In the face of such persistence the others were helpless, so they rushed down and had a feverish breakfast, with Zee dashing away from the table every three minutes to see if the car had come, and at seven-thirty they were grouped impatiently at the front window. "Keep behind the curtains," Rosalie urged, "or he will think we never had a car before in our lives." "We must call it the machine," said Zee. "Machine sounds so unconcerned." "Motor, you little goose," said Rosalie. "Machine is what the business men call it. The highbrows say, 'The motor will be here at six.'" "We must give it a name," said Treasure. "Let's call it the Shooting Star." "Let's call it the Divine Spark-- It is the only divine thing old Davison ever did." "Girls," said Doris firmly, "don't you ever let me hear you speak disrespectfully of poor Mr. Davison again. He certainly had a kind and generous heart and he must have sympathized with dear father, walking all over town in all kinds of weather, and--" "Pretty good sort, after all, wasn't he, Doris?" laughed Mr. Artman. "One post-mortem virtue like this will cover a lifetime of delirium tremens, won't it?" "Here she comes," shouted Zee, and the family forgot its ministerial dignity and rushed pell-mell down the stone walk. It was a pretty car, giddy and gaudy as to color, which fascinated Zee, with a softly whirring motor that reminded Treasure of a happy little kitten, and with long low lines that Rosalie declared were very smart indeed. "Get in, folks," said Mr. Folsom gaily, "we must give her a trial run." So the three older girls stepped loftily into the tonneau, and Zee snuggled up between her father and Mr. Folsom in front--there may have been bigger, more wonderful, more luxurious cars--but the Artmans could not be convinced of it, and Mr. Davison improved steadily with every turn of the motor. Mr. Folsom, enjoying their passionate delight, volunteered to spend the morning giving the minister his first lesson, and a near panic ensued. "Oh, Doris!" "Do we have to go to school?" "Oh, dear, sweet, darling General, it never happened before since we were born." "What do you think, father?" said Doris slowly. "You are the General," came the quick response. "Then," said Doris, in a clear triumphant voice, "step on it! What do we care for school, and work, and mending, and dishes, and-- Begin, Mr. Folsom. We'll see the morning through." It was lovely to see precious old father take that gay young interest in bolts and screws--how readily his laughter sounded--how deep and pleased his voice rang out. Poor, dear Mr. Davison--well, we preachers are only to lead, and not to judge, and Doris was very, very sure the angels in Heaven must know many good and tender things about the man who did this kindness to her father.