Slowly, very slowly, Theodora was turning about in front of her mirror to inspect her new suit. It was her nearest approach to that glory of modern womankind, the tailor-made gown, and Theodora's face was expressive of unmitigated approval. The dark green cloth suited her complexion to perfection, the jacket was edged with fur, and the dark green hat, rolled sharply upwards, framed her eager young face in a soft setting of velvet and feathers. Theodora looked her best, and, like a true daughter of Eve, she was perfectly aware of the fact. With the aid of a hand-glass, she studied her right side, her left side, her back, petulantly brushed away the heavy masses of her short hair, made sure that Archie's pin showed its gleam at her throat; then she descended the stairs in search of admiration.
She found Archie in the parlor, the symmetry of his face somewhat marred by the patch of plaster on his right temple.
"How do you like it, Uncle Arch?" she demanded, clasping her hands and revolving before him like a teetotum.
"It's good. You look warm and comfortable, and not a bit floppy," he answered. "When do you go?"
"Friday. I'd much rather wait till Tuesday, and see you off; but beggars mustn't be choosers, and it was lovely of Mrs. Farrington to ask me."
"You'll have a great time with them," Archie returned, privately reflecting that Mrs. Farrington had no cause to be ashamed of her charge. For the past three days, he had been devoting most of his spare time to gentle Hope, yet he confessed to a hearty admiration for off-hand, boyish Theodora, who had done so much to make his stay a pleasant one. "Going to write to me, Ted?" he added persuasively.
"I don't know. What for?"
"To tell me the gossip, of course. When a fellow is away in camp, it's good to get letters from friends at home." Archie's tone was charged with the sentimentality of his years. He was sorry to turn his back upon civilization once more, sorry to lose touch with his adopted nieces; and, above all, most humanly sorry tofind that Theodora was taking his approaching departure in such a philosophical spirit.
"Oh, I'd just as soon write, if you want me to," she answered, while she settled her collar and gave a feminine tweak to her sleeves; "only I don't see the use of it. Mamma will be sure to write, and there's no use wasting stamps in telling you the news twice over."
Assuredly Theodora was not inclined to sentiment, and Archie strolled away to Hope, in search of appreciation, just as Phebe bounced into the room. At sight of Theodora's new gown, she halted abruptly.
"I suppose you think you look pretty well," she said crushingly.
"Well, yes, I do," Theodora replied, with feigned indifference, for she always shrank from Phebe's criticism. "How do you like it?"
Phebe walked around her and inspected her from top to toe with provoking deliberation.
"It wouldn't be so bad," she remarked at length. "The coat isn't quite right in the back, somehow; and isn't your hat a little mite one-sided?"
"Oh, Babe, I wish anything ever suited you," Theodora broke out impatiently. "You always find something wrong somewhere."
But Phebe rebuked her.
"Now, don't get cross, Teddy. Mrs. Farrington won't think you're a good companion for Billy, if you are as cross as that."
"Companion?"
"Yes. Of course she wouldn't have taken you to New York, if she hadn't wanted somebody to take care of Billy when she was busy."
Phebe had a genius for aiming her shafts which was far in advance of her years. Theodora winced; then she turned to her little sister with a sort of fierceness.
"Who said so?" she demanded.
"I say so," Phebe returned calmly, as she settled herself on the sofa; "and so does Isabel St. John."
Theodora's exasperation reached a climax.
"If you two children don't stop talking over my affairs, I'll tell papa," she said in impotent rage, for the McAlister code of honor scorned brute force, and she dared not give her young sister the shaking she so richly deserved.
"Tattle-tale!" Phebe replied in brief derision.
Theodora fled to her room, for she felt that she was no match for her composed young adversary. Hope found her, an hour later, sitting in a heap on the side of her bed.
"Don't mind, dear," she said gently. "I knew Babe had been saying something hateful; but it's only her way. Mrs. Farrington wants you to have a good time, and I'm so glad you are going. Three weeks in New York will be good for you, and you will see ever so much. Just think how lonely we are going to be without you and Archie!" Her voice broke a little.
Theodora kissed her impulsively.
"Truly, are you going to miss me so much, Hope? I'll stay at home, if you will. I really shouldn't mind."
"Of course we shall miss you, Ted, you and Archie both. Hu and I are going to be forlorn and dull enough; but that's no reason you are to stay here, and lose such a chance. Archie has asked me to write to him," she added a little inconsequently.
