"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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sing 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 t.i.tlepages of the books within. At the sight, there came into her mind a sudden recollection of her well-worn ma.n.u.script 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 the doorway 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 navete 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 Ma.s.sachusetts; 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.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"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 steady _clink_, _clink_ of 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 of the 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?"