"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 uponhis 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 aboutsix 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 bornof 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."
"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 along 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 moneyfor 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 mym's andn's andu's not so much alike." Theodora laughed gleefully at her father's astonished face.
There was a pause, while the doctor reflectedrapidly. 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?"
"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 alltoo 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 nightThe 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, theold 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 herdesk, 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 tocome 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," hesaid, 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.
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 himabout 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 byArchie, 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 ofmen. 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."
Lake Lodge,28September.To Dr.John McAlister: