Sunny Slopes   By: Ethel Hueston (1887-)

by

ETHEL HUESTON

Author of Prudence of the Parsonage, Prudence Says So, Etc.

Illustrated by Arthur William Brown

[Frontispiece: "A minister's wife! You look more like a little girl's baby doll."]

Grosset & Dunlap Publishers New York Copyright 1917 The Bobbs Merrill Company

This Book Is Written in Memory of My Husband Eager in Service, Patient in Illness Unfaltering in Death, and Is Dedicated to The St. Louis Presbytery To Which I Owe a Debt of Interest Of Sympathy and of Unfailing Friendship I Can Ever Hope to Pay

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I THE BEGINNING II MANSERS III A BABY IN BUSINESS IV A WOMAN IN THE CHURCH V A MINISTER'S SON VI THE HEAVY YOKE VII THE FIRST STEP VIII REACTION IX UPHEAVAL X WHERE HEALTH BEGINS XI THE OLD TEACHER XII THE LAND O' LUNGERS XIII OLD HOPES AND NEW XIV NEPTUNE'S SECOND DAUGHTER XV THE SECOND STEP XVI DEPARTED SPIRITS XVII RUBBING ELBOWS XVIII QUIESCENT XIX RE CREATION XX LITERARY MATERIAL XXI ADVENTURING XXII HARBORAGE XXIII THE SUNNY SLOPE XXIV THE END

ILLUSTRATIONS

"A minister's wife! You look more like a little girl's baby doll." . . . . . Frontispiece

"Silly old goose," she murmured.

Carol, with an inarticulate sob, gathered her baby in her arms.

"I beg your pardon," she said, sweetly, unsmilingly, "I did not mean to be rude."

SUNNY SLOPES

CHAPTER I

THE BEGINNING

Back and forth, back and forth, over the net, spun the little white ball, driven by the quick, sure strokes of the players. There was no sound save the bounding of the ball against the racquets, and the thud of rubber soles on the hard ground. Then a sudden twirl of a supple wrist, and

"Deuce!" cried the girl, triumphantly brandishing her racquet in the air.

The man on the other side of the net laughed as he gathered up the balls for a new serve.

Back and forth, back and forth, once more, close to the net, away back to the line, now to the right, now to the left, and then

"Ad out, I am beating you, David," warned the girl, leaping lightly into the air to catch the ball he tossed her.

"Here is a beauty," she said, as the ball spun away from her racquet.

The two, white clad, nimble figures flashed from side to side of the court. He sprang into the air to meet her ball, and drove it into the farthest corner, but she caught it with a backward gesture. Still he was ready for it, cutting it low across the net, yes, she was there, she got it, but the stroke was hard, and the ball was light.

"Was it good?" she gasped, clasping the racquet in both hands and tilting dangerously forward on tiptoe to look.

"Good enough, and your game."

With one accord they ran forward to the net, pausing a second to glance about enquiringly, and then, one impulse guiding, kissed each other ecstatically.

"The very first time I have beaten you, David," exulted the girl. "Isn't everything glorious?" she demanded, with all of youth's enthusiasm.

"Just glorious," came the ready answer, with all of mature manhood's response to girlish youth. Clasping the slender hands more tightly, he added, laughing, "And I kiss the fingers that defeated me."

"Oh, David," the buoyant voice dropped to a reverent whisper. "I love you, I love you, I I am just crazy about you."

"Careful, Carol, remember the manse," he cautioned gaily.

"But this is honeymooning, and the manse hasn't gloomed on my horizon yet. I'll be careful when I get installed. I am really a Methodist yet, and Methodists are expected to shout and be enthusiastic. When we move into our manse, and the honeymoon is ended, I'll just say, 'I am very fond of you, Mr. Duke.'" The voice lengthened into prim and prosy solemnity.