At twelve, Jerry went up-stairs to bed, his lips tingling with the fervent tenderness of her parting kiss.  At one o’clock, he stood at his window, looking soberly out into the moonlit parsonage yard.  “She is an angel, a pure, sweet, unselfish little angel,” he whispered, and his voice was broken, and his eyes were wet, “and she is going to be my wife!  Oh, God, teach me how to be good to her, and help me make her as happy as she deserves.”

At two o’clock he lay on his bed, staring into the darkness, thinking again the soft shy words she had whispered to him.  And he flung his arms out toward his closed door, wanting her.  At three o’clock he dropped lightly asleep and dreamed of her.  With the first pale streaks of daylight stealing into his room, he awoke.  It was after four o’clock.  A little later,—­just a few minutes later,—­he heard a light tap on his door.  It came again, and he bounded out of bed.

“Prudence!  Is anything wrong?”

“Hush, Jerry, not so loud!” And what a strange and weary voice.  “Come down-stairs, will you?  I want to tell you something.  I’ll wait at the foot of the stairs.  Be quiet,—­do not wake father and the girls.  Will you be down soon?”

“In two minutes!”

And in two minutes he was flown, agonizingly anxious, knowing that something was wrong.  Prudence was waiting for him, and as he reached the bottom step she clutched his hands desperately.

“Jerry,” she whispered, “I—­forgive me—­I honestly—­ Oh, I didn’t think what I was saying last night.  You were so dear, and I was so happy, and for a while I really believed we could belong to each other.  But I can’t, you know.  I’ve promised papa and the girls a dozen times that I would never marry.  Don’t you see how it is?  I must take it back.”

Jerry smiled a little, it must be admitted.  This was so like his conscientious little Prudence!

“Dearest,” he said gently, “you have said that because you were not awake.  You did not love.  But you are awake now.  You love me.  Your father would never allow you to sacrifice yourself like that.  The girls would not hear of it.  They want you to be happy.  And you can’t be happy without me, can you?”

Suddenly she crushed close to him.  “Oh, Jerry,” she sobbed, “I will never be happy again, I know.  But—­it is right for me to stay here, and be the mother in the parsonage.  It is wicked of me to want you more than all of them.  Don’t you see it is?  They haven’t any mother.  They haven’t any one but me.  Of course, they would not allow it, but they will not know anything about it.  I must do it myself.  And father especially must never know.  I want you to go away this morning before breakfast, and—­never come again.”

She clung to him as she said this, but her voice did not falter.  “And you must not write to me any more.  For, oh, Jerry, if I see you again I can never let you go, I know it.  Will you do this for me?”