Billy sat in his chair before the McAlisters' front steps. Theodora sat
beside him on the steps, with her chin in her hands. Though it was late
in January, the midday sun was warm around them, and they were basking
in it like two young turtles.
"I know," Theodora was saying restively; "but I want to do something
really and truly useful, something that will help on the world. Here I
am, sixteen years old, and I've never been of the least use to anybody."
"How about me?" Billy suggested, luxuriously stretching and then
clasping his hands at the back of his head.
"You? Oh, you don't count."
"Thanks."
Theodora sprang up and whirled the chair to the gate and back again to
the steps.
"What a tease you are, Billy! Next time, if you don't behave, I'll tip
you out. You know what I mean. I get just as much fun out of this as
you do. What I want is to help on the masses."
"Rats!" Billy remarked profanely.
"Not rats at all. You don't need me; they do."
"So do I. Who takes me all over town?"
"That's selfish, Billy. They need me more than you do, then."
"No, they don't either. Who'd take me?"
"Patrick. Besides, you'll take yourself soon, and then you won't want me
any more."
There was a little involuntary note of sadness in her tone, and Billy
smiled to himself, as he shifted his position to face her.
"What's started you to talking all this flummery, Ted?" he asked
bluntly, heedless, in true boy fashion, of the vague aspirations and
aims of sweet sixteen. "I thought you had too good sense to get
sentimental."
The word stung Theodora, and she started up abruptly.
"Let's go to the shore," she said shortly.
"Aren't you too tired? I am growing fat and heavy, you know."
For a week, now, Billy had been installed at the doctor's, while his
mother had been called away by the illness of her only brother. The
arrangement suited them all, Billy and Theodora even more than the
others. The two friends never seemed to weary of the long hours they
spent together, never appeared to be at a loss for subjects of
conversation. For the most part, Hubert was with them; but there were
times, like the present, when his other friends demanded his whole
attention, and Billy and Theodora were left to each other's society.
Hope was absorbed in other interests, though she was always kind and
considerate of their guest; and, by a tacit consent, Phebe's company was
shunned rather than courted.
The winter had been good to Billy. Day by day, his strength was coming
back to him, slowly and by almost imperceptible stages, it is true; but
by looking back from month to month, they could see his steady progress.
In his better days, he could walk about the rooms now, and even this
slight advance had put fresh life into him.
"Some day, I may begin to have a little respect for myself again," he
had said to Hubert, the day after his first expedition across the
library. "I've been like a rag doll for so long that I began to think
I'd never stir alone any more. Now it looks more as if I might be
somebody in time, and I can wait."
"Strikes me you've been waiting about long enough," Hubert returned
impatiently. "I wish you'd hurry up and come to life. There's fun enough
to be had, as soon as you're on your legs again."
"I should think it would seem queer to you to see me walking," Billy
observed reflectively.
"It does. I can't make it seem a part of you, somehow. I'm so used to
the chair," Theodora said, as she joined the group. "After all, Billy, I
think I shall miss it a little."
Well she might, for by this time the chair had become a part of her
life. Leaving Patrick to his own devices, the two young people had
explored the town, wandering here and there as Billy's curiosity or
Theodora's whim took them. There were days when Billy was too weak for
his ride, there were days when Theodora was too busy with other things
to take him out during the warmer part of the day; but, as a rule, three
or four times a week they wandered away in search of fresh scenes and an
occasional adventure.
"By the way, Ted, how comes on the story?" Billy asked, as they drew
near the steps once more and Mulvaney came forward to meet them.
"Seventeen chapters are done," she answered, slackening her pace a
little.
"Moses! How many do you expect to have?"
"I don't know. They seem to count up awfully fast. I've only just come
to the first of the lovering. I can't seem to make much of that. I do
wish I knew how people make love."
"Perhaps you'll find out, some day," Billy suggested.
But Theodora frowned on him.
"Don't be silly. I'm not that kind, nor you either. I wish you could
help me out on it. Don't people ever--"
"Collaborate? Yes. When are you going to read it to me?"
"Do you really want it?"
"Yes."
"Well, to-night, perhaps, if we can get away by ourselves."
However, fate willed otherwise.
"Theodora," the doctor said, as they were leaving the dinner-table, that
day; "there's an errand I'd like you to do for me, about four o'clock. I
promised to send some medicine down to a house in Water Street for a
sick baby. Can you take it down? It's nothing catching," he added
reassuringly to his wife.
"I'll go. Can I take Billy?"
"Better not. It's a wretched region for wheels, and you might have an
upset," the doctor advised. "Come to the office, soon after four, and
I'll have it ready. You're getting to be your father's right-hand man,
Teddy." And he rested his hand affectionately on her shoulder before he
left the room.
A month before that time, Mrs. Farrington had received a visit from an
old college friend, one of the energetic workers in the university
settlements, and her stories of life in the slums had made a strong
impression upon Theodora's mind. For the time being, other interests
lost their charm. Theodora was content to sit by the hour and listen to
the experiences so remote from her own sheltered life. She was as
impressionable as most girls of her age; more than most girls, she
retained her impressions, dwelling upon them and magnifying them until
they seemed to become less a day-dream than a part of her actual
experience.
For the past three weeks, she had been filled with vague, restless
longings to have a share in the vast work of social reform; most of all,
her warm young heart turned to the neglected children. It was the same
impulse of protection which had first roused her interest in Billy
Farrington, the helpless invalid; and now, had Billy been a less
well-tried friend, he might have found himself forsaken to make room for
this new hobby of Theodora. As it was, she merely used him for a
safety-valve, and poured into his ears mysterious hints of the career
for which she was temporarily yearning.