Not even Phebe's cutting remarks could blunt the edge of Theodora's happiness, three days later, as she went gliding into the vast babel of the Grand Central Station. It had been her first real journey; it was her first sight of New York, that Mecca of all true and loyal Americans, and she gave a little gasp of sheer delightwhile she followed Mrs. Farrington from the car and turned to wait for Patrick and Billy. She watched it all with open-eyed content, the uniformed porters, the throng of hungry-looking cabmen, the comfortable carriage, and the broad, crowded streets through which they drove to reach the hotel. The hotel itself completed her satisfaction. Mrs. Farrington liked luxury, both for herself and for the sake of her invalid son, and Theodora could not wonder enough at the greatness and glitter of it all, the halls and parlors, the huge dining-room and their own cosy suite of rooms near by. Strange to say, after the first night, she was quite at her ease, and settled into her luxurious surroundings with an apparent unconsciousness which was as gratifying to Mrs. Farrington as it was amusing.
It was all old ground to Mrs. Farrington and Billy; but they enjoyed exploring the city with their eager young guest, who revelled in it with all the enthusiasm of her years. Wherever a carriage could go, wherever the faithful Patrick could help his young master, there they went, until Theodora, with the aid of her well-studied map, knew the city from the Battery to the fastnesses of Harlem. It seemed to the younggirl that the ordinary laws of time and space had been suspended, and that she was living in a gilded fairyland which would continue till the end of days.
There was even one wonderful evening when Theodora, in a fresh, light gown which had mysteriously appeared from one of Mrs. Farrington's trunks, and Billy, in a brand-new suit and immaculate tie, went with Mrs. Farrington to hear Calvé and the De Reszkés singCarmen. After that, the rest was rather of the nature of an anticlimax, and Theodora spent the next day in a grove of paper, transporting Marianne and Violet to the Metropolitan Opera House in a blaze of diamonds and yards of white silk gowns.
On the following morning, she was still deep in this pleasant task. The rain was sweeping against the windows; yet, in imagination, Violet was cantering through one of the bridle paths in the Park, with Gerald at her side, when Mrs. Farrington came into the room.
"May I interrupt you, Teddy?" she asked, with the gentle courtesy which made Theodora feel so grown-up and elegant.
Theodora threw aside her pen.
"What is it?" she asked with alacrity.
"Nothing very pleasant, for I shall have to send you out in this storm. I've just taken Will down to Joe Everard's to spend the morning, and I promised to call for him, this noon. When I came back, I found a note from Mrs. Keith, asking me to come to lunch, to meet one of our California cousins. Do you feel as if you could go down in the carriage and come back with Will? I hate to have him alone, in case anything happens."
Theodora laughed contentedly.
"What an idea! Of course I'll go. I always love to drive, you know. Where's the place?"
"Away down town, near Washington Square. You'd better go right down Fifth Avenue. I'll dress, then, and go to Mrs. Keith's; and then send the carriage back for you, if you'll be ready."
Theodora went back to her writing, and the moments slid away only too rapidly. Whatever was the result of her labors, she enjoyed them keenly. All through the winter, though Phebe scolded and Allyn teased and the world about her went awry, she had been able to forget it all in the adventures of her imaginary friends, the tale of whose doings had come to be bulky and dog's-eared from frequent readings. She was still busy over her work, when Patrick came to the door.
"The carriage is here, Miss Theodora."
She quickly put on her hat and coat. Patrick banged the carriage door behind her and mounted the box beside the driver, and they drove away. It was the first time she had driven out in solitary splendor, and Theodora felt very dignified and luxurious as she leaned back on the cushions and idly watched the passing show which had grown so familiar to her during the past two weeks. When they came to the lower end of the Avenue, she sat up in quick attention, for she was passing window after window full of books spread out in enticing array, and above the doorways she read on the gilded signs the names which she had learned to know were on the titlepages of the books within. At the sight, there came into her mind a sudden recollection of her well-worn manuscript at home, and of the tales she had read of young writers who had made their way into the publisher's presence.
With an impulsive movement, she tapped sharply on the window.
"Stop, please," she said. "On this side."
Obediently the driver drew up opposite thedoorway of a firm of international fame, and Theodora, secure in the consciousness of her new gown and the unwonted luxury of the carriage and Patrick, entered the store. It was a dreary day of a dull season, and with comparatively little trouble she found herself in a quiet office on the third floor of the building. Its occupant, a tall, thin man with iron-gray hair, looked up at her approach, and a slight expression of wonder came into his eyes as they rested on his girlish visitor.
