"What else? I know there's something good; you show it all over."

Billy tried to draw down his face, failed, gave up the effort, and laughed instead.

"'Tis good, Ted. I told them not to tell you, for I wanted the fun of it. He says I can plan to enter college, a year from this fall; he says in three months I can walk as far as my crutches will take me, and he says in a few years I'll be as well as ever. Isn't it fine? Why, Ted, what's the matter?"

"Nothing; only I'm a goose." And Theodora looked up, her eyes shining with happy tears. "You know I'm glad, Billy; only I don't know how to say it straight."

"That's all right, Ted. It sort of took my own breath away at first. I couldn't wait to tell you, for you've been the best friend I've had. You've pulled me through lots of bad places."

Theodora's face was very gentle; but she laughed.

"The chair runs easily, Billy. It didn't take much pulling."

"That's another thing." Billy's face was growing brighter with every moment. "I've said good-by to the chair."

"What do you mean? You can't walk yet?"

"No; but I'm going to have a tricycle that runs with my hands, and I can go wherever I choose. How will you like to have me running away from you?"

"You can't; I'll hang on behind, Billy. A tricycle? How splendid! I believe I envy you more than ever."

"I'll swap my tricycle for your back," he retorted.

"I wish we could take turns. When is it coming?"

"Friday, the letter said."

"All right; I'll make the most of the time till then. After you get it, there'll be no catching a glimpse of you."

Billy laughed, and it seemed to Theodora that his laugh was a little mocking.

"I'll whistle to you, as I go by. Honestly, Ted, it does seem hard to leave you alone, when we've had such great times together."

His words were the echo of her thoughts. For a moment, Theodora struggled with herself. Then her real love for her friend triumphed.

"It will make ever so much difference, Billy; but I'm glad of it. We've had our good times together, lots of them, and there'll always be our lessons, you know. Truly and honestly, you've had about all the girl you can stand, and it's time you were able to ride off with the boys."

Billy leaned back in his chair and surveyed her through narrowed lids.

"Girls aren't half bad, Teddy," he observed; "but I'm glad you take it so philosophically."

There was a long pause. Then Theodora spoke.

"I've some news, too, Billy."

"Good?"

"I thought so, till I heard yours. Now it seems rather flat."

"What is it?"

"My story is done," she answered quietly, but with a little heightening of her color.

"Done? To the very end? Get it," he commanded.

"No; not yet. I only finished it, last night, and I want time to look it over, myself, before I show it to you. I may not let you see it, after all."

"Oh, come now, that's not square! Didn't I help you, I'd like to know?"

Theodora cocked her head on one side, and meditated aloud.

"He furnished hair and eyes for one hero, and a nose for the other. There are seven of his speeches, not very bright ones, and he gave me points for one love scene. I wonder if he's earned the right to see it."

"'Course I have. Go and get it, and bring it over here."

"Wait," she begged. "Truly, I'm not ready yet. I'm afraid you'll laugh."

"Do I ever laugh at you,—in earnest, that is?" he demanded.

"No," she confessed honestly; "you never do."

"Then you ought to trust me with this."

"You couldn't read it."

"Read it to me, then."

"Well, maybe."

Late that same day, in the long May twilight, they were coming up town together, Theodora pushing Billy in the familiar chair which was so soon to be discarded. With Mulvaney trudging solemnly at their heels, they had been loitering along in the sunset, while Billy gave himself up to the bright companionship which he had so sorely missed during the past ten days, and Theodora tried to talk as blithely as usual, while she told herself again and again that her opportunities for such walks were growing few.

"Lessons to-morrow," Billy said at length. "I've got to grind in earnest now, Ted, if I'm to be ready for Yale, next year. Old Brownie has promised to put me through, though."

"I wish I were going, too."

"To Yale? But you'll do better; you'll write books and get famous, while I'm racketing around New Haven. By the way, you're going to bring it over, to-night."

"It?" Theodora tried to look as if she failed to catch his meaning.

"The great and only IT,—the novel. What's its name?"

"I'm not sure. But I'll bring it, in a day or two," she answered.

It was not until the following Saturday morning, however, that she appeared at the Farringtons' with a bulky parcel of papers in her hands.

"I knew your mother was going to be out, this morning," she said, as she slid out of her dripping mackintosh; "so I thought I'd get it over with."

"That's good. Take the big chair. Wait a minute, though."

He whistled for Patrick to put more wood on the fire, and to place a glass of water within Theodora's reach.

"There!" he said approvingly. "Now we're comfortable. Hold on a minute, Patrick; just boost me over to the sofa, while you're about it. I may as well take life easily."

Theodora stuffed the cushions about him with the swift, sure touch he knew so well, and he nodded blithely up at her, in thanks.

"Oh, but it's good you're back, Ted!" he said gratefully. "I've missed you like thunder. Now fire ahead. What are you going to call it?"

Theodora blushed, and the name stuck in her throat.

"I thought I should call it In the Furnace of Affliction," she said hesitatingly.

"Wow! How doleful!"

"Don't you like it?" she asked.

"It's rather taking, only it isn't exactly festive," he answered.

"Neither is the story, I suspect," she said, laughing a little nervously.

"Go on," he said so imperatively that, with one long breath, Theodora began to read.

It was more than two hours before she finished her story, and during that time Billy's attention and respect never failed her. There were moments when his gravity was sorely tried, for, more mature than Theodora, and, by stress of circumstances, far more at home in the world of books, he realized all the unconscious humor of some of the overdrawn scenes and melodramatic conversations. Still, his loyalty to Theodora would not let him waver, and, in spite of its crudeness, he was honestly surprised at some of the really telling points of the story.

"It is good, Ted," he said, as she dropped the last page into her lap. "It isn't quite up to Treasure Island or Ivanhoe; but it's as good as half the rubbish that gets published, and some of it is most awfully fine. I like that scene where Violet and Marianne tell each other their love affairs. Girls talk just like that, you know."

"You really think it is worth publishing?" she questioned, while her color came and went.

"I most certainly do. Chop it down a little and copy it out, and then send it to a man."

"But I don't want to cut it," she protested.

"It's too long," Billy urged, with more practicality than tact.

"Not a bit. It's no longer than Robert Elsmere, and everybody has read that."

"Have you?"

"No; but I counted the pages and words and things. This isn't long a bit, Billy."

The discussion was never ended, for just then Patrick came into the room.

"The expressman has been here, Mr. Will."

"And has brought the tricycle? Hurray!" And Billy seized his crutches. "Where is it? Help me up, Patrick! Come along, Ted!"

"I had it taken into the kitchen. Shall I open it, sir?"

"Of course. Hurry up about it, too. Did anything else come?"

"Yes; but not here, sir."

With a little feeling of envy, Theodora followed Billy to the kitchen and stood by, while Patrick opened the crate and took out the light tricycle so carefully packed within.

"Isn't it a beauty? Isn't it fine? Oh, why does it have to be raining, Ted, so I can't try it? Put me into the thing, Patrick. This floor is so large that I can see how it is going to work."

The story and even Theodora herself was forgotten, while the boy grasped the handles and rolled himself up and down the floor. For the moment, he was half beside himself with joy. It was as if his prison door suddenly had opened, after having been closed and barred for more than a year. After months of the stuffy couch, after months more of Patrick and the chair, it was good to be able to move himself about, once more. But he was weaker than he knew, and the excitement was more than he had the strength to endure. Theodora, who had been watching him, saw him grow a little white around the mouth.

"Take me out, Patrick," he said wearily. "I sha'n't run away, to-day. I think, if you don't mind, I'll get back on the lounge again."

Theodora lingered beside him until he was his usual bright self once more. Then she started for home. Allyn met her on the steps.

"Tum in," he said imperiously.

"What for?"

"'Cause. Hope said I wasn't to tell."

"Tell what?"

"Sumfin's here."

"What kind of a sumfin, Allyn? Wait till sister gets her mackintosh off."

"No; tum." He tugged at her hand.

Laughing at his eagerness, she threw off her mackintosh, caught him in her arms, and went in the direction of the voices which she heard in a confused, excited murmur. As she opened the door, she was saluted with a chorus.

"Here she is!"

"Oh, Ted, just look!"

"Now she won't speak to the rest of us."

"Teddy, do see here!"

She looked and saw. Then, regardless of Allyn in her arms, she cast herself into the middle of the group and seized upon something that stood there,—something with a gleam of black enamel and a flash of nickel and the lustre of polished wood.

"Oh, Hu! Mamma! Hope! What is it? Where did it come from?"

"The expressman left it here, addressed to you, Teddy; and here's a note in Mrs. Farrington's writing, tied to the bar."

Theodora snatched the note and broke the dainty seal, but it was a moment before she could realize the meaning of what was written within.

"MY DEAR TEDDY," it ran; "Will is so happy in his tricycle; but I knew it wouldn't be quite perfect unless you had the mate to it. He is so used to going with you, in his chair, that I am sure he would miss you, now he can go alone. Will you accept this bicycle from us both, dear, and remember that we give it to you, not because you have been so kind to Will, but because we care so very much for your dear little self?

"Sincerely, JESSIE FARRINGTON."

"My!" Phebe commented, when Theodora folded up the note. "I wish I had somebody to be good to, Teddy McAlister. I'd like to earn a bicycle as easy as you have."



