"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 c.o.c.ked 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, and Theodora 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 gla.s.s 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 it _In 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 to _Treasure Island_ or _Ivanhoe_; 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.