But the fair daughter of the parsonage proved irresistibly attractive to the unfortunate professor, and he was not to be lightly shunted aside.  He forsook the Presbyterian church, of which he was a member, and attended the Methodist meetings with commendable assiduity.  After each service, he accompanied Prudence home, and never failed to accept her invitations, feebly given, to “come in a minute.”  He called as often during the week as Propriety, in the voice of Prudence, deemed fitting.  It was wholly unnatural for Prudence to cater to Propriety, but Professor Rayburn did not know this.  Weeks passed, a month slipped away, and another.  Professor Rayburn was considered a fixture in the parsonage household by all except Prudence herself, who chafed under her bondage.

“I can’t just blurt out that I think he’s a nuisance,” she mourned to Fairy.  “Oh, if he’d just do something disgusting so I could fire him off,—­Pop!  Just like that.  Wouldn’t it be glorious?”

But the professor did not indulge in disgusting things, and Prudence continued to worry and fret.  Then came a blessed evening when the minister and Fairy were away from home, and the twins and Connie were safely in their beds.  Professor Rayburn sat with Prudence in the cozy living-room, and Prudence was charming, though quiet, and the professor was only human.  Prudence had made tea, and as she rose to relieve him of his empty cup, he also rose to return it to the table.  Laughing, they put it down on the tray, each holding one side of the saucer.  Then when it was safely disposed of, Prudence turned toward him, still laughing at the silliness of it,—­very alluring, very winsome.  And Mr. Rayburn, unexpectedly to himself as to her, put his arms around her and kissed her.  He was aghast at himself, once it was over, and Prudence,—­well, let us say frankly that Prudence was only relieved, for it came to her in a flash that this was the “disgusting thing” for which she had so fervently longed.

“Mr. Rayburn!”

“That was very stupid and unpardonable of me, Prudence,” he said quickly, “I really did not think what I was doing.  But you were so sweet, and—­I’m awfully fond of you, Prudence, you know that.”

Prudence looked at him thoughtfully.  She felt that this hardly gave her the desired opening.  So she waited, hoping he would commit himself further.  More humbled by her unnatural silence, he did go on.

“You know, Prudence, when a man cares for a girl as I care for you, it isn’t always easy for him to be sober and sensible.  You shouldn’t have been so—­so dear.”

Prudence sighed happily.  She was content.  This gave her the long-desired cue.

“Mr. Rayburn,” she said gently but decidedly, “I think you ought not to come here any more.”

He walked over to her quickly, and stood beside the chair into which she had dropped when he kissed her.

“Don’t say that, Prudence,” he said in a hurried low voice.