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

For a week, Theodora gave herself over to the most violent gymnastics she had ever known. For a week, she toiled and perspired and suffered and was strong. Day after day, she patiently indented the floor and walls of the riding school with every possible variety of tumble known to aspiring humanity. Night after night, she counted her bruises and anointed them with liniments. She tore her clothes, and knocked the skin off one side of her nose, and rasped her temper. At the end of the week she emerged, chastened and humbled, yet triumphant. She could ride her bicycle.

The whole family came out on the lawn to see her mount. No one of them but Hubert had ever mastered the intricacies of a wheel, and, in consequence, they were loud in their advice.

"Why don't you ride here on the grass?" Hope suggested. "Then it won't be so hard, if you fall off."

"I don't mean to fall," Theodora protested. "Besides, it's all down hill."

"Huh!" Phebe sniffed with scorn. "It's easy enough to ride down hill. I should think anybody could do that; shouldn't you, Isabel?"

But Isabel, who knew how to ride, prudently forbore to express an opinion.

"Where are you going, Theodora?" Mrs. McAlister called after her.

"Out here, where the road is better."

"But we want to see you start."

"It's sandy here."

"What difference does that make?"

"Why, I can't push through such sand as that."

"How strange! I always thought you were so strong."

Theodora clashed her bell in a spirit of wild protest.

"How can I do anything, with you all standing here to criticise me?"

"Oh, Teddy, how selfish!" Hope's tone was rebuking.

"I don't care. Do go in!" she said petulantly, as she started to mount.

"Can't you mount any better than that, after all those lessons?" Phebe asked, a moment later, as Theodora picked herself up from beneath her wheel. "I know I could do better than that."

"Try it, then." Theodora faced her little sister hotly.

Phebe drew back.

"I'm—I'm going to the post-office with Isabel, and her mother told us to hurry."

Allyn added his voice to the chorus.

"Wait," he proclaimed; "I wants to talk. Phebe spokes so much, she takes up all the room."

"What now, Allyn?" Hope inquired.

"Teddy tumbled over," he returned gravely. "I should fink she could ride now, and not tumble over so much."

There was a silence, while Theodora wrestled with her feelings and her wheel. Then Hubert's voice rang down from an upper window, clear and encouraging,—

"Try it again, Ted. You're all right, only you don't know it."

She did try it again, and went reeling down the street and in at the Farringtons' gate, where Billy met her with applause. The more stable nature of his own machine had allowed him to master it at once, and now he was only waiting for Theodora, that they might start forth together and conquer the world.

The days flew by, each one more perfect than the last. In the golden May weather, when the world never looks more green and fresh and lovable than in its yellow sunshine, they rode forth to take their places in the young life about them. It was scarcely more new to Billy than to Theodora. Everything wears a changed aspect when viewed from the saddle, and the girl felt that never before had she seen in its full beauty the miracle of the opening leaves. For a few days, Dr. McAlister watched Billy with some degree of care, fearful lest he be led too far by his new enthusiasm, and exhaust his strength. Then the doctor breathed a sigh of relief. Billy throve under it as a true boy should do, and, from week to week, he gained new vigor as fast as he gained new sunburn.

Hubert, meanwhile, was passing through an ignominious experience. He was having measles. Alone of all the McAlisters, he had contrived to escape the epidemic of two years before. Even Allyn had had it, and Billy Farrington counted his convalescence as among the golden memories of his boyhood, no school and endless goodies. For Hubert, sixteen years old and five feet, ten inches, in height, it was reserved to go through the disease alone. He was not seriously ill; but his whole soul revolted at the babyish nature of his complaint, and at the tedium of the darkened room.

"Where going, Ted?" he demanded, one day.

"To ride with Billy."

"Bother Billy! I hate him."

"What for?" Theodora stared at her brother in open-eyed consternation.

"Because he's always round in the way. You aren't good for anything, now he's here, always running off with him," Hubert grumbled.

"Poor Billy! How'd you like it not to be able to go out alone? He needs me."

"I can't go out at all."

"But he's been so for more than a year," Theodora said sharply; "and you have only been in the house four days. I should think you could stand that."

"I should think you could stay in, once in a while, with your own brother," Hubert retorted. "Charity begins at home."

"But I promised Billy—"

"I don't want you. Do get out and let me alone."

As a rule, Hubert was the most even-tempered of boys. Now, however, he felt himself aggrieved and deserted, and his tone was not altogether amicable.

"How cross you are!" Theodora snapped.

"Oh, get out!" And Hubert turned his back on his sister and yawned.

The door closed with a bang, and he heard Theodora's feet descending the stairway, with a vengeful thump on every step. Then he yawned again. There was nothing on earth to do; he was not ill enough to make it interesting, only a bore. Time was when Theodora would have stuck to him like a burr, and they would have contrived to have some fun out of even such untoward circumstances as this. Now she deserted him and went off with that confounded Billy. At this point in his musings, he dropped to sleep.

In the mean time, Billy was having a bad afternoon of it. Never had he seen Theodora in a more fractious mood. She scolded about the road and the heat, snubbed all his sympathetic suggestions, and contradicted all his efforts at conversation. Under such conditions, the ride was a short one, and it was less than an hour from the time they had started that they reappeared in the Farringtons' drive. Theodora refused all invitation to stop.

"Thanks; but I must get home," she said curtly, and she rode away with her teeth set and her chin aggressively in the air, leaving Billy with the impression that he had unintentionally stepped into a hornets' nest.

Hope was spending the day with a friend, and Mrs. McAlister was superintending some belated house-cleaning, so that Hubert was alone, as when she had left him. She ran directly up to his room; but, when she saw that he was asleep, her step softened, and she stealthily advanced to his side and sat down on the edge of the bed. Something of the mood in which he had gone to sleep still remained, and his boyish face, even in his dreams, was dull and unhappy. Theodora reproached herself, as she sat looking down at him. She reproached herself more, while she looked about at the disorderly room and recalled her mother's words, as they left the dinner-table, that noon.

"I shall be busy, this afternoon, Teddy, so I shall leave Hu in your care."

A vase of fading flowers stood on the table, and beside it was a plate of half-eaten fruit. Odds and ends of clothing lay about, and the bed on which he had thrown himself looked tumbled and unattractive. It seemed impossible that, since the morning, a room could get into such a state of dire disorder.

Rising, she crept softly about the room, setting things to rights and giving the place the look of feminine daintiness which she knew so well how to impart. Not even Hope had so much of the true home-making instinct as Theodora, when she chose to turn her wayward interest in that direction; and within a few moments the room looked a different place altogether.

Hubert stirred slightly, and Theodora whisked her duster out of sight and went back to the bed.

"Hu, I'm awfully sorry," she said, in explosive contrition. "I never meant to be so piggable."

The memory of their brief passage at arms had faded from Hubert's mind, and he answered, with a yawn,—

"What do you mean?"

"About leaving you and going off with Billy. Really, Hu, I didn't s'pose you cared, and Billy was used to me, and—I rather guess I've been a good deal selfish; but I won't, any more."

"Why, Ted!" For her head had dropped on his shoulder, and he felt the hot tears falling on his wrist.

"I like you so much better, Hu. You're my twin, and there's nobody like you, and to think I left you all alone!" In her excitement, the tears came fast.

"Ted, don't be silly! Look up, old girl! I don't want you hanging round here with me. I'll be out of this in a week, anyway."

"I know that, Hu." Theodora raised her head and spoke proudly. "But you're my twin and my other half, better than all the Billys in creation, and I ought to stay with you. What's more, I don't mean to go off again till you can go with me. Billy is Billy, and good fun; but you—" she cuddled her head against him with one of her rare demonstrations of affection—"are my Hu."

"I'm sorry, Billy," she said, that evening; "but I can't go out with you, to-morrow. Hu's shut up in the house, and I don't think it is quite fair to leave him, all the time."

"Leave him, half the time, then," Billy suggested.

Theodora shook her head.

"Hu stands first, Billy; and I must look out for him when he's ill."

Loyally she kept her word, and, for the next week, she was Hubert's constant attendant and slave. He lorded it over her and played with her by turns; but he appreciated the sacrifice she was making for him and, more than he realized, he enjoyed the return to their old intimate relation. It was not that he was jealous of Billy. It was not that Billy had intentionally come between them. There had been a time, however, when the twins were all in all to each other. Then Theodora's horizon had suddenly broadened to admit Billy. Among his many boy friends, Hubert had found no one with whom he could be on correspondingly intimate terms. He frankly avowed that he liked no one else so well as Teddy, and he had been a little hurt to find that he apparently no longer occupied a similar place in her affections. But, whatever danger there had been of their drifting apart, Hubert's opportune attack of measles seemed to have vanquished it, and the twins stood more firmly than ever before upon their old footing of mutual and unrivalled intimacy.

Two days after Hubert went out of doors for the first time, Billy appeared at the McAlisters', demanding Theodora. She was long in presenting herself; and, when she came down, her face was flushed and her lips a little unsteady.

"Hullo, Ted! Come for a ride?"

"Don't feel like it."

"Why not?"

"My head aches."

"The air will do it good. It's a fine day. Come on."

"But I can't."

Billy looked perplexed.

"What's the row, Ted? Have I done anything?"

"Of course not."

"What is it? Something's wrong."

She hesitated a moment.

"Nothing, only my story has come back."

"The mischief! When?"

"To-day."

"What for?"

"He said 'twas crude and sensational, and the work of a child."

"The old beast! Truly, Ted, I'm so sorry."

"So am I; but crying won't mend matters."

"Send it to mamma's friend in New York," he suggested kindly.

