Fairy laughed in an irritating, suggestive way, but Mr. Starr only nodded.

“I am sure you will not mind that, will you father?  His aunt must be a perfectly good and nice woman, and—­such a long drive in the auto, and—­to see all over Des Moines.”  But Prudence paused guiltily, for she did not add, “With Jerry!” although the words were singing in her heart.

“That will be very nice indeed, and of course I do not object.  It will be a forty years’ delight and wonder to the twins!  Yes, I will be glad to have you go.  But you can still have your month at Grace’s if you wish.”

“But I do not wish,” protested Prudence promptly.  “Honestly, father, I’ll write her the sweetest kind of a letter, but—­oh, please do not make me go!”

“Of course, we won’t make you go, you goose,” said Fairy, “but I think you are very foolish.”

“And you can go, Fairy,” cried Prudence hospitably.  “Aunt Grace loves you so, and you’ve worked so hard all year, and,—­oh, yes, it will be just the thing for you.”  Prudence wished she might add, “And that will let me out,” but she hardly dare say it.

“Well, when does your Des Moines tour come off?  I must know, so I can tell Babbie about the house party.”

“Let Babbie choose his own date.  Jerry says we shall go whenever I say—­I mean whenever you say, father,—­and we can decide later on.  Give Babbie first choice, by all means.”

That was the beginning of Prudence’s golden summer.  She was not given to self-analysis.  She did what seemed good to her always,—­she did not delve down below the surface for reasons why and wherefore.  She hadn’t the time.  She took things as they came.  She could not bear the thought of sharing with the parsonage family even the least ardent and most prosaic of Jerrold’s letters.  But she never asked herself the reason.  It seemed a positive sacrilege to leave his warm, life-pulsing letters up-stairs in a bureau drawer.  It was only natural and right to carry them in her dress, and to sleep with them under her pillow.  But Prudence did not wonder why.  The days when Jerry came were tremulously happy ones for her,—­she was all aquiver when she heard him swinging briskly up the ramshackle parsonage walk, and her breath was suffocatingly hot.  But she took it as a matter of course.  The nights when Jerry slept in the little spare bedroom at the head of the stairs, Prudence lay awake, staring joyously into the darkness, hoping Jerry was sound asleep and comfortable.  But she never asked herself why she could not sleep!  She knew that Jerry’s voice was the sweetest voice in the world.  She knew that his eyes were the softest and brightest and the most tender.  She knew that his hands had a thrilling touch quite different from the touch of ordinary, less dear hands.  She knew that his smile lifted her into a delirium of delight, and that even the thought of sorrow coming to him brought stinging tears to her eyes.  But why?  Ah, Prudence never thought of that.  She just lived in the sweet ecstatic dream of the summer, and was well and richly content.