'It's hanging down her back now,' she pursued, launching upon the details with her usual aplomb. 'It comes clear down to here.' And standing up, she indicated a point halfway between her ankle-ties and the bottom of her ridiculous skirt. The minister gazed fascinated. Prudence Jane sat down again. 'She washed it with Packer's Tar Soap,' she said, her eyes fixed upon her victim. She was quite unable to make out whether Aunt Annie was right about ministers or not. The Reverend Mr. Sanders looked like the Sphinx. 'She gave a piece to a gentleman once,' went on Prudence Jane, warming to her work. 'He wasn't a very nice gentleman. He was a--a--' she hesitated a moment over a fitting climax,--'a--a Piskerpalyan,' she finished. 'Mercy!' said the Reverend Mr. Sanders, finding his voice at last. 'And what, may I ask, are you?' Prudence Jane looked faintly surprised. 'I,' she said, with pride and composure, 'am an Orthy Dox Congo Gationist.' 'Yes,' said the Reverend Mr. Sanders, 'so I suspected from the first.' And now _what_ did he mean by that, thought Prudence Jane to herself. She could no longer see his face. He had turned abruptly in his chair and was watching something through the aperture in the portieres. Prudence Jane heard the thump of a pair of shoes plodding up the stairs and along the upper hall. She knew that it was Peter Piper going to find Aunt Annie. There was a stir in the room overhead, then the muffled sound of a rocking-chair suddenly abandoned, followed by the swish of skirts coming along the passage and down the stairs. Prudence Jane sat with parted lips on the edge of the sofa. The Reverend Mr. Sanders looked decidedly nervous, but he rose and presented a bold front to whatever might be coming to him through those portieres. In another moment they were pushed hastily aside, and Aunt Annie, crowned with a quite faultless coiffure, hurried into the room. 'Why, Mr. Sanders,' she said, 'I did not know until this minute that you were here.' Then her eye fell upon her niece. Prudence Jane was now standing in front of the sofa, tracing the pattern of the carpet with the toe of an ankle-tie. 'Why didn't you tell me that Mr. Sanders was waiting?' demanded Aunt Annie sternly. Prudence Jane continued to gaze at the carpet. 'Mr. Sanders,' said Aunt Annie, who never postponed a disagreeable duty, 'we have a little girl here who cannot speak the truth, and we are going to ask you to tell us what becomes of people who tell wrong stories.' The Reverend Mr. Sanders looked ill at ease. 'Come here,' continued Aunt Annie, holding out her hand toward the velvet sofa. Prudence Jane moved reluctantly across the room. 'And now,' went on the voice of the accuser, 'she has even deceived her minister, and she has come to make her little confession. Tell Mr. Sanders,' directed Aunt Annie, 'the truth about that wicked fib.' 'Which one?' inquired Prudence Jane meekly.