CHAPTER IV.

THE MINISTER’S JOKE.

THE spelling-school, with its triumphs and chagrins, had partially faded from Mary’s memory, to become one of her “old times;” for winter had gone, and it was now the very last evening of March.

You may not care to hear how the wind blew, and really it has nothing to do with our story, only it happened to be blowing violently. Tea was over, and everybody had left the dining-room but Mary and cousin Fred. Mary had just parted the curtains to look out, as people always do on a windy night, when Fred startled her by saying, in a whisper, “Flaxie, come here.”

She dropped the curtain hastily, and crossed the room. What could Fred be wanting of her, and why should he whisper when they two were alone, and the wind outside was making such a noise?

“Put your ear down close to my mouth, Flaxie. You mustn’t tell anybody, now remember.”

“Why not, Fred? It isn’t best to make promises beforehand. Perhaps I ought to tell.”

“Ought to tell? I like that! Then I’ll keep it to myself, that’s all.”

“Now, Fred, I didn’t say I _would_ tell. And, if it’s something perfectly right and proper, I won’t tell, of course.”

“Oh, it’s right and proper enough. Do you promise? Yes or no?”

“_Yes_, then,” said Flaxie, too anxious for Fred’s confidence, and too much honored by it to refuse, though she knew from past experience that he frequently held peculiar views as to “propriety.”

“Here, see this,” said he, taking a smooth block of wood from his pocket and whispering a word of explanation. “Won’t it be larks?”

She drew back with a nervous laugh. “Why, Fred!”

“And I didn’t know but you’d like to go with me, Flaxie, just for company.”

“But do you think it’s exactly proper? He’s a minister, you know.”

“Why that’s the very fun of it,—just because he _is_ a minister! It’s the biggest thing that’ll be done to-morrow, see if it isn’t?”

Mary looked doubtful.

“I was a goose to tell _you_, though, Flaxie; I might have known girls always make a fuss.”

“Oh, it isn’t because I’m a girl, Fred! Girls like fun as well as anybody, only girls have more——.” She did not know whether to say “delicacy” or “discretion,” but decided that either word would give offence; “girls are different.”

“Then you won’t go with me? No matter. I believe, after all, I’d rather have one of the boys.”

“Yes, oh yes, I will go with you; I’d like to go,” exclaimed Mary, desperately, throwing discretion to the winds.

“Agreed, then,—to-morrow morning on the way to school. And now mind, Flaxie, don’t put this down in your journal to-night, for that would let it all out.”

“Why, nobody ever looks at my journal! It would be dishonest.—Why, Fred,” in sudden alarm, “did _you_ ever look at my journal?”

“Poh! what do I care for your old scribblings?” The boy’s manners had been falling to decay all winter for lack of his mother’s constant “line upon line.” “Only your journal is always ’round, and you’d better be careful, that’s all.”

Next morning it rained, and Mary walked to school with Fred under the gloom of a big umbrella, Phil having been sent on in advance.

“Pretty weather for April Fools,” remarked Fred, carefully guarding under his arm a neat little package containing a block of wood, with a card, on which were the words, simple but significant, “April Fool.”

Arriving at Rev. Mr. Lee’s door-yard, he walked up the narrow gravel-path with Flaxie beside him, “just for company.”

“Now don’t laugh and spoil it,” said he. And, to solemnize his own face, he tried to think of the horrible time last summer, when he and his brother John went for pond-lilies, and were upset and nearly drowned. Mary looked as if she were thinking of an accident still worse, her face drawn to remarkable length, and her mouth dolefully puckered.

“You don’t suppose Mr. Lee will come himself, do you?” whispered Fred, ringing the door-bell very gently.

“Oh Fred, let’s go away. Just think if he should put you in a sermon? He put somebody in once for stealing watermelons. He didn’t say the name right out, but——”

Two early dandelions by the front window seemed bubbling over with merriment and curiosity; but before they or Fred had learned who stole the watermelons, Fred stopped his cousin by saying contemptuously, “When a man gets nicely fooled he won’t put _that_ in a sermon, you’d better believe.” And then, gathering courage, he rang louder.

Mary was deliberating whether to run or not, when the housemaid appeared.

“Will you give this to Mr. Lee? Very important,” said Fred, handing her the dainty little parcel.

She looked at it, she seemed to look through it; a merry glint came into her eyes.

“I was afraid somebody was dead,” said she. “You rung so loud, and you looked so terrible solemn, both of you.”

“Solemn?” echoed Fred; and then it was he, not Mary, who broke down and smiled.

“Mr. Lee’s gone to a _funeril_,” continued Hannah, looking through and through the parcel again; “but I’ll give it to him when he comes home, and tell him who brought it.”

Did Fred wish her to tell him? He began to doubt it.

“Come, Flaxie, we must go.”

“Fred,” said the little girl, as they hurried out of the gate, “I can’t help thinking; shan’t we feel sorry next Sunday?”

“Nonsense!” returned her cousin. He had already thought about Sunday, and fancied himself looking up to the pulpit to meet Mr. Lee’s eye. Had he been quite respectful to that learned and excellent man?

“Nonsense! ministers are no better than other folks!”

It was too late to repent; but he wished now he had waited till afternoon and thought of all the possible consequences. _Perhaps_ the fun wouldn’t pay. These doubts, however, he did not mention to the boys at school, but told them he had made “a splendid fool” of the minister.

That evening, as he and Mary stood by the carriage-way gate, and he was opening it for Dr. Gray to drive into the yard, who should be passing on the other side of the street, but Mr. Lee.

