THE twins came in at dinner-time wrapped in unwonted silence. Lark's face was darkened by an anxious shadow, while Carol wore an expression of heroic determination. They sat down to the table without a word, and helped themselves to fish balls with a surprising lack of interest.

"What's up?" Connie asked, when the rest of the family dismissed the matter with amused glances.

Lark sighed and looked at Carol, seeming to seek courage from that Spartan countenance.

Carol squared her shoulders.

"Well, go on," Connie urged. "Don't be silly. You know you're crazy to tell us about it, you only want to be coaxed."

Lark sighed again, and gazed appealingly at her stout-hearted twin. Carol never could resist the appeal of those pleading eyes.

"Larkie promised to speak a piece at the Sunday-school concert two weeks from to-morrow," she vouchsafed, as unconcernedly as possible.

"Mercy!" ejaculated Connie, with an astonishment that was not altogether complimentary.

"Careful, Larkie," cautioned Fairy. "You'll disgrace the parsonage if you don't watch out."

"Nonsense," declared their father, "Lark can speak as well as anybody if she just keeps a good grip on herself and doesn't get stage fright."

Aunt Grace smiled gently.

Connie frowned. "It's a risky business," she said. "Lark can't speak any more than a rabbit, and—"

"I know it," was the humble admission.

"Don't be a goose, Con," interrupted Carol. "Of course Lark can speak a piece. She must learn it, learn it, learn it, so she can rattle it off backwards with her eyes shut. Then even if she gets scared, she can go right on and folks won't know the difference. It gets to be a habit if you know it well enough. That's the whole secret. Of course she can speak."

"How did it happen?" inquired Fairy.

"I don't know," Lark said sorrowfully. "Nothing was ever farther from my thoughts, I assure you. The first thing I knew, Mrs. Curtiss was thanking me for my promise, and Carol was marching me off like grim death."

Carol smiled, relieved now that the family commentary was over. "It was very natural. Mrs. Curtiss begged her to do it, and Lark refused. That always happens, every time the Sunday-school gives an entertainment. But Mrs. Curtiss went on to say how badly the Sunday-school needs the money, and how big a drawing card it would be for both of us twins to be on the program, one right after the other, and how well it would look for the parsonage, and it never occurred to me to warn Lark, for I never dreamed of her doing it. And all of a sudden she said, 'All right, then, I'll do it,' and Mrs. Curtiss gave her a piece and we came home. But I'm not worried about it. Lark can do anything if she only tries."

"I thought it wouldn't hurt me to try it once," Lark volunteered in her own defense.

Aunt Grace nodded, with a smile of interested approval.

"I'm proud of you, Lark, quite proud of you," her father said warmly. "It's a big thing for you to make such a plunge,—just fine."

"I'm proud of you now, too," Connie said darkly. "The question is, will we be proud of you after the concert?"

Lark sighed dolorously.

"Oh, pooh!" encouraged Carol. "Anybody can speak a silly little old piece like that. And it will look so nice to have our names right together on the program. It'll bring out all the high-school folks, sure."

"Yes, they'll come to hear Lark all right," Fairy smiled. "But she'll make it go, of course. And it will give Carol a chance to show her cleverness by telling her how to do it."

So as soon as supper was over, Carol said decidedly, "Now, Connie, you'll have to help me with the dishes the next two weeks, for Lark's got to practise on that piece. Lark, you must read it over, very thoughtfully first to get the meaning. Then just read it and read it and read it, a dozen times, a hundred times, over and over and over. And pretty soon you'll know it."

"I'll bet I don't," was the discouraging retort, as Lark, with pronounced distaste, took the slip of paper and sat down in the corner to read the "blooming thing," as she muttered crossly to herself.

Connie and Carol did up the dishes in dreadful silence, and then Carol returned to the charge. "How many times did you read it?"

"Fourteen and a half," was the patient answer. "It's a silly thing, Carol. There's no sense to it. 'The wind went drifting o'er the lea.'"

