But Prudence could not begin.  Prudence was red in the face, and nearly suffocated.  She felt all swollen inside,—­she couldn’t speak.  The silence continued.  “Oh, why doesn’t father do it?” she wondered.  As a matter of fact, father couldn’t.  But Prudence did not know that.  One who laughs often gets in the habit of laughter,—­and sometimes laughs out of season, as well as in.  Finally, Prudence plunged in desperately, “Dear Father”—­as she usually began her sweet, intimate little talks with God,—­and then she paused.  Before her eyes flashed a picture of the “beautiful morning,” for which Carol had just been thankful!  She tried again.  “Dear Father,”—­and then she whirled around on the floor, and laughed.  Mr. Starr got up from his knees, sat down on his chair, and literally shook.  Fairy rolled on the lounge, screaming with merriment.  Even sober little Connie giggled and squealed.  But Carol could not get up.  She was disgraced.  She had done a horrible, disgusting, idiotic thing.  She had insulted God!  She could never face the family again.  Her shoulders rose and fell convulsively.

Lark did not laugh either.  With a rush she was on her knees beside Carol, her arms around the heaving shoulders.  “Don’t you care, Carrie,” she whispered.  “Don’t you care.  It was just a mistake,—­don’t cry, Carrie.”

But Carol would not be comforted.  She tried to sneak unobserved from the room, but her father stopped her.

“Don’t feel so badly about it, Carol,” he said kindly, really sorry for the stricken child,—­though his eyes still twinkled, “it was just a mistake.  But remember after this, my child, to speak to God when you pray.  Remember that you are talking to Him.  Then you will not make such a blunder.—­So many of us,” he said reflectively, “ministers as well as others, pray into the ears of the people, and forget we are talking to God.”

After that, the morning worship went better.  The prayers of the children changed,—­became more personal, less flowery.  They remembered from that time on, that when they knelt they were at the feet of God, and speaking direct to Him.

It was the hated duty of the twins to wash and dry the dishes,—­taking turns about with the washing.  This time was always given up to story-telling, for Lark had a strange and wonderful imagination, and Carol listened to her tales with wonder and delight.  Even Connie found dish-doing hours irresistible, and could invariably be found, face in her hands, both elbows on the table, gazing with passionate earnestness at the young story-teller.  Now, some of Lark’s stories were such weird and fearful things that they had seriously interfered with Connie’s slumbers, and Prudence had sternly prohibited them.  But this evening, just as she opened the kitchen door, she heard Lark say in thrilling tones: 

“She crept down the stairs in the deep darkness, her hand sliding lightly over the rail.  Suddenly she stopped.  Her hand was arrested in its movement.  Ice-cold fingers gripped hers tightly.  Then with one piercing shriek, she plunged forward, and fell to the bottom of the stairs with a terrific crash, while a mocking laugh——­”