“How do you do, Dr. Gray,” said he; and came over to do a trivial errand, which Fred fancied must have been made up for the occasion; it was something about a book which he wished to borrow some time, not now. Then, turning to guilty Fred, who had not dared slip away,—

“Good evening, Master Fred,” with extreme politeness; “I was very sorry not to be at home this morning when you left your card.”

_Your_ card! Those were his words.

“_My_ card! Does he think I signed _myself_ April Fool? My goodness, so I did! People always put their own names on their visiting-cards, sure enough! It’s I that am the April Fool, and nobody else,” thought the outwitted boy, not venturing to look up.

A blush mounted to Mary’s forehead, and she too looked at the ground.

“Pray call again, Master Fred,” said Mr. Lee; and his manner was as respectful as if Fred had been at least a supreme judge.

“What’s all this?” asked the doctor sternly as the clergyman walked away.

“’Twas a little kind of a—a joke, you know, sir, for fun. I didn’t mean anything. I like Mr Lee first rate,” stammered Fred, scanning his boots, as if to decide whether they were big enough for him to crawl into and hide.

Dr. Gray never needed to be told more than half a story.

“Oh, I see! You’ve made an April Fool of yourself. Ha, ha! Mr. Lee is too sharp for you, is he? And so, Mary, you went with Fred?”

The doctor looked grave. It was not easy to let this pass. “Wait here, both of you, till I come back,” said he, driving into the stable.

“This is a great go,” thought Fred. “Hope the boys won’t hear of it.”

“Fred,” said Dr. Gray, returning,—and he spoke with displeasure,—“I am disappointed in you. And in you too, Mary.”

“Oh, papa,” wailed a little voice from under Mary’s hat. Her head was bowed, and her tears were falling.

“I was the one that thought of it; I was the one that asked her to go,” spoke up Fred, all the manliness in him stirred by his cousin’s tears.

“No doubt you were; and I’m glad to hear you acknowledge it,” said Dr. Gray, resting his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “But Mary knew better than to be led away by you. My daughter, jests of this sort may be tolerated in your own family or among your schoolmates; but do you think they are suitable to be played upon ministers?”

“No, sir,” sobbed Mary.

“Well, then, let this be a lesson to you.” This was a favorite speech with the doctor. “Kiss me, my child; and now run into the house. I shall never refer to this matter again, and it is not necessary to mention it to your mother. But Fred,” he added, as Mary swiftly escaped, “do you think your conduct has been gentlemanly and courteous? Ought you to have taken this liberty with a comparative stranger,—a person, too, of Mr. Lee’s high character?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you think your mother would be pleased to hear of it?”

“I know she wouldn’t,” admitted Fred frankly.

Dr. Gray’s countenance softened.

“I don’t like to be harsh with you, for you meant no impertinence; still, if I am to treat you as my own child, as your parents desire, I believe I shall have to bid you ask Mr. Lee’s pardon. What say you to that? It’s the way I should treat Preston.”

“All right,” replied Fred sadly.

Next morning saw the lad, cap in hand, knocking at the door of the minister’s study. Mary had half-offered to go with him, but he had scorned to accept the sacrifice.

“Come in,” said Mr. Lee, opening the door.

Fred advanced one step into the room. There was an awful pause, during which those very dandelions of yesterday winked at him from a silver vase, and his well-pondered speech began to grow hazy.

“My uncle sent me to apologize,” he faltered forth. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful to a—to a minister. For I think—of course I think—that ministers——”

Here a certain twinkle in Mr. Lee’s eye distracted Fred, and his speech flew right out of the window. “For I _don’t_ think,” added he, in wild haste, “that ministers are any better than other folks.”

It was just like Fred. He had meant to say something entirely opposite to this; but the “imp of the perverse” was apt to seize his tongue. Oh, dear, he had finished the business now!

“I agree with you, my boy; ministers aren’t any better than other folks, certainly,” said Mr. Lee, laughing outright in the most genial way.

“Oh, that wasn’t what I meant, sir. Please don’t think I meant to say that,” pleaded Fred, feeling himself more than ever the most foolish of April fools.

But the good-natured clergyman drew him into the room. “Come, now,” said he, still laughing, though not sarcastically at all, just merrily, “let me have the call I missed yesterday. Your cousin Preston is one of my best friends, but I think you’ve never entered my study before.”

It was a cosy, sunny room, and, beside books, held a large cabinet, and a green plant-stand, blooming with flowers. Fred seated himself on the edge of a chair, ready for instant departure; but Mr. Lee chatted most agreeably, telling interesting stories, and inquiring about Hilltop people, till he forgot his embarrassment, and was soon asking questions in regard to the different objects in the cabinet.

What was that whitish, buff-colored stuff? _Coquina?_ Oh! And people built houses of it? Possible? Was it really made of shells? How strange!—Well, that tarantula’s nest was a queer concern! Why, it shut down like a trap-door exactly. Looked as if it had a hinge, and a carpenter made it.—Was that an eagle’s claw?—Oh, and _that_? A rattlesnake’s rattle?—Was this a scorpion?—And so on.

It was a varied collection, and Mr. Lee seemed to have nothing to do that morning but to exhibit it. Not another word about the April Fool; but Fred felt that he was forgiven, or, rather, that no forgiveness was needed, as no offence had been taken.

“I tell you, Flaxie,” confided he to his cousin afterward, “I never liked Mr. Lee half so well; never dreamed he was so bright and sharp. _He_ likes fun as well as we boys. Only somehow—Well, I wouldn’t do it again; it was foolish. See here, Flaxie, have you put this in your journal? Well, don’t you now! If the boys should find out—”

“What do you mean about my journal?” returned Mary, drawing up her mouth like the silk “work-pocket,” to mark her displeasure. “Anybody’d think my journal was a newspaper.”

Fred smiled wisely.