still talking continuously, a faint
response from her mother now and then, a growing quiet as their steps
receded toward the gate; and then another deeper voice took up the theme
and heavily approached.

It was the minister! Diantha dropped into her rocker and held the arms
tight. "Now I'll have to take it again I suppose. But he ought to know
me well enough to understand."

"Diantha!" called her mother, "Here's Dr. Major;" and the girl washed
her face and came down again.

Dr. Major was a heavy elderly man with a strong mouth and a warm hand
clasp. "What's all this I hear about you, young lady?" he demanded,
holding her hand and looking her straight in the eye. "Is this a new
kind of Prodigal Daughter we're encountering?"

He did not look nor sound condemnatory, and as she faced him she caught
a twinkle in the wise old eyes.

"You can call it that if you want to," she said, "Only I thought the
Prodigal Son just spent his money--I'm going to earn some."

"I want you to talk to Diantha, Doctor Major," Mrs. Bell struck in. "I'm
going to ask you to excuse me, and go and lie down for a little. I do
believe she'll listen to you more than to anybody."

The mother retired, feeling sure that the good man who had known her
daughter for over fifteen years would have a restraining influence now;
and Diantha braced herself for the attack.

It came, heavy and solid, based on reason, religion, tradition, the
custom of ages, the pastoral habit of control and protection, the
father's instinct, the man's objection to a girl's adventure. But it was
courteous, kind, and rationally put, and she met it point by point with
the whole-souled arguments of a new position, the passionate enthusiasm
of her years.

They called a truce.

"I can see that you _think_ its your duty, young, woman--that's the main
thing. I think you're wrong. But what you believe to be right you
have to do. That's the way we learn my dear, that's the way we learn!
Well--you've been a good child ever since I've known you. A remarkably
good child. If you have to sow this kind of wild oats--" they both
smiled at this, "I guess we can't stop you. I'll keep your secret--"

"Its not a secret really," the girl explained, "I'll tell them as soon
as I'm settled. Then they can tell--if they want to." And they both
smiled again.

"Well--I won't tell till I hear of it then. And--yes, I guess I can
furnish that document with a clean conscience."

She gave him paper a