I WASN’T able to go to prayer meeting that evening because I had neuralgia in my face; but Thomas went, and the minute he came home I knew by the twinkle in his eye that he had some news.  
“Who do you s’pose Stephen Clark went home with from meeting to-night?” he said, .
 
“Jane Miranda Blair,” I said . Stephen Clark’s wife had been dead for two years and he hadn’t taken much notice of anybody, so far as was known. But Carmody had Jane Miranda all ready for him, and really I don’t know why she didn’t suit him, except for the reason that a man never does what he is expected to do when it comes to marrying.
 
Thomas again.
 
“Wrong. He stepped up to Prissy Strong and walked off with her. Cold soup warmed over.”
 
“Prissy Strong!” I just held up my hands. Then I laughed. “He needn’t try for Prissy,” I said. “Emmeline nipped that in the bud twenty years ago, and she’ll do it again.”
 
“Em’line is an old crank,” Thomas. He Emmeline Strong, and always did.
 
“She’s that, all right,” I agreed, “and that is just the reason she can turn poor Prissy any way she likes. You mark my words, she’ll put her foot right down on this as soon as she finds it out.”
 
Thomas said that I was probably right. I lay awake for a long time after I went to bed that night, thinking of Prissy and Stephen. As a general rule, I don’t concern my head about other people’s affairs, but Prissy was such a helpless creature I couldn’t get her off my mind.
 
Twenty years ago Stephen Clark had tried to go with Prissy Strong. That was pretty soon after Prissy’s father had died. She and Emmeline were living alone together. Emmeline was thirty, ten years older than Prissy, and if ever there were two sisters totally different from each other in every way, those two were Emmeline and Prissy Strong.
 
Emmeline took after her father; she was big and dark and , and she was the most domineering creature that ever stepped on shoe leather. She simply ruled poor Prissy with a rod of iron.
 
Prissy herself was a pretty girl—at least most people thought so. I can’t honestly say I ever admired her style much myself. I like something with more and snap to it. Prissy was slim and pink, with soft, appealing blue eyes, and pale gold hair all clinging in baby rings around her face. She was just as and timid as she looked and there wasn’t a bit of harm in her. I always liked Prissy, even if I didn’t admire her looks as much as some people did.
 
Anyway, it was plain her style suited Stephen Clark. He began to drive her, and there wasn’t a of doubt that Prissy liked him. Then Emmeline just put a stopper on the affair. It was pure in her. Stephen was a good match and nothing could be said against him. But Emmeline was just that Prissy shouldn’t marry. She couldn’t get married herself, and she was sore enough about it.
 
Of course, if Prissy had had a spark of spirit she wouldn’t have given in. But she hadn’t a ; I believe she would have cut off her nose if Emmeline had ordered her to do it. She was just her mother over again. If ever a girl her name, Prissy Strong did. There wasn’t anything strong about her.
 
One night, when prayer meeting came out, Stephen stepped up to Prissy as usual and asked if he might see her home. Thomas and I were just behind—we weren’t married ourselves then—and we heard it all. Prissy gave one scared, appealing look at Emmeline and then said, “No, thank you, not to-night.”
 
Stephen just turned on his heel and went. He was a high-spirited fellow and I knew he would never overlook a public slight like that. If he had had as much sense as he ought to have had he would have known that Emmeline was at the bottom of it; but he didn’t, and he began going to see Althea Gillis, and they were married the next year. Althea was a rather nice girl, though giddy, and I think she and Stephen were happy enough together. In real life things are often like that.
 
Nobody ever tried to go with Prissy again. I suppose they were afraid of Emmeline. Prissy’s beauty soon faded. She was always kind of sweet looking, but her bloom went, and she got shyer and limper every year of her life. She wouldn’t have dared put on her second best dress without asking Emmeline’s permission. She was real fond of cats and Emmeline wouldn’t let her keep one. Emmeline even cut the out of the religious weekly she took before she would give it to Prissy, because she didn’t believe in reading novels. It used to make me furious to see it all. They were my next door neighbours after I married Thomas, and I was often in and out. Sometimes I’d feel real at Prissy for giving in the way she did; but, after all, she couldn’t help it—she was born that way.
 
And now Stephen was going to try his luck again. It certainly did seem funny.
 
Stephen walked home with Prissy from prayer meeting four nights before Emmeline found it out. Emmeline hadn’t been going to prayer meeting all that summer because she was mad at Mr. Leonard. She had expressed her to him because he had buried old Naomi Clark at the harbour “just as if she was a Christian,” and Mr. Leonard had said something to her she couldn’t get over for a while. I don’t know what it was, but I know that when Mr. Leonard WAS roused to anyone the person so remembered it for a spell.
 
All at once I knew she must have discovered about Stephen and Prissy, for Prissy stopped going to prayer meeting.
 
