Leave it to Doris. Ethel Hueston

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?"

The General considered, her curly head cocked on one side, her brows knitted.

"I wanted to take charge right after mother died—but you were not willing."

"You were too young then, and still in school."

"Aren't you satisfied with Miss Carlton's work?" she asked slyly.

"Her work has nothing to—Yes, of course I am, dear. And she is a good woman, very good. And has been a great help to us the last three years, at a very reasonable salary."

"I have done most of the work myself, but you do not believe it," said Doris.

"Yes, of course you have, dear. And the Problem is quite old now, and between the two of you—between the three of us, I mean—"

"You mean, between me," said Doris frankly. "Your intentions are the best in the world, father darling, but if you ever broke into the kitchen you would very likely wipe dishes on sermon manuscripts—very good manuscripts, perhaps, but you can't practise on the dishes the Endeavor paid forty dollars for. And the Problem! But as you say, between me, I think perhaps I could get along without Miss Carlton nicely. She is rather hard to evade, isn't she, dearest?"

Her father flushed boyishly. "I am sure, Doris—"

"Yes, indeed, dear, so am I," she interrupted sweetly. "And I am truly proud that you have withstood so long. Stronger men than you have fallen in less persistent sieges. You have done well. But I hope you will remember that I have been praying right along that you might be given strength equal to the conquest, so don't take too much credit yourself."

"Well, I suppose the poor thing really can't help—"

"Oh, no, belovedest, of course she can't help it. Only I haven't noticed any married women finding you so irresistibly handsome, and fascinating, and all that, have you? At least, they don't come telling you about it to your face."

Then at his guilty face she laughed, and snuggled on his knee, kissing his chin adoringly.

"You are a dear sweet darling love," she said, "and I will do my best to make you comfortable, and keep the manse on four legs, or four wheels, or four—what is it a manse runs on, anyhow?"

"Four

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