"I didn't mean it for impudence, auntie," said Carol, getting up and bending affectionately over the hammock, gently caressing the brown hair just beginning to silver about her forehead. "But it does amuse me so to hear a lady of your age and dignity indulge in such lavish conversational exercises." Lark swallowed with a forced effort. "Did it hurt, Carol? How did you get it all out in one breath?" "Lark, I do wish you wouldn't gulp that way when folks use big words," said Fairy. "It looks--awful." "Well, I won't when I get to be as old and crabbed as--father," said Lark. "Sit down, Carol, and remember you're sick." Carol obediently sat down, and looked sicker than ever. "You can laugh if you like," she said, "I am sick, at least, I was this afternoon. I've been feeling very queer for three or four days. I don't think I'm quite over it yet." "Pie! You were right, Aunt Grace! That's the way pie works." "It's not pie at all," declared Carol heatedly. "And I didn't take that piece out of the pantry, at least, not exactly. I caught Connie sneaking it, and I gave her a good calling down, and she hung her head and slunk away in disgrace. But she had taken such big bites that it looked sort of unsanitary, so I thought I'd better finish it before it gathered any germs. But it's not pie. Now that I think of it, it was my head where I was sick. Don't you remember, Lark, I said my head ached?" "Yes, and her eyes got red and bleary when she was reading. And--and there was something else, too, Carol, what--" "Your eyes are bloodshot, Carol. They do look bad." Prudence examined them closely. "Now, Carol Starr, don't you touch another book or magazine until after the wedding. If you think I want a bloodshot bridesmaid, you're mistaken." They all turned to look across the yard at Connie, just turning in. Connie always walked, as Carol said, "as if she mostly wasn't there." But she usually "arrived" by the time she got within speaking distance of her sister. "Goodness, Prue, aren't you going to do anything but eat after you move to Des Moines? Carol and I were counting the napkins last night,--was it a hundred and seventy-six, Carol, or--some awful number I know. Carol piled them up in two piles and we kneeled on them to say our prayers, and--I can't say for sure, but I think Carol pushed me. Anyhow, I lost my balance, and usually I'm pretty well balanced. I toppled over right after 'God save,' and Carol screamed 'the napkins'--Prue's wedding napkins! It was an awful funny effect; I couldn't finish my prayers." "Carol Starr! Fifteen years old and--" "That's a very much exaggerated story, Prue. Connie blamed it on me as usual. She piled them up herself to see if there were two feet of them,--she put her stockings on the floor first so the dust wouldn't rub off. It was Lark's turn to sweep and you know how Lark sweeps, and Connie was very careful, indeed, and--" "Come on, Fairy, and see the veil!" "The veil! Did it come?"