"Oh, that's not so bad," Carol said helpfully. "I've had pieces with worse lines than that. 'The imprint of a dainty foot,' for instance. When you say, 'The wind went drifting o'er the lea,' you must kind of let your voice glide along, very rhythmically, very—"

"Windily," suggested Connie, who remained to witness the exhibition.

"You keep still, Constance Starr, or you can get out of here! It's no laughing matter I can tell you, and you have to keep out or I won't help and then—"

"I'll keep still. But it ought to be windily you know, since it's the wind. I meant it for a joke," she informed them. The twins had a very disheartening way of failing to recognize Connie's jokes—it took the life out of them.

"Now read it aloud, Lark, so I can see if you get the proper expression," Carol continued, when Connie was utterly subdued.

Lark obediently but unhappily read the quaint poem aloud and Carol said it was very good. "You must read it aloud often, very often. That'll give you a better idea of the accent. Now put it away, and don't look at it again to-night. If you keep it up too long you'll get so dead sick of it you can't speak it at all."

For two entire weeks, the twins were changed creatures. Lark read the "blooming piece" avidly, repeatedly and with bitter hate. Carol stood grimly by, listening intently, offering curt apt criticisms. Finally, Lark "knew it," and the rest of the time was spent in practising before the mirror,—to see if she kept her face pleasant.

"For the face has a whole lot to do with it, my dear," said Carol sagely, "though the critics would never admit it."

By the evening of the Sunday-school concert—they were concerting for the sake of a hundred-dollar subscription to church repairs—Lark had mastered her recitation so perfectly that the minds of the parsonage were nearly at peace. She still felt a deep resentment toward the situation, but this was partially counterbalanced by the satisfaction of seeing her name in print, directly beneath Carol's on the program.

It looked very well indeed, and the whole family took a proper interest in it. No one gave Carol's recitation a second thought. She always recited, and did it easily and well. It was quite a commonplace occurrence for her.

On the night of the concert she superintended Lark's dressing with maternal care. "You look all right," she said, "just fine. Now don't get scared, Lark. It's so silly. Remember that you know all those people by heart, you can talk a blue streak to any of them. There's no use—"

"But I can't talk a blue streak to the whole houseful at once," Lark protested. "It makes me have such a—hollow feeling—to see so many white faces gazing up, and it's hot, and—"

"Stop that," came the stern command. "You don't want to get cold feet before you start. If you do accidentally forget once or twice, don't worry. I know the piece as well as you do, and I can prompt you from behind without any one noticing it. At first it made me awfully cross when they wanted us reciters to sit on the platform for every one to stare at. But now I'm glad of it. I'll be right beside you, and can prompt you without any trouble at all. But you won't forget." She kissed her. "You'll do fine, Larkie, just as fine as you look, and it couldn't be better than that."

Just then Connie ran in. "Fairy wants to know if you are getting stage fright, Lark? My, you do look nice! Now, for goodness' sake, Lark, remember the parsonage, and don't make a fizzle of it."

"Who says fizzle?" demanded their father from the doorway. "Never say die, my girl. Why, Lark, I never saw you look so sweet. You have your hair fixed a new way, haven't you?"

"Carol did it," was the shy reply. "It does look nice, doesn't it? I'm not scared, father, not a bit—yet! But there's a hollow feeling—"

"Get her an apple, Connie," said Carol. "It's because she didn't eat any supper. She's not scared."

"I don't want an apple. Come on, let's go down. Have the boys come?"

"No, but they'll be here in a minute. Jim's never late. I do get sore at Jim—I'd forty times rather go with him than Hartley—but he always puts off asking us until the last minute and then I have a date and you get him. I believe he does it on purpose. Come on down."

Aunt Grace looked at the pale sweet face with gratified delight, and kissed her warmly. Her father walked around her, nodding approval.

"You look like a dream," he said. "The wind a-drifting o'er the lea ne'er blew upon a fairer sight! You shall walk with me."