I felt real worried about it, someway, and although Thomas said for goodness’ sake not to go my fingers into other people’s pies, I felt as if I ought to do something. Stephen Clark was a good man and Prissy would have a beautiful home; and those two little boys of Althea’s needed a mother if ever boys did. Besides, I knew quite well that Prissy, in her secret soul, was hankering to be married. So was Emmeline, too—but nobody wanted to help HER to a husband.
 
The upshot of my was that I asked Stephen down to dinner with us from church one day. I had heard a that he was going to see Lizzie Pye over at Avonlea, and I knew it was time to be stirring, if anything were to be done. If it had been Jane Miranda I don’t know that I’d have bothered; but Lizzie Pye wouldn’t have done for a stepmother for Althea’s boys at all. She was too , and as mean as second skimmings besides.
 
Stephen came. He seemed dull and , and not much inclined to talk. After dinner I gave Thomas a hint. I said,
 
“You go to bed and have your nap. I want to talk to Stephen.”
 
Thomas his shoulders and went. He probably thought I was up lots of trouble for myself, but he didn’t say anything. As soon as he was out of the way I remarked to Stephen that I understood that he was going to take one of my neighbours away and that I couldn’t be sorry, though she was an excellent neighbour and I would miss her a great deal.
 
“You won’t have to miss her much, I reckon,” said Stephen grimly. “I’ve been told I’m not wanted there.”
 
I was surprised to hear Stephen come out so plump and plain about it, for I hadn’t expected to get at the root of the matter so easily. Stephen wasn’t the kind. But it really seemed to be a relief to him to talk about it; I never saw a man feeling so sore about anything. He told me the whole story.
 
Prissy had written him a letter—he fished it out of his pocket and gave it to me to read. It was in Prissy’s , pretty little writing, sure enough, and it just said that his attentions were “unwelcome,” and would he be “kind enough to refrain from offering them.” Not much wonder the poor man went to see Lizzie Pye!
 
“Stephen, I’m surprised at you for thinking that Prissy Strong wrote that letter,” I said.
 
“It’s in her handwriting,” he said stubbornly.
 
“Of course it is. ‘The hand is the hand of Esau, but the voice is the voice of Jacob,’” I said, though I wasn’t sure whether the was exactly appropriate. “Emmeline composed that letter and made Prissy copy it out. I know that as well as if I’d seen her do it, and you ought to have known it, too.”
 
“If I thought that I’d show Emmeline I could get Prissy in spite of her,” said Stephen . “But if Prissy doesn’t want me I’m not going to force my attentions on her.”
 
Well, we talked it over a bit, and in the end I agreed to sound Prissy, and find out what she really thought about it. I didn’t think it would be hard to do; and it wasn’t. I went over the very next day because I saw Emmeline driving off to the store. I found Prissy alone, sewing carpet rags. Emmeline kept her constantly at that—because Prissy hated it I suppose. Prissy was crying when I went in, and in a few minutes I had the whole story.
 
Prissy wanted to get married—and she wanted to get married to Stephen—and Emmeline wouldn’t let her.
 
“Prissy Strong,” I said in , “you haven’t the spirit of a mouse! Why on earth did you write him such a letter?”
 
“Why, Emmeline made me,” said Prissy, as if there couldn’t be any appeal from that; and I knew there couldn’t—for Prissy. I also knew that if Stephen wanted to see Prissy again Emmeline must know nothing of it, and I told him so when he came down the next evening—to borrow a hoe, he said. It was a long way to come for a hoe.
 
“Then what am I to do?” he said. “It wouldn’t be any use to write, for it would likely fall into Emmeline’s hands. She won’t let Prissy go anywhere alone after this, and how am I to know when the old cat is away?”
 
“Please don’t insult cats,” I said. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You can see the ventilator on our barn from your place, can’t you? You’d be able to make out a flag or something tied to it, wouldn’t you, through that spy-glass of yours?”
 
Stephen thought he could.
 
“Well, you take a at it every now and then,” I said. “Just as soon as Emmeline leaves Prissy alone I’ll the signal.”
 
The chance didn’t come for a whole fortnight. Then, one evening, I saw Emmeline striding over the field below our house. As soon as she was out of sight I ran through the birch to Prissy.
 
“Yes, Em’line’s gone to sit up with Jane Lawson to-night,” said Prissy, all fluttered and trembling.
 
“Then you put on your muslin dress and fix your hair,” I said. “I’m going home to get Thomas to tie something to that ventilator.”
 
But do you think Thomas would do it? Not he. He said he owed something to his position as elder in the church. In the end I had to do it myself, though I don’t like climbing ladders. I tied Thomas’ long red woollen scarf to the ventilator, and prayed that Stephen would see it. He did, for in less than an hour he drove down our lane and put his horse in our barn. He was all spruced up, and as nervous and excited as a schoolboy. He went righ............