"What can I do for you?" he asked courteously.
Theodora was breathing a little quickly, and the bright color came and went in her cheeks. All unconsciously, she was looking her very best.
"I came to ask you about publishing a book."
"Mm. Is it one you have written?"
"Yes."
There was a pause, slight, yet perceptible. Then the man asked,—
"What sort of a book is it?"
"It's a novel. Kind of a love story."
"How long is it?"
"There are thirty-seven chapters done."
"Then it isn't finished?"
"No; but I could end it off about any time, if you are in a hurry for it."
In spite of himself, the publisher smiled. Theodora's girlish naïveté was refreshing to him. He liked her face and manner, and he was curious to see more of this young aspirant for fame, so he pushed forward a chair.
"Sit down," he said genially; "and tell me more about it."
With the off-hand, healthy directness of a boy, Theodora plunged into the midst of her plot and unfolded all its intricacies. The publisher listened till the end, always with the same little smile on his face.
"How old are you?" he asked, when she paused for breath.
"Sixteen."
"And you want to write books?"
"Awfully." Theodora's hand shut, as it lay in her lap. "I'm going to do it, too, some day."
"Good! I think perhaps you will. And you live in New York?"
"No; I live in Massachusetts; but I'm here with Mrs. Farrington."
"Mrs. Farrington? Mrs. William H. Farrington?"
"Yes."
"Is it possible! Did she send you to me?"
"No; I came. Do you know her?"
"Very well, and for ever so many years, since she was younger than you."
"I never heard her say anything about you," Theodora said, with unflattering directness.
"Very likely not. But now, my dear little girl, I am going to give you some advice. I am afraid we can't take your book. It isn't in our line; but some day you may write something that is, and then I shall be glad to see it. Now, if you really mean to write good books, you must read good ones, the best ones that are written; you must study a great deal and study all sorts of things, for you can never tell what will help you most. Keep on writing, if you want to; but don't expect to have anything published for ten years. By that time, you will just be ready to begin your work. Sometime, we may meet again," he added, as he rose; "and then you must tell me all you have done. I think I shall have reason to congratulate you. Till then, good-by. Give my regards to Mrs. Farrington, and tell her that I shall try to call on her before she leaves the city."
Theodora read her dismissal in the shrewd,kindly brown eyes. She went away in a glorified dream of the future which lasted until she saw Billy crossing the pavement, leaning on one crutch and with Patrick's strong arm supporting his weight on the other side. He looked tired, and his brave helplessness struck her in strong contrast to her own exuberant happiness. It suddenly seemed to her that it would be selfish to boast of her own hopes, in the face of his uncertain future, so she locked her lips on the subject of her morning's adventure, and turned to greet him with a bright interest which concerned itself with his doings alone.
"Spring has come, and the McAlisters are putting on their annual addition," Hope wrote to Archie in April. "It is on the west side, a new wing. Mother calls the upper room Archie's room. At present, the downstairs room goes by the name of The Annex, because we have exhausted our ingenuity in naming the other rooms, and have nothing left for this."
The name proved to be an enduring one, while the process of building was more exciting than usual. Dr. McAlister had decided to have the cellar extended for the wing; and the rocky ledge on which the house was perched rendered blasting a necessity. For a week, they lived in a state of alarm lest the house should be jarred down about their ears. For a week, they heard the steadyclink,clinkof the hammers on the drills, the thud of the stone-laden hogsheads rolled over the boards above the rock, and the thunder of the blast as it exploded. By the time the week was ended, the noisy work ofthe carpenters seemed, in comparison, like sweet music.
Strange to say, it was Allyn who most gloried in the confusion, and, from the first shovelful of earth to the last nail, he was always to be found in the thick of the fray. No matter how often the workmen picked him up and returned him to his mother, he invariably reappeared under their feet again, five minutes later, to be alternately a target for their profanity and a receptacle for choice morsels from their luncheons.
"No, Allyn," Hope said, with decision, when she found him investigating the tip of a freshly-lighted fuse; "you mustn't go there again, ever. Do you hear sister?"
"Ess," lisped the culprit. "I hears; but it is so instering."
"Too interesting for a baby like you," Hope said, laughing, in spite of her pale cheeks. "If you do that again, Allyn, sister won't have any little brother to cuddle."
"Why for not?"
"Because you'll be killed, dear."
"And will I be a little boy angel?"
"Yes."