"Oh, father, you can't remember that you're obsolete," laughed Fairy. "The twins have attained to the dignity of boys, and aren't satisfied with the fond but sober arm of father any more. Our little twins have dates to-night, as usual nowadays."

"Aunt Grace," he said solemnly, "it's a wretched business, having a parsonage full of daughters. Just as soon as they reach the age of beauty, grace and charm, they turn their backs on their fathers and smile on fairer lads."

"You've got me, father," said Connie consolingly.

"And me,—when Babbie's in Chicago," added Fairy.

"Yes, that's some help. Connie, be an old maid. Do! I implore you."

"Oh, Connie's got a beau already," said Carol. "It's the fat Allen boy. They don't have dates yet, but they've got an awful case on. He's going to make their living by traveling with a show. You'll have to put up with auntie—she's beyond the beauing stage!"

"Suits me," he said contentedly, "I am getting more than my deserts. Come on, Grace, we'll start."

"So will we, Connie," said Fairy.

But the boys came, both together, and the family group set out together. Carol and Hartley—one of her high-school admirers—led off by running a race down the parsonage walk. And Lark, old, worn and grave, brought up the rear with Jim Forrest. Jim was a favorite attendant of the twins. He had been graduated from high school the year previous, and was finishing off at the agricultural college in Ames. But Ames was not far from home, and he was still frequently on hand to squire the twins when squires were in demand. He was curiously generous and impartial in his attentions,—it was this which so endeared him to the twins. He made his dates by telephone, invariably. And the conversations might almost have been decreed by law.

"May I speak to one of the twins?"

The nearest twin was summoned, and then he asked:

"Have you twins got dates for the ball game?"—or the party, or the concert.

And the twin at the telephone would say, "Yes, we both have—hard luck, Jim." Or, "I have, but Carol hasn't." Sometimes it was, "No, we haven't, but we're just crazy to go." And in reply to the first Jim always answered, "That's a shame,—why didn't you remember me and hold off?" And to the second, "Well, ask her if I can come around for her." And to the third, "Good, let's all go together and have a celebration."

For this broad-minded devotion the twins gave him a deep-seated gratitude and affection and he always stood high in their favor.

On this occasion Carol had answered the telephone, and in reply to his query she answered crossly, "Oh, Jim, you stupid thing, why didn't you phone yesterday? I would so much rather go with you than—But never mind. I have a date, but Lark hasn't. And you just called in time, too, for Harvey Lane told Hartley he was going to ask for a date."

And Jim had called back excitedly, "Bring her to the phone, quick; don't waste a minute." And Lark was called, and the date was duly scheduled.

"Are you scared, Lark?" he asked her as they walked slowly down the street toward the church.

"I'm not scared, Jim," she answered solemnly, "but I'm perfectly cavernous, if you know what that means."

"I sure do know," he said fervently, "didn't I have to do a speech at the commencement exercises? There never was a completer cavern than I was that night. But I can't figure out why folks agree to do such things when they don't have to. I had to. It was compulsory."

Lark gazed at him with limpid troubled eyes. "I can't figure out, either. I don't know why I did. It was a mistake, some way."

At the church, which was gratifyingly crowded with Sunday-school enthusiasts, the twins forsook their friends and slipped along the side aisle to the "dressing-room,"—commonly utilized as the store room for worn-out song books, Bibles and lesson sheets. There they sat in throbbing, quivering silence with the rest of the "entertainers," until the first strains of the piano solo broke forth, when they walked sedately out and took their seats along the side of the platform—an antediluvian custom which has long been discarded by everything but Sunday-schools and graduating classes.

Printed programs had been distributed, but the superintendent called off the numbers also. Not because it was necessary, but because superintendents have to do something on such occasions and that is the only way to prevent superfluous speech-making.

The program went along smoothly, with no more stumbles than is customary at such affairs, and nicely punctuated with hand clappings. When the superintendent read, "Recitation—Miss Carol Starr," the applause was enthusiastic, for Carol was a prime favorite in church and school and town. With sweet and charming nonchalance she tripped to the front of the platform and gave a graceful inclination of her proud young head in response to the applause. Then her voice rang out, and the room was hushed. Nobody ever worried when Carol spoke a piece. Things always went all right. And back to her place she walked, her face flushed, her heart swelling high with the gratification of a good deed well done.