"And be pulled through by force? Not much, Billy Farrington! If my story won't go of itself, I won't have any friends at court helping me on. Some day, I am going to write a novel that will be worth taking. Till then, I won't be helped out on poor work. Wait a minute. I will go to ride, after all."

Billy sat looking after her, as she went away in search of her hat.

"She has good grit," he observed to himself; "and I believe she'll get there, some time or other."



CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"But it would be such fun, papa," Theodora said, with a suspicion of a pout.

"It's too far, Teddy. It must be twenty miles each way."

"I rode thirty, yesterday."

"I think that is too far for you."

"Oh, please."

"We could take the train back, if Ted should get used up," Hubert suggested.

"Yes, only it's going to be such lovely moonlight."

"Then take the train over and ride back," Hubert amended. "Truly, papa, I think Ted could do it. She rides like an Indian."

"I didn't know that Indians had taken to bicycles," Mrs. McAlister said, with a smile.

"Like a tomboy, then."

"That's not polite," Theodora protested.

"Never mind; it's true. But can't we try it, papa? Aunt Alice is always asking us to come over to see her, and this is such a splendid chance, before I go back into school, or it gets too warm. We can ride over, Friday morning, stay all day, and come back at night. The twilights are long, at this season, and the moon will be full."

Hubert's persuasion carried the day, and the doctor gave a reluctant permission. Three days later, the twins set forth on their ride. Theodora, in her spotless linen suit and with her pretty wheel, was radiant with anticipations. It was her first all-day trip on her bicycle, and she felt that it would be a much more enjoyable experience than her shorter rides, which, for the most part, had been beside Billy's tricycle. In some mysterious manner known only to boys, Hubert had learned to ride without being taught, and an occasional spin on a borrowed wheel was apparently all that was needed to keep him in perfect training.

The whole family assembled on the piazza to see them start.

"You'd better not ride back," Mrs. McAlister called after them. "If you are at all tired, Teddy, you must take the train."

"Yes," Theodora said, with outward obedience and an inward resolve not to be at all tired.

"If you do ride, when shall you get home?" the doctor asked. "Give yourselves plenty of time, only set some limit, so that we sha'n't be anxious."

"Hm," Theodora said thoughtfully. "Supper at five, start at six, two hours to ride, and an hour for delays. We'll be at home at nine, at the latest."

"Very well. Say half-past nine, then. We won't worry till then. Take care of yourselves and have a good time." And the doctor flourished his napkin in farewell, and then went back to his breakfast.

"Dear old Daddy!" Theodora said, while she turned in her saddle to look back, and then waved a good-by to Billy on his piazza. "He didn't want us to go. I do hope he won't be anxious."

"Don't you suppose I can take care of you, ma'am?" Hubert asked, in mock indignation, and Theodora smiled back at him contentedly.

The day was hot and dusty, and the roads more sandy than they had supposed possible, so that it was a very limp and demoralized Theodora who landed, three hours later, on her aunt's piazza. Theodora was always destructive to her toilets, and in some mysterious manner she had parted with all of her starch and most of her neatness, in the course of the last nineteen miles. Once inside the cool, dark house, with a glass of lemonade in her hand, however, Theodora forgot the discomforts of the road.

"How goes it with you, Ted?" Hubert asked, late that afternoon. "Shall we ride, or take the train?"

She pointed up at the clear sky, broken only by a few fleecy masses of cloud on the western horizon.

"Think what that moon will be, and then ask me to take the train if you dare."

"Aren't you tired?"

"Not a bit. Don't you think we can do it, Hu?"

He laughed at her spirit.

"All right. Don't blame me, though, if you are dead, to-morrow."

She tossed her head proudly.

"I don't die so easily; but, if you 're tired, we'll take the cars."

They had planned to start for home at six; but callers delayed the supper, and, when they finally mounted, the moon was standing out in the eastern sky, like a thick, white vapor. There was a chorus of good-byes, a clashing of two bells, and the twins started off upon their homeward ride.

For the first hour, it seemed to Theodora that she had never ridden more easily. The fatigue of the morning had worn away, leaving only the exhilaration; and, like most riders, she came to her best strength late in the day. Slowly the twilight fell about them, and, as the golden light of the sunset died away in the west, the silver lustre of the full moon brightened the eastern sky. Theodora's gown was damp with the falling dew, as they rolled quietly on between fields pale with sleepy daisies and nodding buttercups. One by one, the cows in the pastures stopped grazing and lay down to rest; while, above their heads, the birds drowsily exchanged sweet good-nights. Then the last glow faded from the west, and the world fell asleep.

"I don't half like those clouds, Ted," Hubert said suddenly. "If they come up much faster, they'll play the mischief with us before we get home."

"Oh, they won't do any harm," Theodora said easily. "It will be light enough to ride to-night, even if it is cloudy."

"But we have that long stretch of woods, you know."

"I forgot that." Theodora spoke lower, and involuntarily glanced over her shoulder. "How far is it?"

"Five miles. That won't take us long, and we're almost there now."

"Yes; but it's hilly and no track to speak of. Hurry, Hu! Let's ride faster and get through it before that cloud gets over the moon. I wish we had lanterns."

It is exciting work to race with a cloud. Vapors are unreliable things at best, and are prone to roll up the sky with fateful swiftness. As Hubert and Theodora came under the first of the trees, the cloud came above them, and the moon vanished. Theodora was as plucky as a girl could be; but there was something rather fearful to her in this dark and lonely road, where she and Hubert were the only moving objects, but where unknown beings might lurk in every shadow, ready to spring out and drag her down to the earth. The formless fear lent an unsteadiness to her progress, and she began to wobble.

"How dark it is!" she said, in an odd, constrained little voice. "It must be very late, Hu. Can you see your watch?"

"It's not light enough."

"Haven't you a match?"

"No."

"I know we sha'n't get home at nine."

"We have till half past, you know. Keep up your pluck, Ted. We're all right. Let's ride a little faster."

Half-way down the next hill, there came a clatter and a bump, followed by a little moan from Theodora. Hubert sprang to the ground and ran to her side.

"I slipped in the sand and had a fall, a bad one. I've done something to my ankle."

"Is it sprained?"

"I'm afraid so."

Leaning heavily on his arm, she scrambled to her feet.

"What is it, Ted? Shall we go back?"

She shut her teeth for a moment.

"No; what's the use?"

"Sha'n't I go for somebody?"

"Where's the nearest house?"

"Two miles back."

She gave a little sigh of pain. Then she said steadily,—

"Take the wheels, Hu, and let me walk a little. It's better to go on, and perhaps I can ride, if I get quieted down a little. I'm sorry to be a baby," she added piteously; "but it does hurt so."

"Baby! You!" Hubert longed to pick his sister up in his arms and carry her to a shelter; but it was impossible. Worst of all, he dared not openly pity her. He knew that she was using all her self-control to keep from crying with the pain, and that a single sympathetic word would break down her courage. "Good for you, Ted! I knew you had the sand in you," was all he ventured to say, as she limped slowly along at his side.

"I had too much sand under me," she answered, with a giggle which threatened to become hysterical.

The next mile was apparently endless, and Theodora, as she looked this way and that with stealthy, fearful glances, felt that the terrors of the darkness almost swallowed up the pain in her ankle. Underneath the rest, moreover, was the anxiety in regard to the delay. She knew the strictness of her father's discipline well enough to fear his displeasure and alarm, when nine o'clock passed and half-past nine, and still they did not appear.

Strange to say, the pain in her foot grew less and less unbearable, as she plodded along the sandy road. The sand was everywhere; it filled her shoes and made each step drag more heavily. She felt as if they only crawled along, as if the moments raced by them on wings. In sheer desperation, she fell to counting the passing seconds, that she might form some notion of their progress. Hubert was trudging on beside her, whistling softly to himself. Like a true boy, he was totally oblivious of every anxiety save for the pain which his sister was suffering, and she had just assured him that that was better.

"Let's mount, Hu," she said desperately, when it seemed to her that they had walked for several miles.

"Pretty bad here, Ted. Do you think you can ride?"

"I will," she answered indomitably.

She mounted, rode for a hundred yards, and fell again.

"That slippery sand!" she said petulantly. "What shall we do, Hu? We must ride, and I can't find the path."

"You're rattled, dear; and I can't ride, myself, any too well. Follow me."

How patient he was! Even in her anxiety and alarm, Theodora realized all the kindly care he gave her, all the generosity with which he tried to prevent her feeling herself a drag upon his freedom. She was quite unconscious that she had earned his patience by showing the one quality which boys too rarely find in their girl companions, the lack of which leads them to take their out-of-door pleasures alone. Theodora rarely grumbled; in a real emergency, she never complained.

It had seemed to the girl that all fun had died out of the universe, that the mental outlook was as black as the physical one. Ten minutes later, the woods echoed with shrieks of laughter,—laughter so infectious that Hubert laughed in sympathy, without in the least knowing the cause. The sounds came from some distance back of him. He dismounted and ran along the road, unable to see his sister, and guided only by her voice, which appeared to proceed from a bed of tall weeds by the wayside.

"I'm here, Hu," she gasped.

"Where in thunder?" He parted the weeds at the edge of the road and peered in. There on her back lay Theodora, with her bicycle on top of her.

"I lost my pedals and couldn't stop till I ran into these weeds," she explained hysterically. "It was just as soft as a bed, and I went down, down, down, and landed in about six inches of water. Pull me out, Hu. I'm drowned."

