"Back again, at last?" Billy looked up with a smile, as Theodora came
flying into the room.
"Yes. Have you missed me?"
"Haven't I? You mustn't go off again, Ted. You are altogether too
frisky."
"What could I do? Papa took me."
"Had a good time?"
"Beautiful. It's too much for one spring,--three weeks in New York, and
this lovely week of driving."
"You had good weather, sure enough. Also, ma'am, you're brown as a
squaw. Also, I think your hair has grown."
"Wish 't would; but that's a forbidden subject. I'll tell you one thing,
Billy Farrington: if I ever do get any hair again, I'll guard it like
the apple of my eye. But what about you?"
"News."
"Oh, what?" she questioned eagerly.
"Well, we went down to see Dr. Parker, last Saturday."
"What did he say?"
"That I'm doing as well as could be expected."
"What else? I know there's something good; you show it all over."
Billy tried to draw down his face, failed, gave up the effort, and
laughed instead.
"'Tis good, Ted. I told them not to tell you, for I wanted the fun of
it. He says I can plan to enter college, a year from this fall; he says
in three months I can walk as far as my crutches will take me, and he
says in a few years I'll be as well as ever. Isn't it fine? Why, Ted,
what's the matter?"
"Nothing; only I'm a goose." And Theodora looked up, her eyes shining
with happy tears. "You know I'm glad, Billy; only I don't know how to
say it straight."
"That's all right, Ted. It sort of took my own breath away at first. I
couldn't wait to tell you, for you've been the best friend I've had.
You've pulled me through lots of bad places."
Theodora's face was very gentle; but she laughed.
"The chair runs easily, Billy. It didn't take much pulling."
"That's another thing." Billy's face was growing brighter with every
moment. "I've said good-by to the chair."
"What do you mean? You can't walk yet?"
"No; but I'm going to have a tricycle that runs with my hands, and I can
go wherever I choose. How will you like to have me running away from
you?"
"You can't; I'll hang on behind, Billy. A tricycle? How splendid! I
believe I envy you more than ever."
"I'll swap my tricycle for your back," he retorted.
"I wish we could take turns. When is it coming?"
"Friday, the letter said."
"All right; I'll make the most of the time till then. After you get it,
there'll be no catching a glimpse of you."
Billy laughed, and it seemed to Theodora that his laugh was a little
mocking.
"I'll whistle to you, as I go by. Honestly, Ted, it does seem hard to
leave you alone, when we've had such great times together."
His words were the echo of her thoughts. For a moment, Theodora
struggled with herself. Then her real love for her friend triumphed.
"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 cocked 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 Saturday 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
glass 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 circumstances, 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.
"Not a bit. It's no longer than _Robert Elsmere_, and everybody has read
that."
"Have you?"
"No; but I counted the pages and words and things. This isn't long a
bit, Billy."
The discussion was never ended, for just then Patrick came into the
room.
"The expressman has been here, Mr. Will."
"And has brought the tricycle? Hurray!" And Billy seized his crutches.
"Where is it? Help me up, Patrick! Come along, Ted!"
"I had it taken into the kitchen. Shall I open it, sir?"
"Of course. Hurry up about it, too. Did anything else come?"
"Yes; but not here, sir."
With a little feeling of envy, Theodora followed Billy to the kitchen
and stood by, while Patrick opened the crate and took out the light
tricycle so carefully packed within.
"Isn't it a beauty? Isn't it fine? Oh, why does it have to be raining,
Ted, so I can't try it? Put me into the thing, Patrick. This floor is so
large that I can see how it is going to work."
The story and even Theodora herself was forgotten, while the boy grasped
the handles and rolled himself up and down the floor. For the moment,
he was half beside himself with joy. It was as if his prison door
suddenly had opened, after having been closed and barred for more than a
year. After months of the stuffy couch, after months more of Patrick and
the chair, it was good to be able to move himself about, once more. But
he was weaker than he knew, and the excitement was more than he had the
strength to endure. Theodora, who had been watching him, saw him grow a
little white around the mouth.
"Take me out, Patrick," he said wearily. "I sha'n't run away, to-day. I
think, if you don't mind, I'll get back on the lounge again."
Theodora lingered beside him until he was his usual bright self once
more. Then she started for home. Allyn met her on the steps.
"Tum in," he said imperiously.
"What for?"
"'Cause. Hope said I wasn't to tell."
"Tell what?"
"Sumfin's here."
"What kind of a sumfin, Allyn? Wait till sister gets her mackintosh
off."
"No; tum." He tugged at her hand.
Laughing at his eagerness, she threw off her mackintosh, caught him in
her arms, and went in the direction of the voices which she heard in a
confused, excited murmur. As she opened the door, she was saluted with a
chorus.
"Here she is!"
"Oh, Ted, just look!"
"Now she won't speak to the rest of us."
"Teddy, do see here!"
She looked and saw. Then, regardless of Allyn in her arms, she cast
herself into the middle of the group and seized upon something that
stood there,--something with a gleam of black enamel and a flash of
nickel and the lustre of polished wood.
"Oh, Hu! Mamma! Hope! What is it? Where did it come from?"
"The expressman left it here, addressed to you, Teddy; and here's a note
in Mrs. Farrington's writing, tied to the bar."
Theodora snatched the note and broke the dainty seal, but it was a
moment before she could realize the meaning of what was written within.
"MY DEAR TEDDY," it ran; "Will is so happy in his tricycle; but I
knew it wouldn't be quite perfect unless you had the mate to it. He
is so used to going with you, in his chair, that I am sure he would
miss you, now he can go alone. Will you accept this bicycle from
us both, dear, and remember that we give it to you, not because you
have been so kind to Will, but because we care so very much for
your dear little self?
"Sincerely,
JESSIE FARRINGTON."
"My!" Phebe commented, when Theodora folded up the note. "I wish I had
somebody to be good to, Teddy McAlister. I'd like to earn a bicycle as
easy as you have."