"'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 a.s.sent.

"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-sodden world 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.sing 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. She gave 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.