With the help of his hand, she struggled out and stood beside him in the road, with the water dripping from her short skirt. Just then, the clouds parted, and the moon, slanting down through the trees, fell upon her bedraggled figure. The brother and sister looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then they burst into a shout of laughter. It was the best tonic they could have had, and Theodora's courage rose even as she laughed.

"I know where we are now," Hubert said, while he looked about him in the growing light. "The good road is just ahead. It's as well 'tis, Ted, for you'll have to ride like the dickens, to keep from taking cold."

"It's a warm night," she answered as blithely as she had spoken to her father, that morning; "and I never take cold. Come on, then. It's only six miles more, and I'm ready to spin."

As they turned in at the gate, the hands of the town clock marked ten minutes after ten, and Theodora's spirits fell slightly. They found the doctor and his wife playing cribbage. The doctor looked up with the content born of that unwonted luxury, an evening quite to himself.

"Home so early?" he said, with a smile. "Have you had a good time? I've really envied you, enjoying all this superb moonlight, when we old folks had to stay indoors."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Come and ride with me this morning, Ted."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm busy."

"That's what you said, last Saturday, and week before. It's a fine morning, and I do wish you'd come. I've a headache, and I want to ride it off, if I can." Billy took off his cap, and brushed away his hair, with a little weary gesture which went to Theodora's heart. She was not discerning enough to discover that Billy's headache had developed under the inspiration of the moment, so sure was he that this was the most certain method of bringing his friend to do his will.

"I'm so sorry, Billy," she said gently. "I do want to go; but I must go somewhere else this morning."

"Let me go, too," he suggested. "I'd as soon ride one way as another."

"Oh, no," she said hastily; "and I'm not ready yet. Does your head ache very badly, Billy?"

"Very," answered the deceiver, assuming the look of a martyr. "And I didn't sleep any, last night."

"What a shame! Aren't you well?" Theodora sat down on the steps and gazed so steadily at him that he blushed.

"I believe you're shamming, Billy," she said sternly. "You've no more headache than Mulvaney."

He laughed, with conscious pleasure in his guilt.

"Well, what if I haven't? I shall have, some day. Really, Ted, what is the reason you won't ride with me?"

"I can't, Billy; that's all there is about it. I've something else I must do."

"You might tell me what it is," he observed persuasively.

"I might, but I won't." Then her heart smote her at sight of his disappointed face, as he turned away. "Some day, Billy," she called after him.

He nodded, as he pulled off his cap. Then he left her.

She stood looking after him, as he went rolling away down the street. It was good to see him so independent with his new tricycle. He was growing almost as independent in the use of his crutches, and his life was quite another thing from the old limited existence when Theodora had first known him. But through it all, in gray days and in bright, she had always found him the same Billy, always ready to enter into her interests, from which of necessity he had been shut out, ready to give her a share in his own more luxurious existence. In a sense, he had been a sort of fairy godfather to Theodora, and to him and to his mother she owed a large part of her pleasures during the past few months.

How would he take the news of this last venture of hers, she asked herself. Still, he was responsible, indirectly at least, if not for the fact itself, yet for the ambition which had led to the fact. Theodora's brows puckered into an anxious frown for a moment. Then they cleared, and she hummed lightly to herself, as she stood looking up the street after her friend, who had long since disappeared from her view. It would have been an ideal morning for a ride, she knew, and she wished she might have gone off for a long spin over the country roads. Still, her face wore a very contented expression as she turned away and entered the house.

Going up to her room, she dressed hastily and ran downstairs again to the closet where her bicycle was kept. Fifteen minutes later, she stopped at the door of a book store. There, instead of leaving her bicycle outside, she coolly rolled it through the open doorway and on into a room at the back of the shop, where she also left her hat. Then she came back to the desk, mounted a lofty stool, drew a heavy book towards her, and fell to work.

She had gone to her father's office, one evening, a little more than a week before. There chanced to be no patients, but Phebe sat reading before the fire.

"I want to talk to papa, Phebe," she said.

"Talk away, then." And Phebe returned to her book.

"But it's business."

"I don't care. You won't disturb me any."

"'Tisn't that I'm afraid of. I want to see papa alone."

"You'll have to wait, then."

"Please go, Phebe."

"Sha'n't. I was here first." Phebe yawned, and nestled deeper into her chair.

"Babe, I think you will have to make way for Teddy," the doctor said, laughing. "You can read just as well somewhere else, and if Teddy really wants to talk—"

"I do, papa," she urged eagerly.

Phebe retired, grumbling.

"What is it, my girl?" the doctor asked, as Theodora perched herself on the arm of his chair.

"I want my own way, as usual, papa, and I want you to stand up for me when the others howl," she answered coaxingly.

"Howl? Do they usually howl at you?"

"Not literally, of course, and not half as much as I deserve. But then, I want moral support."

"What now?"

"I want—" Theodora paused impressively—"I want to go to college, and I want to go into business."

The doctor smiled.

"Well, my aspiring daughter, and which will be your choice?"

"Both; one for the sake of the other. It is this way; I want to go to Smith. It is the best place for me, and I do want to go more than you've any idea. You don't disapprove, do you?"

"Not if it can be arranged," he answered thoughtfully. "But what has started you on this so suddenly, Teddy?"

"It isn't so sudden as it seems; but I didn't want to talk about it too soon. You see, mamma and Mrs. Farrington both are college women, and their talk makes me half wild to go. Billy goes, next year, and I shall be all ready to enter at the same time. Should you mind very much?"

"I should hate to lose you for four long years, Ted."

"That's only a little while, and there are vacations and things, you know. That is only one side. The other is the expense, and that's what worries me. Hubert will be ready, the year after, and you can't afford to send us both."

"It would be a tug; but it might be done," Dr. McAlister said thoughtfully. "Besides, I'm not at all sure that Hu will care to go. If you are more anxious for college than he, you ought to have the chance."

"He must go if he wants to," she responded energetically. "I've set my heart on his going. He's a boy, too, and should have first chance, if he wants it. It is more necessary for a boy. But what if I were to begin to save up my money for my expenses, so I could pay part? Then may I go?"

"How? You don't seem to me to be rolling in wealth, Teddy."

She shook her head gayly.

"Oh, but you don't know. That's where the business part comes in."

The doctor looked rather anxious.

"What is it now, Ted?"

"It's Mr. Huntington, down in the book store. He has sent off his book-keeper, and he wants somebody to come in, every Saturday morning, to write up his accounts and things. Every month, it's all day, and he pays ever so much for it."

"But can you do it? Will he take you?"

She nodded.

"You don't know how valuable I am, papa. Mr. Huntington is a dear old man. I heard about it and went to see him. He made me write for him and do some accounts in a hurry; and he told me to come back, last Saturday, to try. To-day he told me I could have the place, if I'd only make my m's and n's and u's not so much alike." Theodora laughed gleefully at her father's astonished face.

There was a pause, while the doctor reflected rapidly. Theodora was very young to enter into any such venture as this, and there was no real need of her doing anything of the kind. On the other hand, her father approved of business habits for women; he liked her independence and spirit, and he felt that it would be well for her to learn the real value of money. He knew Mr. Huntington well. His store was a quiet, homelike place, where Theodora could be brought under no demoralizing influences, where she would be likely to meet only refined, book-loving people. If she must try her experiment, this would be an ideal place for the attempt.

Theodora eyed him askance, trying to read his thoughts. Even before he spoke, she knew his decision, and she seized him by the beard and kissed him rapturously.

"Oh, you dear man!"

"But I haven't said yes," he protested.

"You are going to; your eyes show it. Oh, Papa McAlister, you are such a dear!"

"Am I? Well, my girl, you shall have your way. All in all, I think your little plan has no harm in it. I was thinking of something else, though."

"Oh, what?"

He smiled at her disappointed face.

"Nothing bad. It is only this. If your courage holds out, and if you cultivate that crazy handwriting of yours a little, perhaps when Sullivan goes to Boston, next fall, I'll see what you can do with my bills. I can't pay as well as Mr. Huntington; but it may help on a little."

"Oh, papa!"

Ten minutes later, Theodora looked up into her father's face. Her own face was flushed, and her lips were unsteady.

"There's something else, papa."

"What now, my girl?"

She drew a letter from her pocket.

"It's not much, only a little bit of a beginning. Nobody knows it, and I wanted to tell you first."

He took the letter, opened it with a feigned curiosity, more to gratify her whim than from any real interest in what it could contain. He read it, glanced at the slip of paper it enclosed, then bent over and kissed her scarlet cheek.

"My girlie, I congratulate you."

It was a letter from a well-known magazine for children, accepting a story from Miss Theodora McAlister, and suggesting that another story of equal merit might find a welcome, later on in the season.

For the next three weeks, Theodora kept the secret of her experiment to herself.

"It's all right. Papa knows," was all the reply she could be induced to make to the questions which assailed her from all sides, in regard to the way she was spending her Saturday mornings.

It would be impossible to say how long the mystery would have been kept up if she had had her own way. One Saturday noon, however, Phebe came bouncing into the dining-room, her eyes blazing with righteous indignation and injured pride.

"Theodora McAlister, I'm ashamed of you, perfectly ashamed!"

"You've said so before," Theodora answered tranquilly, while she went on eating her dinner. "What is it, this time?"

"You've gone into a store." Phebe's tone was one of scathing scorn.

"Yes. What of it?"

"My sister a clerk in a common store!"

