"My name is Prudence Starr,--I am the Methodist minister's oldest
daughter."

"And my name is Jerrold Harmer." He was looking away into the hickory
grove now. "My home is in Des Moines."

"Oh, Des Moines is quite a city, isn't it? I've heard quite a lot about
it. It isn't so large as Chicago, though, of course. I know a man who
lives in Chicago. We used to be great chums, and he told me all about
the city. Some day I must really go there,--when the Methodists get rich
enough to pay their ministers just a little more salary." Then she added
thoughtfully, "Still, I couldn't go even if I had the money, because I
couldn't leave the parsonage. So it's just as well about the money,
after all. But Chicago must be very nice. He told me about the White
City, and the big parks, and the elevated railways, and all the pretty
restaurants and hotels. I love pretty places to eat. You might tell me
about Des Moines. Is it very nice? Are there lots of rich people
there?--Of course, I do not really care any more about the rich people
than the others, but it always makes a city seem grand to have a lot of
rich citizens, I think. Don't you?"

So he told her about Des Moines, and Prudence lay with her eyes
half-closed, listening, and wondering why there was more music in his
voice than in most voices. Her ankle did not hurt very badly. She did
not mind it at all. In fact, she never gave it a thought. From beneath
her lids, she kept her eyes fastened on Jerrold Harmer's long brown
hands, clasped loosely about his knees. And whenever she could, she
looked up into his face. And always there was that curious catching in
her breath, and she looked away again quickly, feeling that to look too