious girl," said Doris proudly. "Isn't she? And to think we used to call her the awful Problem of the manse."

"That bad little Rosalie is turning out a perfectly grand and glorious girl because she had a sweet wise sister to solve the awful problems for her. I know, for she told me herself."

Zee, leaning patiently against the wall, held up a respectful hand as though to a teacher in school.

"May I speak now, please? Father wants his General to take charge."

"Zee, I hope you approve of me for a brother-in-law, for it won't do any good if you do not. It is all settled, and you may as well be pleased."

"Oh, Doris," wailed Zee, suddenly tearful. "Not really."

"Why, Zee," cried Doris, shocked at her intensity of grief. "Why, Baby! I will be here a long, long time yet—and never far away."

"Oh, and I haven't a cent to my name. I spent all I had, and all I could borrow, on those curtains in father's room."

"Oh, cheer up—you won't need to buy a wedding present yet a while. We won't hurry you. Your I.O.U. is good with us."

"It is not that, goosie," said Zee with lofty scorn. "But Treasure and I bet a dollar on it—and I picked the bishop—I never dreamed that Doris would go back on us preachers—and now I haven't got the dollar."

"Serves you right," said MacCammon grimly. "I am glad you lost. And you can't get a loan out of me. If you had bet on me, I'd give you the dollar and tickled to death."

"Come on back to father," said Zee, struggling heroically to rise to the heights required. "This is father's day. I may be bankrupt, and ruined, and facing degradation, and all that—but I can still scare up a smile for him."

THE END