Two years had passed away, and The Savins lay basking in the heat of an
August noon. Here and there, a broad calladium leaf swayed majestically
to and fro in a passing breeze, and the locusts sang shrilly in the
trees overhead. Upstairs in her own room, Theodora rocked lazily,
humming to herself while she darned her stockings.
"Prosaic work!" she said aloud, half whimsically. "The sure forerunner
of a prosaic spinsterhood! My plans don't seem to materialize rapidly,
and I foresee that I shall go on darning stockings till the end of my
days. Bah! how I hate it!" She rolled up her stockings into a ball. "Two
years ago, and I was saying good-by to Billy in New York, and we were
making great plans for what we were to accomplish. Dear old Billy! I
hope he's quite strong by this time. It's almost time for another letter
from him, seems to me."
She tossed the ball to the table beside her, and, clasping her hands
above her rumpled hair, fell to dreaming. Phebe interrupted her.
"A letter for you, Teddy!" she proclaimed, opening the door and casting
the envelope across the room towards her sister.
"From Billy?"
"How should I know? I don't read your letters."
It was the same Phebe, older and taller, but otherwise unchanged. Now
her tone was slightly toploftical.
"I didn't suppose you did," Theodora answered, while she rose to pick up
the letter. "I can't say you are over-ceremonious with it, Babe."
"Don't care." And Phebe vanished as abruptly as she had come.
The letter was not from Billy. The handwriting was strange; and Theodora
turned it over and over nervously, before she ventured to open it. Then
of a sudden the color came into her cheeks, and her eyes flashed.
Seizing the letter, she opened the door and ran down the stairs.
"Hope! Hu! Somebody!" she called, with a glad, exultant note in her
voice.
She called again. Then she heard Phebe's voice from the lawn.
"I am here. What do you want?"
"Where is everybody?" Theodora asked, stepping out on the piazza.
"I'm here." Phebe's accent suggested that her feelings were hurt at the
question.
"Yes; but papa and mamma?"
"Driving."
"And Hope?"
"Mooning round with Archie somewhere."
"Where's Hu?"
"Gone for a ride."
"Then you'll be the first to hear my great news."
"Needn't tell me, unless you want. I don't care to be taken
Jack-at-a-pinch."
"I do want to tell you, Babe. I only thought I would wait till the
others were here; but I don't believe I can wait."
"What is it?" Phebe asked, her curiosity overcoming her momentary pique
as she looked at Theodora's radiant face.
"It's only that I've written a book and sent it to a publisher, and he
says it's good enough to publish."
"Really? Really and truly?" Phebe's face expressed her incredulity.
"Will he pay you a lot for it?"
"Something,--not a lot, though," Theodora answered, too much accustomed
to Phebe's lack of sympathy to be hurt by her words. "But that's not the
main thing, Babe. Think of the honor of it!"
"Hm!" Phebe said slowly. "It's the money I'd care for, Teddy. Ever so
many people have written books before, and some of them younger than
you."
Great was the rejoicing of the family, that day, when Theodora met them
at the dinner-table with her news. In the clamor of question and
congratulation, no word could be distinguished at first. Then Dr.
McAlister's voice, clear and quiet, hushed the others.
"Teddy, dear," he said tenderly; "I couldn't love you more than I do;
but this makes your old father very proud of you. I wish your own mother
could have known it."