"And do little boy angels have stomachs?" was the next unexpected question.
"I don't know. Why?"
"'Cause then I can have all the pieces of cake I want," he answered, with a vengeful recollection of the angel cake forbidden the night before.
Since Theodora's visit to New York, there had been no fresh excitement in the McAlister household, and the young people had settled down into the peaceful routine of work and play which had preceded Archie's coming. To be sure, it was never quite the same as in past years, for their circle had been widened to admit Billy Farrington, and, moreover, Archie's letters created a new interest for them all, for Hope more than for the others, since to her they were more personal than to the rest, and on her devolved the necessity of answering them. Mrs. McAlister used to smile quietly to herself, at times, and she had even spoken of the matter to the doctor, who nodded approvingly, even though there was no actual thing to which he could give his assent.
"Say, Hu," Theodora asked abruptly, one night; "wouldn't it be funny if Archie married Hope?"
Hubert stopped whistling and stared at his sister in surprise.
"What an idea, Ted! Your brain must be 'way off, to think of such a thing."
"Stranger things than that have happened, Hu," Theodora said shrewdly. "Just wait a few years and see."
"Archie's no fusser," Hubert said, with some scorn.
"Maybe not; but he likes Hope, and she thinks he is perfect. Of course, they won't do it yet, but they may in time. Here we are. Come in."
For the first time in their lives, the twins were on their way to a temperance meeting. Dr. McAlister had always felt that such meetings were no place for impressionable children, that the sensational methods of oratory were not for young ears; and Hubert and Theodora had experienced some difficulty in coaxing their father to give his consent to their hearing a famous young Irish orator who was holding a series of meetings in the town. It was a new experience for Theodora, who, from the first moment, was swayed to and fro at the speaker's will, now laughing at his broad humor, now winking away her tears at his pathos, now thrilling through all her lithe young body at his stirring appeals for help to raise the drink-soddenworld around him. Hubert was more sceptical.
"What a fib!" he remarked, at the close of the story which ended the lecture. "I know things never happened as pat as that. They don't, out of books, I bet. What are you going to do, Ted?"
Theodora, her face flushed and her eyes like stars, had started forward to the stage.
"I'm going to sign the pledge, Hu."
"What for? You don't get drunk."
"For my example. Oh, Hu, think of the saloons in the east end of town! And we've never done anything to help them! It's terrible."
She came back to him with her hands full of pamphlets. Hubert eyed her askance.
"I say, Ted, what are those?"
"Tracts."
"What for?"
"I am going to take them to some of those people, to-morrow. It may wake them up to what they are doing."
"They're more likely to wake you up, Ted. Go easy. You know papa never will let you."
"I sha'n't ask him, then," she said proudly. "If it's right, it's right, and nobody ought to stop me."
Hubert whistled softly.
"Look out, Ted. Remember the kid you stole? This may come out as your slumming did, you know."
But Theodora started out, the next morning, the tracts in her hand and zeal in her heart. At the very first saloon, she was doomed to disillusion.
"It is a wicked life," she said firmly; "and you ought to be ashamed."
For a wonder, the man knew neither Dr. McAlister nor his daughter, and he was not moved to awe by this child.
"Do you think it is any of your business, my fine lady?" he demanded sharply.
Theodora quailed.
"N-n-no-o-o-o; I don't," she said faintly, and fled from the door into the arms of her father, who chanced to be passing by.
"Theodora!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, sir." She hung her head guiltily, for she instinctively felt his disapproval.
"What are you doing here, in such a place?" he asked more sternly than he was wont to speak.
"I'm—I'm—I'm—" she faltered.
He held out his hand for the tracts. Shegave them up reluctantly, and she saw him frown as he read their lurid headings. For a moment he looked perplexed; then he said quietly,—
"Theodora, I wish you to go home at once, and to say nothing of this to anyone. To-night, after supper, come to the office. I want to talk this over with you."
"Yes, papa."
Her lip quivered, and he relaxed a little of his sternness.
"I know you didn't mean to do wrong, my dear. I am not going to scold you; but there are a good many things I want to say to you,—things we can't say here. That is all."
To Theodora's mind, the day dragged perceptibly. She was conscious of her father's disapproval, conscious that, in her girlish impulsiveness, she had gone where she had no business to go. It was a relief when supper was over, and she followed her father into his office.
He pulled out a great easy-chair and sat down.
"Come here, my girlie, and cuddle in beside me, as you used to do," he said, with an inviting gesture. "Now tell me all about it."