She sat down by Lark, glad she had done it, glad it was over, and praying that Lark would come off as well.

Lark was trembling.

"Carol," she whispered, "I—I'm scared."

Instantly the triumph left Carol's heart. "You're not," she whispered passionately, gripping her twin's hand closely, "you are not, you're all right."

Lark trembled more violently. Her head swayed a little. Bright flashes of light were blinding her eyes, and her ears were ringing. "I—can't," she muttered thickly. "I'm sick."

Carol leaned close to her and began a violent train of conversation, for the purpose of distracting her attention. Lark grew more pale.

"Recitation—Miss Lark Starr."

Again the applause rang out.

Lark did not move. "I can't," she whispered again. "I can't."

"Lark, Lark," begged Carol desperately. "You must go, you must. 'The wind went drifting o'er the lea,'—it's easy enough. Go on, Lark. You must."

Lark shook her head. "Mmmmm," she murmured indistinctly.

"Remember the parsonage," begged Carol. "Think of Prudence. Think of papa. Look, there he is, right down there. He's expecting you, Lark. You must!"

Lark tried to rise. She could not. She could not see her father's clear encouraging face for those queer flashes of light.

"You can," whispered Carol. "You can do anything if you try. Prudence says so."

People were craning their necks, and peering curiously up to the second row where the twins sat side by side. The other performers nudged one another, smiling significantly. The superintendent creaked heavily across the platform and beckoned with one plump finger.

"I can't," Lark whispered, "I'm sick."

"Lark,—Lark," called the superintendent.

Carol sighed bitterly. Evidently it was up to her. With a grim face, she rose from her chair and started out on the platform. The superintendent stared at her, his lips parting. The people stared at her too, and smiled, and then laughed. Panic-stricken, her eyes sought her father's face. He nodded quickly, and his eyes approved.

"Good!" His lips formed the word, and Carol did not falter again. The applause was nearly drowned with laughter as Carol advanced for her second recitation.

"The wind went drifting o'er the lea," she began,—her voice drifting properly on the words,—and so on to the end of the piece.

Most of the audience, knowing Lark's temperament, had concluded that fear prevented her appearance, and understood that Carol had come to her twin's rescue for the reputation of the parsonage. The applause was deafening as she went back. It grew louder as she sat down with a comforting little grin at Lark. Then as the clapping continued, something of her natural impishness entered her heart.

"Lark," she whispered, "go out and make a bow."

"Mercy!" gasped Lark. "I didn't do anything."

"It was supposed to be you—go on, Lark! Hurry! You've got to! Think what a joke it will be."

Lark hesitated, but Carol's dominance was compelling.

"Do as I tell you," came the peremptory order, and Lark arose from her chair, stepped out before the astonished audience and made a slow and graceful bow.

This time the applause ran riot, for people of less experience than those of Mount Mark could tell that the twins were playing a game. As it continued, Carol caught Larkin's hand in hers, and together they stepped out once more, laughing and bowing right and left.

Lark was the last one in that night, for she and Jim celebrated her defeat with two ice-cream sodas a piece at the corner drug store.

"I disgraced the parsonage," she said meekly, as she stepped into the family circle, waiting to receive her.

"Indeed you didn't," said Fairy. "It was too bad, but Carol passed it off nicely, and then, turning it into a joke that way took all the embarrassment out of it. It was perfectly all right, and we weren't a bit ashamed."

"And you did look awfully sweet when you made your bow," Connie said warmly,—for when a member of the family was down, no one ventured a laugh, laugh-loving though they were.

Curious to say, the odd little freak of substitution only endeared the twins to the people of Mount Mark the more.

"By ginger, you can't beat them bloomin' twins," said Harvey Reel, chuckling admiringly. And no one disagreed.