"She's punished enough, Jack," she said to him. "There wasn't much need for me to say anything; but I think perhaps this has given me my opportunity. I've come closer to the child than I ever dared to hope, and, with Heaven's help, I mean to stay there."

Her husband bent over her.

"You're good to my naughty girl, Bess," he said gently.

She smiled; but her eyes looked heavy.

"She is worth it, Jack. At heart, she is sweet and sound as a girl can be. It is only this ungovernable temper of hers. She is quick and impulsive; but she is sorry enough now. I think she won't do anything like this again. And I have promised that she sha'n't be teased about it, and, above all, that no one shall speak of the affair to the Farringtons. Can you see about it, Jack? A word from you will help me in this."

For the next few days, a spirit of heavy quiet rested on the McAlister household. As a rule, Theodora was the life of the house, and now that she moped in corners, hiding her shorn head as best she could, the others were dull and listless in sympathy.

"I hate everybody," Phebe said, coming into the dining-room where Hope was arranging flowers, one morning.

"Why, Babe, what's the matter?" Hope looked up in surprise.

"Nothing, only I'm lonesome."

"Where's Allyn?"

"In the attic. He spoils everything, and I don't want to play with him.

Teddy's cross, and Hu won't do anything."

There was a silence, while Hope filled a tall vase with late chrysanthemums.

"I wish I were a flower," Phebe said moodily; "only Allyn would tear it to pieces. I'd rather be a vine; that's tougher."

"What has Allyn done?" Hope asked.

"I don't tell tales, Hope McAlister." And Phebe departed with her chin in the air, leaving Hope to console herself for the rebuke with the reflection that Phebe's code of honor, in such cases, varied according to her own share of the blame.

Half an hour later, Phebe appeared to Billy, who sat in an easy-chair before a crackling fire in the library.

"Hullo, Phebe!" he exclaimed. "How you was?"

"All right. I thought I'd come over and see you, a while."

"That's good. You don't often come. Sit down, won't you?" He waved his book hospitably in the direction of a chair. "Where's Teddy? She hasn't been over here for an age."

"She's--busy." Phebe spoke with a tone of conscious mystery.

"What do you mean?" Billy turned to look at his guest in astonishment.

"Oh--nothing."

"What is the matter? Is Teddy sick?"

"No; she's all right." Phebe gave a hostile sniff.

"Then why doesn't she come over?"

"I s'pose because she doesn't want to."

"Is she mad about anything?"

Phebe shook her head mockingly. Then she rose and stood facing him, with her back to the fire.

"It's all Teddy, Teddy, Teddy!" she said complainingly. "n.o.body takes the trouble to talk to me, and you're just as bad as the rest of them.

You needn't think your old Teddy is perfect, for she isn't."

"Maybe not; but she is a blamed sight better than you are," Billy answered more bluntly than courteously.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS?' SHE DEMANDED."]

"Is she?" Phebe plunged her hand into her pocket. "What do you think of this?" she demanded, pulling out a long brown pigtail and brandishing it before Billy's astonished eyes.

"What's that?"

"Can't you tell? You've seen it often enough."

"Let me see." Billy held out his hand.

"Sha'n't. It's Teddy's. She cut it off."

"I don't believe it. Let me take it, Babe." His tone was commanding.

For her only answer, Phebe sprang back out of his reach, caught her heel in the rug and fell. Her stiff white ap.r.o.n lay for an instant against the grate; the next moment, it blazed above her head.

With a swift exclamation, Billy struggled to move, to go to her a.s.sistance. Again and again he tried to wrench himself from the chair; then, with a groan, he fell back and blew a long, shrill note on the silver whistle which never left him.

In a moment, it was all over. Patrick had rushed in and wrapped Phebe in a rug. Then, more frightened than hurt, the child had started for home, concocting, as she went, a plausible story to account for her charred ap.r.o.n. The maid came in to put the room to rights, and no one knew but Billy, as he ordered Patrick to move him to the sofa, that the sudden strain had done his invalid back a lasting injury. That was three days before, and now Theodora sat twisting his mother's note in her hands and wondering what it all meant.

The doctor was away, that day, and Theodora was too proud to ask the others any questions. She briefly explained to her mother that Mrs.

Farrington had invited her to spend the afternoon and dine there, and, putting on her broadest hat, she went away across the lawn.

Patrick admitted her, and, even in the momentary glimpse she had of him, she saw that he looked unusually grave. As she entered the library, however, she was rea.s.sured, for the room looked just as usual, with Billy lying on the familiar lounge by the fire. It seemed so good to her to get back there, after her self-imposed banishment, that, forgetful of her cropped head, she sprang forward to his side.

"Oh, Billy!"

"Have you really come, Ted? I began to think you'd cut me. Where have you been?"

"At home. But what's the matter, Billy?" For, as she took his hand, she was startled at his pallor and at the heavy shadows under his eyes.

"Only this set-back," he answered. "My back's given out again, so I can't move a bit."

"What do you mean? When was it?" She dropped down beside him, and rested her arm on the edge of the lounge.

"Didn't you know it?"

"No. When was it?"