Theodora poured forth her tale in an incoherent tide. Her father, listening and stroking the brown head, smiled a little, from time to time. When she had finished,—
"What is temperance, Teddy?" he asked abruptly.
"Not to drink rum," she answered, with glib promptness.
He smiled again.
"That is only a tiny little part of it, my girl."
"Of course. I mean whiskey, too, and beer, and—and—"
"Never mind the rest of them now. It's a good long list, and the worst of the drinking isn't always done in the saloons."
"Where is it, then?" Theodora looked at him in astonishment.
"At banquets and dinners and receptions. Too often at college suppers, and by boys not much older than Hu."
"Really?"
"Yes, Ted. Now, my dear, I'm going to give you a lecture. It won't be like the one you heard, last night, for I'm not a temperance orator, only a plain old doctor. Temperance isn't signing the pledge, or keeping it after it is signed; it is keeping one's self free from all kinds of badness and excess, whether it's drinking orsmoking, or too much dancing, or tight shoes. It is taking all our pleasures moderately, so that they can never hurt our bodies or our minds. Do you see what I mean?"
"But oughtn't all liquor to be taken away?" she urged, still mindful of the orator's sounding periods.
"Like any other powerful drug. It's one thing to use it, Ted, another to abuse it, as we doctors know. There are times when it must be used, just like any other medicine. Because I give you a dose, one day, you don't need to go on taking it forever, dear."
He paused for a minute, then he went on,—
"That is one side of it,—a side that we must look at. On the other is the horrible danger of forming the habit of taking wine and such things to excess. The suffering is terrible, and the poverty. That comes from intemperance in drink more than from any other form of it; and the only way that it is to be prevented is for us parents to teach our boys and girls all the danger, teach them that, because they want it, there is no excuse for their taking it. If you aren't strong enough to deny yourself something you know is a sin, you haven't learned the first lesson of good living. But it isn't drinking alone; thereare other sins that are as bad and as dangerous; and a man or woman, to be strong and pure and good, must turn his back upon them all."
"But I did want to help," Theodora said. "There ought to be something that a girl can do."
"So there is," her father answered quickly.
"What?"
"From now on, through all your young womanhood, be sure you stand on the right side of things. Don't preach. That never does any good. Just frown down any fastness in your friends. Let it be understood that you have nothing to do with a man who drinks and swears, with a girl who is fast or familiar, who laces till she can't breathe, and dances all night with men whom she hardly knows. Let my Teddy, even if she must stand alone, stand for all that is truest and best in women, and the young men and women around her will respect her and try to pull themselves up to her standard. You needn't be a prig, Ted. Be as full of fun as you can; the more, the better, only choose your fun carefully. Your old father knows what he's talking about, and he knows that girls have more influence than most of them are willing to use."
Theodora's cheek was resting against her father's shoulder, and her eyes had drooped.
"I will," she said humbly.
"And remember this, my girlie; I am always here to talk things over with you and advise you. When you are older, perhaps you can help me with my poorer patients. Till then, Teddy, wait, and don't try to do too much. You're only my little girl yet; and the world is too big for you to understand. Good-night, dear. Now I must go."
It was the last of the lecture; but, simple as it had been, Theodora never lost the memory of the quiet hour in the office, and in after years she learned to know the value of the lesson so gently given.
"Back again, at last?" Billy looked up with a smile, as Theodora came flying into the room.
"Yes. Have you missed me?"
"Haven't I? You mustn't go off again, Ted. You are altogether too frisky."
"What could I do? Papa took me."
"Had a good time?"
"Beautiful. It's too much for one spring,—three weeks in New York, and this lovely week of driving."
"You had good weather, sure enough. Also, ma'am, you're brown as a squaw. Also, I think your hair has grown."
"Wish 't would; but that's a forbidden subject. I'll tell you one thing, Billy Farrington: if I ever do get any hair again, I'll guard it like the apple of my eye. But what about you?"
"News."
"Oh, what?" she questioned eagerly.
"Well, we went down to see Dr. Parker, last Saturday."
"What did he say?"
"That I'm doing as well as could be expected."
"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 wasgrowing 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, andTheodora 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 itIn 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 toTreasure IslandorIvanhoe; 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 thanRobert 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 themoment, 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 wentin 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?
"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."
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 thanthe 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 atthe 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 setand 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 thinkI 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 wasmaking 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."
"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 splendidchance, 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, andinvoluntarily 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.