Leave it to Doris

The Reverend Mr. Artman paced soberly up and down the small living-room of his manse, as every one called the parsonage. His eyes were clouded. The lines at the corners of his kindly lips were sternly set. Now and then he glanced toward the bay-window where Doris sat, untroubled, serene, her dainty fingers cleverly transforming huge rents in small garments into triumphs of patchery. The wind, coming softly through the peach trees outside the windows, loosened tiny tendrils of hair that curled tenderly about her rosy ears.

Mr. Artman sighed drearily.

Doris, unperturbed, continued her darning, but bright lights were dancing in her blue eyes.

"Hay, ho," drawled Mr. Artman suggestively.

"Isn't it lovely and cool to-day, father?" queried his daughter sweetly.

Without answering, he walked abruptly to the kitchen door, peering anxiously into the room beyond, and closed it cautiously. The General puckered her lips earnestly over a too-small scrap of cloth vainly coping with a too-large rent. Her father went to the door opening upon the porch, and closed it also. Then he walked slowly up toward his daughter, opening his lips as though on the verge of confidence. But he turned once more, and resumed his restless pacing.

Then Doris dropped the darning into the basket beside her and faced her father.

"Father," and the voice, though soft, was imperious.

He started guiltily, and flushed.

"Come and sit down," she commanded. "If you do not speak up instantly and tell me what is on your mind I shall jump up and down and scream. You make me so nervous when you squirm around that way. What ever in the world is the matter with you?"

Her father quickly dumped the mending basket and its contents upon the floor, with masculine and ministerial lack of regard for things domestic, and appropriated the chair, drawing it close to his daughter's side.

"Hurry, hurry," came the gentle authoritative voice. "I have oceans to do. What is it?"

"Well, it is— Why, nothing special, child, what made you think—"

"You haven't gone and proposed to Miss Carlton, have you?" she gasped.

"No, thank Heaven," came the fervent answer.

"Careful, father. You mean it devoutly, I am sure, but Providence might mistake it for irreverence. Providence does not know Miss Carlton as we do, you know. Don't be afraid to tell me then—nothing else could be so terribly bad."

"Well, dearest, I was just wondering if—don't you think, perhaps—if I help a lot, and see that the girls do their share—don't you think we could get along without Miss Carlton this year?"