"Yes, in Huntington's."

"But it might have been a grocery."

"It might have been an undertaker's," Theodora answered sharply. "I don't see what difference it makes to you."

"Is this really true, Teddy?" Mrs. McAlister questioned.

Theodora glanced about her at the astonished faces of her family. Surprise and disapproval seemed to be meeting her on every hand. Even Allyn stopped eating his bread and milk, and pointed his spoon at her accusingly. Then she turned to her father, who was entering the room.

"Phebe has just found out about Huntington's, papa," she said, with brave dignity. "Are you willing to tell them how it happened, and why I did it?"



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Ted! Teddy! Theodora McAlister!"

Theodora was passing the Farringtons' grounds. At the third call, she looked up. Billy, on the piazza, was waving his cap in one hand and pounding the floor with one of his crutches with the other.

"What's the matter?" she called, at a loss to account for these vigorous demonstrations.

"Come up, and I'll tell you," he shouted. "Hurry up about it, too."

"Is the house on fire?" she demanded in feminine alarm, as she turned and sped across the lawn.

Billy laughed derisively.

"If that isn't just like a girl! It's nothing of the kind, Ted; it's good news."

"What a scare you gave me, you sinner!" She dropped down on the step below him and fanned herself with her hat, for it was noon of an August day. "What is your great news, anyway?"

"Uncle Frank is sick again."

"But I thought you said it was good news," Theodora said, in some perplexity.

"So 'tis. Wait till you hear the rest of it. He isn't dangerous, only comfortable; but the doctors say he'll die unless he goes up into the mountains. He won't go unless mamma goes, and so she's going."

"But for the life of me, I don't see anything so very good in all that," Theodora said again.

"It is very solemn and serious so far, for he's really awfully ill, and mamma doesn't want to leave me, and she feels that it is her duty to go," Billy answered, trying to subdue the rapture written in every line of his face. "Now we're coming to the good part,—good for me, that is, for I don't know what you'll say to it. She is going to be away for six weeks, and I'm to be at your house."

"Oh, Billy, how splendid!" Theodora's tone left no doubt of her sincerity. "When are you coming?"

"Day after to-morrow. Mamma had a letter, this morning, and she's been in a great pickle about it. She felt she ought to go, for there isn't anybody else; but she couldn't take me. I'm not up to mountain climbing just yet, and she was bound she wouldn't leave me alone. Finally, I suggested going to your house, and that struck her as a good scheme. She's had a long session with your father and mother, and it's all settled, unless you veto it."

"I'll be likely to. Now we shall have a chance to work on our play."

"And to develop our pictures," added Billy, who just now was suffering from an attack of the photographic mania.

"Yes, dozens of things. We can do so much in six weeks."

"The worst of it is," Billy remarked pensively; "I'm sure to have such a fine time of it at your house that I can't seem to get up much regret over my mother's departure."

"You'll be homesick enough," Theodora predicted. "Wait a week and see."

Two days later, Mrs. Farrington took the morning train for New York, where she was to meet her brother and go with him to the Adirondacks. Billy stood on the steps to wave her a farewell; then he slowly crossed the lawn towards the gate which had been cut through the fence under "Teddy's tree." For the next week or two, he and Theodora were busy from morning till night, revelling in the thousand and one interests for which the days had been all too short, when they were obliged to take their meals and to sleep in places six hundred feet apart.

One golden September day, Billy and Theodora were out under the old apple-tree, hard at work on the play which they had long been planning to write. It was to be given on the following Christmas; and the parts, written to order, included the three older McAlisters, Billy, and Archie who had promised to come East in time for the holidays. There was need for strict division of labor. Billy, more familiar with theatres, was able to supply the stage craft and the plot, while Theodora padded the skeleton and covered the dry bones of his outline with sonorous speeches over which she was forced to pause, now and then, to smack her lips.

"'Die, villain, die; and drink the cup of retribution for all your sins!'" she read. "How does that go, Billy?"

"All right. Do I say that, or does Hu?"

"Hu. Poor Uncle Archie! Then he tumbles over with a whack and dies in Hope's arms."

"What kills him? You never do half kill people, Ted. You take too much for granted."

"Conscience. No; Hu, that is, Sir James, shoots him."

"I remember now. I'd forgotten. I hope Hu's a safe shot."

"He couldn't hit a church, if he tried." Theodora giggled. "What's the matter, Hope?" For she saw Hope coming rapidly across the lawn towards them.

"Bad news, dear." Hope's eyes were full of tears. "Mamma has a letter from Butte, and Archie is in the hospital there, with typhoid fever."

"Hope! Not really?"

"Do they think he'll die?" Billy asked anxiously, with boyish bluntness.

Hope's tears began to fall on the letter in her hand.

"They say he's very ill, and that they felt it was best to write. Papa says typhoid is always uncertain, and he wants mamma to start West, to-night."

"Will she go?"

"I don't know yet. She's half wild, for Archie is her only brother, and she loves him so."

"Don't we all?" Theodora questioned impulsively.

Even in the midst of her tears, Hope blushed scarlet.

"Not in the same way, Teddy," she said gently. "You know they were all alone with each other for so long. I hope she will go."

"It would be better if I weren't here," Billy said thoughtfully.

"No; you're like one of us, Billy, and it's easier, with you here to be sorry for us," Hope said gratefully, for she had been quick to realize the sympathy in his look and tone. "Besides, it may not be so bad. Mamma, if she goes, may find him better and able to come home with her."

Back of Theodora, Billy stretched out his hand to Hope and pressed her hand in silent token of understanding and pity. Nothing increases the power of observation like suffering. Billy's long months of helpless idleness had taught him to read the faces and moods of the people about him as a strong, active boy could never have done. He had fathomed the true state of affairs between Archie and Hope. He knew how much of Hope's future happiness, unknown to herself even, was depending on the outcome of that illness of Archie, and he saw her present pain, and the brave self-control which helped her to master it.

Mrs. McAlister left for the West, that night The days which followed were gloomy ones to them all, anxious and busy ones to Hope in particular, for upon her devolved the care of the housekeeping and much of the responsibility over Allyn and Phebe who was as fractious as never before and resented Hope's gentle rule. Two more letters came from the hospital; but they reported no change. Until Mrs. McAlister could reach her brother, they could know nothing definite. They could only wait and hope.

During all these weary, dreary days, it was a comfort to them all to have Billy with them. It had long been impossible to think of him as an outsider; but now he came closer to them than ever before, comforting Hope, helping Theodora to pass the time of restless waiting, cajoling Phebe into good humor, and entertaining Allyn by the hour. Blithe and sunny-tempered himself, he kept them from becoming too blue, while the little care and half-tender, half-playful coddling which the girls gave him was a safety valve for their tensely-strung nerves.

"I believe I love those old crutches of yours, Billy," Theodora said impetuously, one night.

He had been unusually weak, all that day. Even now, there were times when his strength failed him and when, for the passing hour, the old pain came back to give him a few twinges, as a reminder that he could not afford to be too careless. He had been lying stretched out on the sofa with Theodora sitting beside him, while the twilight dropped over the room. At her words, he looked up abruptly.

"I can't say that I do."

"No; I suppose not. Still, I owe them a good deal."

"I don't see why," he said vaguely, as his eyes rested on her bright face, just now looking unusually dreamy and thoughtful, while she sat staring at the long rosewood staff in her hand.

"Perhaps it's selfish," she said, with a smile; "but I've an idea that if, when I first knew you, you'd been strong and—just like other boys, I should never have known you half so well. Do you know, Billy Farrington, I'd just like a chance to fight for you, to do something to show I'm not a friend just in talk and nothing else."

He laughed at the sudden fierceness of her tone, little thinking how soon her words would be put to the test.

"I hope you won't have the chance, Ted; but I've an idea that, if ever I were in a tight place, you'd help me out of it sooner than anyone else."

"Try me and see," she answered briefly.

Good news came to them, only the next day. Mrs. McAlister had reached her brother, to find that convalescence had already begun. The attack of fever had been sudden and sharp; but Archie's fresh young strength had held its own, and his recovery was likely to be a rapid one.

"I shall bring him home with me," Mrs. McAlister wrote. "He oughtn't to go back into camp, this fall; and the doctor says that the long rest will be the best tonic he can have, for he's been working altogether too hard. If he is able, we shall start for home, next week, and get there by the twenty-fifth."

Hope sang blithely to herself, all that day, and even Phebe was moved into a more agreeable mood than was her wont. Allyn took a more materialistic view of the situation.

"Uncle Archie's going to get well," he remarked to Billy. "Now he can bring me nonner engine."

For two days, the McAlister household felt that it was living in an atmosphere of perpetual sunshine. Then the clouds fell again. It was one Saturday morning. Theodora was at her desk, straightening out the account of Mr. Huntington's weekly sales, Hubert was playing football, and Hope had gone to market, taking Allyn with her. Out on the lawn west of the house, Phebe and Isabel St. John were playing tennis and wrangling loudly over the score. Left to himself in the house, Billy threw aside his book, took up his crutches, and went away to the barn, where Dr. McAlister had given up an old harness closet for his use in developing his pictures. It opened out of the barn not far from the stalls where Vigil and Prince were kept; but it was easily accessible and sufficiently roomy, and Billy had accepted the doctor's offer eagerly.

