Mount Mark considered this a unique parsonage family.  Their liveliness, their gaiety, their love of fun, seemed a little inapropos in the setting of a Methodist parsonage.

“They ain’t sanctimonious enough by half,” declared old Harvey Reel, the bus driver, “but, by Jings!  I tell you they are dandies!”

But as a matter of fact, every one of the family, from Connie up, had a characteristic parsonage heart.  When they were worried, or frightened, or grieved, they prayed.  Fairy passing up the stairs with hot water for the doctors, whispered to her father as he turned in to his own room, “Keep on praying, father.  I can’t stop now, because they need me.  But I’m praying every minute between errands!” And Mr. Starr, kneeling beside his bed, did pray,—­and the stony despair in his eyes died out, and he came from the little room quiet, and confident, and calm.

Connie had been unfortunate.  In seeking a secluded corner to “pray for Prudence,” she had passed the door of the dungeon, and paused.  A fitting place!  So she turned in at once, drawing the door after her, but leaving it a couple of inches ajar.  Then in the farthest and darkest corner, she knelt on the hard floor, and prayed, and sobbed herself to sleep.  Fairy passing through the hall, observed the door ajar, and gave it a slight push.  The lock snapped into place, but Connie did not waken.

Lark remained loyally with Carol until consciousness returned to her.  As soon as she was able to walk, the two went silently to the barn, and climbed into the much-loved haymow.  There they lay flat on the hay, faces downward, each with an arm across the other’s shoulder, praying fervently.  After a time they rose and crept into the house, where they waited patiently until Fairy came down on one of her numerous errands.

“Is she better?” they whispered.  And Fairy answered gently, “I think she is a little better.”  Then the twins, in no way deceived, went back to the haymow again.

Fairy prepared a hasty supper, and arranged it on the kitchen table.  She drank a cup of hot coffee, and went in search of her father.  “Go and eat, dadsie,” she urged.  But he shook his head.

“I am not hungry, but send the girls to the table at once.”

On their next trip into the house, Fairy stopped the twins.  “Get Connie, and eat your supper.  It’s just a cold lunch, and is already on the kitchen table.  You must help yourselves,—­I can’t come now.”

The twins did not speak, and Fairy went hurriedly up the stairs once more.

“I do not think I can eat,” said Carol.

“I know I can’t,” was Lark’s reply.

“Won’t Fairy make us?  She’ll tell papa.”

“We’d better take away about half of this food, and hide it.  Then she will think we have already eaten.”

This novel plan was acted upon with promptitude.

“Where’s Connie?  She ought to eat something.  We must make her do it.”