"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?"
"'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 assent.
"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 nobody 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 passing 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.
"At banquets and dinners and receptions. Too often at college suppers,
and by boys not much older than Hu."
"Really?"
"Yes, Ted. Now, my dear, I'm going to give you a lecture. It won't be
like the one you heard, last night, for I'm not a temperance orator,
only a plain old doctor. Temperance isn't signing the pledge, or keeping
it after it is signed; it is keeping one's self free from all kinds of
badness and excess, whether it's drinking or smoking, or too much
dancing, or tight shoes. It is taking all our pleasures moderately, so
that they can never hurt our bodies or our minds. Do you see what I
mean?"
"But oughtn't all liquor to be taken away?" she urged, still mindful of
the orator's sounding periods.
"Like any other powerful drug. It's one thing to use it, Ted, another to
abuse it, as we doctors know. There are times when it must be used, just
like any other medicine. Because I give you a dose, one day, you don't
need to go on taking it forever, dear."