Once shut up in the dark in company with his ruby lantern, Billy fell to work on a picture of Allyn, taken only the day before. So absorbed was he that it was only vaguely that he heard the voices of Phebe and Isabel in the barn close at hand. The murmur went on for some moments, broken by girlish gigglings and little squeals of merriment. Suddenly there came another squeal, louder, this time, and more earnest; there was an interchange of swift, low words, and then silence fell, and Billy dismissed the incident from his mind.

The picture proved refractory and refused to come out. Then at length Billy gave it up in despair, threw away the developing fluid, cast the plate into a pile of similar failures, took up his crutches, and started for the house again. On the way, he met Phebe and Isabel. They looked at him furtively as he passed.

"What's up, Phebe?" he asked.

"Nothing. I only thought you looked tired," she replied, with unusual thoughtfulness.

"So I am, of doing nothing. Come in and play casino with me."

"Can't," Phebe said hastily. "We'd like to, Billy; but there's something else we've got to do."

"All right." And he passed on.

They were all seated at the dinner-table, that noon, when the doctor came into the room. His face was white and very stern.

"Vigil is dead," he said abruptly. "Do any of you children know anything about it?"

"I don't," said the twins, in a breath, and Hope echoed them; but Phebe started and cast a swift glance at Billy.

"Do you, Billy?" the doctor asked, for the glance was not lost on him.

"No; of course not. When did she die?"

"This noon, when I came in, I found her. She was groaning pitifully, and very weak. I wonder that you didn't hear her."

"She died?" Billy asked sympathetically, for the doctor's voice broke over the last words. Vigil had been his favorite horse, and together, man and beast, they had passed through many a tragic night and day. Such friends cause bitter mourning.

"I shot her, to put her out of her misery," he responded briefly. Then he turned to Phebe.

"Phebe, do you know anything about this?"

She grew white.

"No," she stammered. "At least, not exactly."

"What do you mean? Do you know anything about Vigil?"

"I—I'd rather not tell."

"Answer me," he said sternly.

For her only reply, she burst out crying, and cast another glance at Billy. Her father took her hand and led her away to the office.

"Now, Phebe, I want you to tell me about this," he said.

"Oh, no."

"Did you do anything to Vigil?"

"No."

"Do you know who did?"

"N—no."

"Phebe, this isn't a time to shield the culprit. Tell me what you know."

"I don't know anything," she sobbed.

"Were you at the barn, this morning?"

"No."

"Did you see any one go there?"

"No—only Billy."

"Was Billy there?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"About ten o'clock."

"You saw him?"

"Yes; Isabel and I were playing tennis, and I saw him go. When he came back, I met him, and he looked so queer that I asked him if anything was the matter."

"Queer? How?"

"Dark, sort of, under his eyes, and—scared."

"Phebe," the doctor looked at her steadily, searchingly; "is this all true?"

"Yes."

He took a quick turn up and down the room.

"And I thought the fellow was true as steel," he muttered to himself. "Those eyes ought to be true. Poor fellow! I wish Bess were here to talk to him."

His face was very gentle as he went back to the dining-room. As soon as the meal was over, he turned to Billy.

"Come to the office a minute, Billy," he said.

With a look of wonder on his face, Billy followed him to the door. When they were alone, the doctor spoke.

"Billy," he said quietly; "Phebe says you were at the barn, this morning."

"So I was," he answered.

"That you were the only one who went there."

"How does she know?" Billy asked easily, for as yet he did not see whither the doctor's questions were leading.

"Did you see Vigil?"

Then, of a sudden, the truth burst on the boy, and he flushed with anger. The doctor saw his heightened color, and mistook it for guilt.

"And I trusted you so, Billy," he said sorrowfully.

"Dr. McAlister, do you think I did anything to your horse?"

"Who else?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," the boy returned recklessly. Then, with an effort, he regained his self-control. "Dr. McAlister," he said, and his true, honest blue eyes met the doctor's eyes steadily; "Dr. McAlister, on my honor, I have not been near Vigil, nor done anything to hurt her. That is all I can say about it."

There was a silence, long and tense. Then, as the doctor made no sign, Billy turned away and went out of the office.



CHAPTER NINETEEN

The doctor was attempting to argue with Theodora.

"But, Teddy, who else can have done it? Nobody else had been to the barn."

"How do you know?"

"Because the only way to get in was through the front door. Phebe and Isabel were in plain sight of that, all the morning, and they saw no one but Billy go there."

Theodora's lips closed stubbornly, and her eyes, as they met those of her father, flashed with defiance. When at last she spoke, her manner was respectful, but her voice had an odd, metallic ring.

"And so Billy must have done it. What do you suppose he did to Vigil?"

"She was poisoned," the doctor answered briefly, for the subject was as painful to him as to his daughter.

"Do you think he did it on purpose?" Theodora's tone was hostile.

"Teddy!"

"Well, I know," she said passionately, for her self-control had been exhausted during the past half-hour; "but you might as well say he gave the horse poison out of spite as to say he did it at all. It's so like Billy to go meddling with what doesn't belong to him. It's so like him to lie about it afterwards. Papa McAlister, Billy Farrington doesn't lie, and he has said to you over and over again that he had nothing to do with it!"

"But Phebe says—"

"Phebe!" Theodora's voice was expressive. "You believe her above Billy?"

"Teddy, dear," the doctor's voice was very low and sorrowful; "don't make it harder for me than you can help. I have loved Billy like my own boy, and I have believed in his honor as I have in Hu's; but I have found something that tells the story. Down in the hay in Vigil's manger, I found this bottle." He held it up as he spoke, and Theodora read the label. "It is what Billy uses for his pictures; no one else touches the stuff."

"And you think he put it there?"

"Accidentally. He may have dropped it, you know, as he went in. Of course, he didn't mean to be careless, and when I first spoke to him about it, he probably didn't know. I could have forgiven the accident; but when I showed him the bottle, and he lied about it to save himself—" Dr. McAlister paused.

At sight of the overwhelming testimony of the bottle, Theodora had dropped down into a chair. Now she sprang up again.

"I'll never believe it as long as I live, bottle or no bottle!" she said violently. "It is mean and cruel and abominable to lay it to Billy Farrington; and I will never believe he had anything to do with it till he says he had. I never thought you'd treat a guest in your own house like this, Papa McAlister. You can everyone of you go back on him, if you want. I intend to stand by him." She gave a nod of emphasis to her words; then, bursting into tears, she banged the door and rushed away to Billy.

She found him in his room, sitting by the window and trying to read. He looked pale and worried, for it had been impossible for him to blind himself to the attitude of the family towards him during the past three days. Hope and Hubert were scrupulously polite, with a frigid, remote courtesy which was worse than open hostility; Phebe avoided him as if he had the plague; and Allyn showed a marked inclination to converse about the present state of affairs which was scarcely soothing to Billy's irritated nerves. After the first day, he had remained most of the time in his own room, whither Theodora followed him and insisted upon admission.

"What do you care if they do act like idiots?" she demanded fiercely. "I'm ashamed of them all, utterly ashamed; but I wouldn't care."

"Yes, you would," he returned drearily. "It's no fun to be sent to Coventry like this, Ted. I wish Hope and Hu would speak out, and have it over with. I'd like a chance to defend myself; but, if this keeps on, I shall begin to think I did do it."

"Haven't you any idea?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"No."

"Honestly? You're not trying to shield some one?"

"I'm not in a Sunday-school book," he returned. "Besides, who is there?"

"Somebody. You didn't do it. Oh, Billy, I wish I were good for anything!"

"You're pretty much all there is, Ted. Perhaps, when your mother comes, it won't be so bad."

She came, the next evening, escorted by Archie, who looked white and thin, but otherwise appeared like his usual self. Theodora felt that his coming brought a whiff of fresher air into the sultry life of the family circle. He was so gay, so full of the breezy atmosphere of the western mountains, that his coming seemed to scatter a little the clouds which had gathered; while his honest, kindly face made her feel, as it had done before, that he was a friend to be trusted.

The doctor had met the travellers at the station, and Theodora knew that they were in possession of the story long before they reached the house. It was impossible from Mrs. McAlister's manner to read her decision in regard to the rights of the case. She met Billy as cordially as ever, when he came down to supper; and during the meal she forced him to take an active part in the conversation. As soon as they left the table, Billy turned away and went to his room. A moment later, she tapped on his door.

"Come in," he said, for he supposed it was Theodora.

She came in and sat down beside him.

"Billy, my boy," she said gently; "tell me all about it, as if I were your own mother."

He looked up, and something in the expression of his blue eyes reminded her of a hunted animal.

"What is there to tell?"

"There ought to be a great deal," she said, smiling faintly. She was startled at the change in the boy, at his pallor and at the listlessness which pervaded his whole being.

"But Dr. McAlister has told you."

"Yes; but not all." She paused expectantly.

He misunderstood the pause. As if goaded to desperation, he turned on her.

"Are you going back on me, too, Mrs. McAlister? I thought you would stand my friend."

"I do."

"But you doubt my word?"

She was silent, unable to say yes or no.

He changed the form of his question.

"Do you believe me?"

"Billy, dear, I don't know what to think."

He shook back his hair impatiently.

"That's it. I'm not used to having my word doubted, and—it hurts."

Meanwhile, Theodora and Hubert were in the hall.

"Where are you going, Ted?" Hubert had asked, as they left the table.

"To Billy."

"I should think you might stay here, to-night, when Archie has just come."

"Archie has you and Hope."

"But it's not decent, Ted, to leave him."

"It's not decent to send Billy off by himself," she retorted.

"Who sends him?"