The medicine was delivered, and, in the gathering dusk, Theodora's face
was turned towards home. It was a part of the town into which she rarely
penetrated,--a network of squalid streets near the water front; and, a
month ago, she would have swept through them with her nose in the air.
Now, however, she looked to the left and the right, as she walked
onward, hoping almost against hope that her secret prayers would be
answered, and that, even in this hasty progress, she might see some work
ready for her hand. Providence, always kind, was in a benign mood, and
her desire was fulfilled with unexpected promptness.
Down the street towards her came a forlorn little figure. It was a
child of nine, a girl whose grimy face was streaked and swollen with
tears, whose red hood was faded to a dull yellowish shade, whose coarse
gray coat was so many sizes too large for her that the sleeves were
folded back to allow her blue, chapped hands to come forth to the light
of day and to their destined usefulness. Theodora's heart gave a quick
bound, and, stepping forward, she bent over the wailing child.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
The child stopped sobbing and blinked up at her, disclosing a face of
unmistakably Keltic ancestry.
"What is the matter?" Theodora repeated.
"Huh?"
Theodora experienced a momentary shock. Not thus had her dreamed-of
foundlings answered to her imaginary queries. She rallied and reiterated
her question. The child's tears fell again.
"I'm--I'm losted, and I'm tired and so hungry."
Even in this woful climax, Theodora noted the gurgle of the child's
sobs. She told herself that it was like water bubbling from a bottle, a
large earthen bottle. Then she reproached herself for her misplaced
sense of humor.
There followed a little question, a little answer, a little consolation.
Then, before she quite realized what she was doing, Theodora was walking
rapidly towards home, with brotherly love swelling in her heart, and the
child's smutty hand clasped in her woollen mitten. She had delayed
longer than she knew, the walk home was long, and before she reached
there, the twilight had quite fallen, the house was brightly lighted,
and the family were gathered in the dining-room.
"Dear me, they're all at supper!" she said to herself, as she went up
the steps. "Never mind, little girl," she added, with a conscious
patronage which not even her sympathy could keep down. "They're having
their supper now. I'll take you up to my room, and, as soon as they're
through, I'll give you something to eat."
Her feminine intuition told her that the child's welcome would not be so
warm if she were presented at the supper-table. For a moment, she
hesitated what disposition to make of her charge. Then, herself hungry
and eager to get to the table and tell the story of her adventure,
she led the way to her room and popped the child into her own dainty
bed.
Mrs. McAlister looked up as Theodora entered the room.
[Illustration: "TEDDY, DEAR, THIS IS MY BROTHER ARCHIE, COME AT LAST."]
"You are late, Teddy, and I was just getting anxious about you. Archie,
this is my twin daughter, Theodora. Teddy dear, this is my dear brother
Archie, come at last." There was an exultant note in Mrs. McAlister's
voice which Theodora had never heard before.
Theodora gave a quick glance at the stranger who sat between her
stepmother and Hope, and the first look told her that she had found a
friend, one who would be true and loyal as a man could be. There was
nothing especially distinctive about Archie Holden. He was tall and
blond and athletic, sufficiently good-looking, and with easy, off-hand
manners. But his keen blue eyes, the curve of his little blond mustache,
above all, the grip of his hand and the ring of his voice suited
Theodora, and, long before supper was over, she had forgotten her
protégée in the excitement of the unexpected addition to their family
circle. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the child, more tired than
hungry, had fallen asleep in the midst of Theodora's soft white bed.
As they were leaving the table, Mrs. McAlister laid a detaining hand on
Theodora's arm.
"Teddy, I've had to put Archie into your room, to-night. Can you sleep
in the little back chamber? I am sorry to turn you out, but Billy has
the spare room, and I didn't like to put Archie with him. Do you mind,
dear? It's only for one night; then we can make some other arrangement."
"I don't care at all," Theodora answered readily. "It wouldn't do to put
him in with Billy. When did Mr. Holden come?"
"At five. It was such a surprise, too. You know we didn't expect him for
a week; but the heavy snow sent the party in, and he is to have a
vacation till the middle of March. What do you think of my little
brother, Teddy?"
"I think he's splendid," Theodora replied so emphatically that her
mother smiled.
"Run along after him, then," she said. "I want you and Hope to see that
his visit is a good one. Hope took your things into the back room,
Teddy, so you'll find everything ready for you at bedtime."
To Theodora's eager young mind, it seemed that the evening was the
shortest she had ever spent, and, when ten o'clock struck, she was
still sitting perched on the arm of Hope's chair, while she listened to
Archie's stirring tales of life in camp and field, in mountain and cañon
and desert. Then there was an interruption, for the bell rang and a
voice was heard asking for the doctor. Archie rose.
"Another patient, doctor? I believe I'll go to bed. Three nights in a
sleeper are too much for me. No, don't come with me, Bess; I know the
way perfectly."
However, Mrs. McAlister went to his door with him. As she came
downstairs, her husband met her in the hall.
"I don't quite comprehend this mystery, Bess," he said, while an anxious
frown puckered his brows. "There's a policeman here that accuses me of
having abducted a child. There's one missing from Water Street, it
seems, and he claims that she is here in this house."
"What?"
"'Tis a remarkable story. I can't seem to get at the bottom of it. He
doesn't know me; and he says his orders are not to go away without the
child. I can't convince him that there's no child here."
Just then they both started violently, for a double sound broke on
their ears, a long-drawn shriek as of a child in pain, followed by
Archie's voice, loud and remorseful,--
"Oh, by George!"