“Will you return thanks, Mr. Morgan?” she said.  And the girls bowed their heads.  The Reverend Mr. Morgan cleared his throat, and began, “Our Father, we thank Thee for this table.”

There was more of the blessing, but the parsonage girls heard not one additional phrase,—­except Connie, who followed him conscientiously through every word.  By the time he had finished, Prudence and Fairy, and even Lark, had composed their faces.  But Carol burst into merry laughter, close upon his reverent “Amen,”—­and after one awful glare at her sister, Prudence joined in.  This gaiety communicated itself to the others and soon it was a rollicking group around the parsonage table.  Mr. Morgan himself smiled uncertainly.  He was puzzled.  More, he was embarrassed.  But as soon as Carol could get her breath, she gasped out an explanation.

“You were just—­right, Mr. Morgan,—­to give thanks—­for the table!  There’s nothing—­on it—­to be thankful for!”

And the whole family went off once more into peals of laughter.

Mr. Morgan had very little appetite that day.  He did not seem to be so fond of sweet corn as he had assured Prudence.  He talked very little, too.  And as soon as possible he took his hat and walked hurriedly away.  He did not call at the parsonage again.

“Oh, Carol,” said Prudence reproachfully, wiping her eyes, “how could you start us all off like that?”

“For the table, for the table!” shrieked Carol, and Prudence joined in perforce.

“It was awful,” she gasped, “but it was funny!  I believe even father would have laughed.”

A few weeks after this, Carol distinguished herself again, and to her lasting mortification.  The parsonage pasture had been rented out during the summer months before the change of ministers, the outgoing incumbent having kept neither horse nor cow.  As may be imagined, the little pasture had been taxed to the utmost, and when the new minister arrived, he found that his field afforded poor grazing for his pretty little Jersey.  But a man living only six blocks from the parsonage had generously offered Mr. Starr free pasturage in his broad meadow, and the offer was gratefully accepted.  This meant that every evening the twins must walk the six blocks after the cow, and every morning must take her back for the day’s grazing.

One evening, as they were starting out from the meadow homeward with the docile animal, Carol stopped and gazed at Blinkie reflectively.

“Lark,” she said, “I just believe to my soul that I could ride this cow.  She’s so gentle, and I’m such a good hand at sticking on.”

“Carol!” ejaculated Lark.  “Think how it would look for a parsonage girl to go down the street riding a cow.”

“But there’s no one to see,” protested Carol.  And this was true.  For the parsonage was near the edge of town, and the girls passed only five houses on their way home from the meadow,—­and all of them were well back from the road.  And Carol was, as she had claimed, a good hand at “sticking on.”  She had ridden a great deal while they were at Exminster, a neighbor being well supplied with rideable horses, and she was passionately fond of the sport.  To be sure, she had never ridden a cow, but she was sure it would be easy.