"All of you."

"He needn't sulk like a baby."

"It isn't sulking, Hu. I'd go off and not stay with people who doubt my word."

"Hm! He needn't lie, then."

Theodora faced him angrily.

"Shame, Hu! How do you know he lies? Is this the way you stand by your friends?"

"He is no friend of mine."

"He was. He is my friend now, as much as ever."

Hubert shrugged his shoulders.

"Girls always are sentimental, and your head is full of yarns, Ted. You are welcome to believe your Billy as much as you want to. Nobody else does."

"I do." And Archie came striding into the hall. "I didn't mean to listen to you; but I couldn't help hearing. I know something of men. I haven't roughed it all this time for nothing, and I've seen all kinds. You will never make me believe that Will Farrington has lied to get himself out of a scrape. I'd sooner think that Allyn himself did it. Billy is a good fellow, and I'll stand by him and see fair play. Here's my hand on it, Ted."

There was a manly ring to Archie's words and a hearty grip of his hand, and they sent Theodora to bed happier than she had been for days. It had been impossible for her to throw off Billy's trouble. The whole atmosphere of the house had seemed to be tainted by it. They all felt the weight of uncertainty and gloom more or less; but for Theodora, loyal to Billy as a girl could be, it amounted to a species of torture, and she felt an Ishmael indeed, with every man's hand against her. She never thought of swerving from her allegiance, however. Alone and unaided, she would fight for Billy against the world. Still, it was very good to find that Archie was upon her side.

"If I could only go away somewhere!" Billy said disconsolately, the next night. "I thought your mother would stand by me, but she doesn't. It's awful to be here in your house, when you are all down on me like this."

"I wish your mother would come home," Theodora responded.

"She won't."

"Not if she knew?"

"She couldn't very well. Besides, what good could she do?"

"Everything. She'd believe you."

"Of course."

"That's something, and she'd find out, somehow or other. Send for her, Billy."

"No; she'd only worry. She'll be home before long."

"Not for two weeks. We shall all be dead by that time."

"I wish I could go to her."

"Why don't you?" she asked impulsively.

His smile was very sad, as he pointed to his crutches.

"I'm not up to a journey like that, Ted. I shouldn't make much of a figure, travelling alone."

"I'll go, myself, and bring her home."

"You can't. You're too young to take such a journey alone, Ted. It's good of you to think of it, but it wouldn't do. No; we'll stick it out somehow. It isn't as bad as if you weren't here to stand up for me."

She rose and stood beside him, resting her hand on his shoulder.

"It's not much I can do, Billy; but I'm bound to do something. My whole family appear to have gone mad over that old horse. I can't help their stupidity; but maybe I can help you out a very little. Whatever I do, remember what I said, only a few days ago, that I'd like the chance to fight for you, to show that I'm a friend in something besides words."

He looked up at her gratefully.

"You are a plucky champion, Teddy. I wish I knew what to do, myself; but they seem to have me on all sides. No matter; with you and Archie to back me up, I'll manage to pull through somehow."

She patted his shoulder encouragingly.

"That's right. Keep up your pluck, Billy. Something can be done about it, I know. You can furnish the brains and I the backbone. Good-night, old boy."

She went away to her own room, but not to bed. For two hours, she could be heard moving stealthily to and fro, opening a closet door, closing a bureau drawer. Once the floor creaked softly, and a door latch clicked. Then silence fell again, and no one was the wiser for Theodora's sleeplessness.

She was late in appearing at the breakfast table, the next morning. Mrs. McAlister rang the bell for a third time. Then she sent Phebe to call her sister. A moment later, Phebe came flying back, with staring eyes.

"Oh, mamma," she panted; "Teddy isn't anywhere! She didn't answer, so I opened the door. The room is empty, and the bed hasn't been slept in at all."



CHAPTER TWENTY

LAKE LODGE, 28 September. To Dr. JOHN MCALISTER:

Theodora reached here safely. My brother worse. Send for her.

JESSIE FARRINGTON.

This was the telegram which was delivered at the doctor's door, two days later. It came in upon an anxious household, for up to that time they had been able to gain no clue to Theodora's disappearance. Billy alone had had an inkling of the truth, but he dared not hint it to the rest. It was only an inkling, vague and groundless, and he felt that it would do no good to speak of it. At best, he would be accused of urging his friend to take the sudden journey, and he was unwilling to increase the suspicion which already lay heavy upon him.

He knew, however, that Theodora's departure had something to do with himself. Her last words seemed to him, as he went back to them, to convey no doubtful hint of her intentions. He had had no suspicion at the time; but now he realized how like her impulsive loyalty it would be to go flying off somewhere, anywhere, to get help for him, to find some way of putting an end to the wretched situation. He was thoroughly sorry for her absence, and uneasy about her; yet he felt little alarm, for he was perfectly convinced of her ability to look out for herself. Moreover, he was human enough to watch the distraction of the family with a certain amusement. He was sure that Theodora would turn up soon, alive and well, and full of entertaining stories of her adventure. Meanwhile, it was their turn to be anxious.

Then a new anxiety came into the household. Phebe, who had been nervous and irritable, all the day after Theodora's disappearance, grew feverish at night. Her father made a short examination, pronounced her to be suffering from the epidemic of chicken pox which had infested the schools of late, and ordered her to bed. She obeyed him by going to her room, escaping by way of the back stairs and taking a long walk in the twilight with Isabel St. John, with whom lately it had been necessary for Phebe to hold many secret conferences. The next morning, the rash had entirely disappeared, and Phebe lay tossing in delirium.

It was into this household that Mrs. Farrington's telegram came, like a message sent from Heaven.

The doctor tore open the long yellow envelope. His face, already of a dull grayish color, grew a shade more pale, and he shut his teeth together, as one prepared for bad tidings. He read the few words; then he drew his hand across his eyes.

"Thank God!" he said brokenly. "Teddy is safe."

The news went like wildfire through the house. There was a babel of rejoicing and exclamation; but it was to Billy that the doctor had turned.

"My dear boy," he said, laying his hand on Billy's shoulder; "our troubles are over now, if Phebe pulls through."

Billy answered his handclasp.

"We'll forget it ever happened," he said jovially.

"One doesn't forget such things," the doctor said gravely; but Billy laughed his old glad, clear laugh.

"You've done enough for me, Dr. McAlister, to balance anything else. Remember what I was when I came here, and look at me now."

The family council which followed was short. Neither Dr. McAlister nor his wife liked to leave Phebe while she was still so ill; Hubert was too young, they felt, to go to his sister; so it was Archie who finally volunteered to bring back the runaway.

"Shall I scold her very hard?" he asked, laughing, as he took up his dress-suit case, an hour later.

"Leave that to me," the doctor replied, while he tried in vain to look stern.

As Archie passed him, Billy slipped a note into his hand.

"Take that to Ted," he whispered, and Archie nodded.

It was high noon, the next day, when Archie walked into the Lodge. Theodora met him with a little, glad outcry.

"Archie! Did you come for me?"

"It looks like it. What's more, I've brought good news."

"What?"

"Billy is cleared, and I left the whole family munching humble pie."

"Archie!" And Theodora cast herself into his arms and wept hysterically.

The young man looked half abashed, half pleased, at his burden.

"Go easy, now, Ted," he remonstrated. "Don't take all the starch out of my collar, you know."

"Who did it?" she demanded.

"Phebe."

"Archie Holden! The little wretch! And she let Billy bear the blame! I—"

"She's getting her come-uppance," Archie observed, with scant pity for Phebe. "She's no end ill with chicken pox. That's the reason your father couldn't come for you."

"I don't care; she deserves it," Theodora said vengefully. "How did it come out?"

"Providence seemed to take a hand in it, Ted. 'Twas the queerest thing. The night after you left, when the family were all half wild about you, and no wonder, Babe took her hand in the game by coming down with hen pox. She caught cold somehow, the rash went in and struck on the brain, and she turned delirious. The first thing she did, she told the whole story. I suppose she had been harping on it so much that it came out, like murder."

"What did she do?"

"As nearly as we can piece it together, she and Isabel went into the barn, that morning, and started to feed Vigil. Then in fun they began firing things at each other, till at last Babe picked up a box of Paris green and shied it at Isabel. It struck the manger and broke all to pieces. They cleaned up what they could, and sneaked away. Whether Babe started to throw the blame on Billy at first, they don't know; but, after dinner, Babe hunted up the bottle and hid it in the manger. It isn't a pretty story, Ted; but it's true."

"Babe ought to be—"

"Abolished," Archie supplemented, with a jovial laugh. "No matter, your father will have something to say to her by and by. By Jove, Ted, I wish you'd seen him go down on his knees to Billy! There was something grand in it, to see him, with his gray hair and great brown eyes, apologizing to a boy like that. Of course, he owed him an apology and a big one; but not many men would have made it so generously before us all."

"There aren't many men like him," Theodora said proudly. "And Billy? How is he?"

"Jolly as a sandpiper. He vows that there's no one quite like you, though. You did stand by him like a good fellow, Ted, for a fact."

"You too, Archie. You helped me out, when you came. I wish you were my brother."

Archie laughed a little consciously.

"Maybe we can fix that up in time. Now go along and pack up your trumpery."

Theodora's face suddenly grew grave.

"Are they very angry at me at home, Archie?"

He laughed.

"Horribly. Still, I've an idea that, if you're meek enough, you'll be in a fair way to be forgiven."

And she was forgiven. Her welcome home was hearty and loving from them all, pathetically so from Billy, who tried in vain to cover his real emotion under a boyish indifference. The last words were still to be said, however; and it was not until Theodora sat alone in the office with her father, that night, that she felt the incident was ended and she stood among them on precisely the old ground.

"I can't blame you, my girl," he said at last, as he drew his arm yet more tightly about her waist. "You were rash and headstrong. You caused us two days of terrible anxiety, and you might have run into serious difficulties; but your purpose was a good one, even if it was too impetuous and daring for a child like you. We were all blind, Teddy, strangely blind; and I can never forgive myself for my unjust suspicions, nor be glad enough that you stood by your old friend in the face of all this evidence." There was a silence. Then he bent over and kissed her forehead. "Teddy dear, if you can only tame down this rashness of yours, and yet be the same loyal girl you are now, your womanhood will be very big and beautiful. But remember this, dear, in all this wilful, hasty end of the century, a true woman must be as gentle as she is brave, as thoughtful as she is loving."

"But I'm glad it's all over," Theodora said contentedly, the next day.

She and Billy sat on the piazza, in the golden noon of an early October day. Hope was in the hammock, with Allyn beside her and Archie on the floor at her feet, while Hubert sat on the rail facing them all. Theodora had been entertaining them with an account of her journey, and she ended her story with these words.

"It has been a terrible month," Hope said thoughtfully. "After our years of placid existence, it seems as if a cyclone had struck us, all at once. I should think you'd wish you had never set eyes on us, Billy."

"I do," he replied tranquilly, as he stared at Theodora's bright face.

"Poor old William!" she said, laughing. "It was a sorry day for you when I descended on you from the apple-tree."

"Adam and Eve never knew how well off they were, till the serpent came," Archie suggested. "I have a notion we shall have a better time than ever, now it's all over."

"You can crow over it, if you like," Hubert said remorsefully. "You and Ted were on the winning side of things. Billy, my friendship isn't good for much; but I'll be hanged if I ever expected to go back on you and make such a jay of myself."

"Never mind, Hu; it's over now," Theodora said consolingly.

"Yes, thanks to you," Hubert returned. "My share in it isn't much."

Theodora laughed.

"Thanks to Babe, you'd better say. We should still have been a divided household, if Babe hadn't been benevolent enough to have chicken pox."

"She didn't," Allyn objected suddenly. "The chicken didn't come out any. I watched to see it, and I couldn't, and papa said so, too, and that's what made her so wretchable."

"But it's over, as Teddy says," Hope observed, breaking in on the laugh that followed Allyn's contribution to medical science; "and I can't help feeling that we are going to have a lovely winter, with Archie here, and Billy to stay on till Thanksgiving. There's time to make up for all we've lost now."

"We'll make the most of it, then, for this will be my last winter here, for ever so long," Billy said, rising. "If I enter college, next fall, it will be a good while before I settle down at home again."

"And I too," Theodora added, as she rose and stood beside him.

He smiled down into her eyes for a moment, as they stood there. Then together they turned and walked away. The world about them lay golden in the sunlight and in the glow reflected back from the yellow leaves of the hickories; but not one whit less golden was the future, as it stretched away and away before their glad young eyes.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was commencement week at Smith College. To the alumna and the student, the picture called up by those words is sufficiently definite and demands no amplification. To them, is no prettier sight possible than the broad campus dotted with buildings, and the knots of daintily-dressed girls moving slowly to and fro along the winding paths. The Meadow City always puts on her most festal array in honor of the occasion; the very heavens seem to watch for that week, and to provide for it the finest moon of the whole summer.

Baccalaureate was over, and, early Monday evening, groups were already gathering on the campus at the rear of College Hall, eager to secure comfortable places for the glee club concert. It was one of the charming pictures of the year, that concert, the cluster of girls on the steps facing the long rows of well-filled benches below. Beyond the benches, and extending far across the grass to the very steps of the old Dewey House, was a moving, shifting crowd, changing in form and color, as the brightly-dressed girls came and went, like the varying slides of a kaleidoscope. Back of the glee club, again, the open windows of the reading-room were filled with faces of old graduates who knew the place, and who chose this point of vantage either to protect their gowns and their elderly necks from the dampness outside, or to use their position facing the crowd to discover returning classmates whom they had missed in the throng.

"There's the class president," one of them said to a friend who had arrived, only that afternoon.

"Which?"

"That tall girl in pale green at the left. She's in the fourth, fifth, sixth row; and a tall, gray-haired man is with her, and a young man the other side."

"Looking this way now?"

"Yes. I don't see anything so remarkable about her; but they say she's one of the most popular girls they've ever had here."

"That is saying a good deal," her companion answered loyally, as she raised her lorgnette.

"They wanted her for ivy poet, but she couldn't be everything. She's class poet, though, and was Portia in the dramatics, Saturday night."

"What's her name?"

"McAlister. Theodora McAlister. She looks it, too; but these soulless girls all call her Teddy."

"McAlister? That is the name of the girl who made such a record in basket ball, when I was up here, last winter. They had a song in her honor."

"Probably it's the same one. My cousin says she is very all-round. All the under-class girls adore her, and they say she'll be heard from, some day. Did you say Edith Avery is back?"

Theodora, meanwhile, had settled her guests comfortably to listen to the concert. They were all there, Dr. McAlister and his wife, Hope and Hubert, Phebe and Allyn, and the Farringtons. Among so many girls, Hope, in her pretty pink gown, was quite capable of holding her own; and Billy and Hubert were in such demand that, all that day, Theodora had scarcely had a chance to exchange a word with them. It was just as well, however, for the girl's hands were full, with the active part which her offices had imposed upon her.

During the whole week, she had borne her part admirably. When she came out on the stage for the first time, on Saturday night, she had faltered. For a moment, the sea of upturned faces had terrified her, and she could distinguish nothing but a formless blur. Then, all at once, Billy's red-gold hair and clear blue eyes had detached themselves and caught her attention, and she flashed upon him one glance, half proud, half appealing. He smiled back at her broadly and waved his programme. An instant later, she was speaking her opening lines.

She had led the baccalaureate procession; she had presided at the ivy exercises, that morning; and to-night, at the reception which followed the glee club concert, she was expected to show herself in her official capacity. The next day, she would lead her class in the commencement procession, and preside at the class supper. No wonder that she was tired, and that dark circles were beginning to come beneath her eyes. Popularity has its price, though it is a price well worth the paying. It had come to her unsought, unexpected, and she enjoyed it. Still, she was undeniably tired. She was glad for the moment to settle down on the bench, unnoticed in the crowd, with her father's arm across her shoulder and Hubert by her other side.

"Tired out, Ted?" her father asked tenderly, as she nestled against him, regardless of her finery.

"Oh, no; only glad of a chance to see my people. I have been in such a whirl, all the week, that I feel as if I had neglected you."

"We haven't suffered, and you'll rest from the whirl. You can't be graduated but once, my girl, and I want you to have the best of it," he said proudly. "Next year, you will be with us again, so don't worry about us now."

"You'd better sit up straight, Teddy," Phebe said, bending forward and speaking in an aggressively audible whisper. "You're leaning against your dress, and that thin stuff crushes awfully. Do be careful."

"Never mind," Theodora answered, with a lazy disregard of her fluffy sea of pale green chiffon. "Papa and I shall never be here again just like this, and I mean to have the good of him."

They lingered there until the concert was over and the tide was turning towards the Art Gallery. Then she rose reluctantly, and shook out her gown.



"Give me my fan and my gloves, Hu," she said. "I must fly to my post. I'd much rather stay here."

As she turned away, a young man abruptly took leave of two juniors, and went hurrying after her. He was tall and alert, yet he walked with a certain stiffness, which gave an almost military erectness to his carriage.

"The Philistines be upon me, Ted! Do save me!"

She turned back to meet him.

"What is the matter, Billy? I thought you looked content while the concert was going on."

"Content! I'm distracted. I've been introduced to seven thousand girls. They all look alike, and I can't tell 'em from those I don't know."

"Smile on them all, Billy. You're equal to it."

"But I don't want 'em. I came here to see you, not Miss Swift of Chicago."

"You don't appreciate your advantages, Billy," she said, laughing, as they went together up the steps of the Art Gallery.

"Maybe not. I appreciate you, though, and I sail, in ten days. When shall you be off duty again?"

She looked down at the throng already streaming up the steps behind them.

"Come and rescue me at half-past nine, Billy, unless you find Miss Swift of Chicago a more potent attraction."

"Trust me!" And he vanished.

For more than an hour, the stream of people flowed past her. Everywhere was the swish of countless gowns, the low murmur of countless voices. Every one was there, not only the seniors and their friends, but the girls of the under classes, with here and there a wide-eyed, wondering sub-freshman. Faculty hobnobbed with sophomores, and the alumnae pervaded all things and were in their glory. It was a pretty picture, backed as it was by the dull-hued walls and fine statuary of the gallery; and Theodora glanced about her in contented pride, to see if any of her friends were near and enjoying this crowning glory of her Alma Mater.

Ten feet away, Mrs. McAlister was discussing football with the brother of one of the seniors, a boy too young to have any real share in the evening's pleasure. Not far off, Dr. McAlister was contentedly ruffling up his hair, while he monopolized the attention of a prominent professor, who appeared altogether unconscious of the passing moments and of the crowd of alumnae waiting for a word. Theodora smiled to herself, as she caught an occasional phrase,—