"Ted! Teddy! Theodora McAlister!"

Theodora was passing the Farringtons' grounds. At the third call, she looked up. Billy, on the piazza, was waving his cap in one hand and pounding the floor with one of his crutches with the other.

"What's the matter?" she called, at a loss to account for these vigorous demonstrations.

"Come up, and I'll tell you," he shouted. "Hurry up about it, too."

"Is the house on fire?" she demanded in feminine alarm, as she turned and sped across the lawn.

Billy laughed derisively.

"If that isn't just like a girl! It's nothing of the kind, Ted; it's good news."

"What a scare you gave me, you sinner!" She dropped down on the step below him and fanned herself with her hat, for it was noon of an August day. "What is your great news, anyway?"

"Uncle Frank is sick again."

"But I thought you said it was good news," Theodora said, in some perplexity.

"So 'tis. Wait till you hear the rest of it. He isn't dangerous, only comfortable; but the doctors say he'll die unless he goes up into the mountains. He won't go unless mamma goes, and so she's going."

"But for the life of me, I don't see anything so very good in all that," Theodora said again.

"It is very solemn and serious so far, for he's really awfully ill, and mamma doesn't want to leave me, and she feels that it is her duty to go," Billy answered, trying to subdue the rapture written in every line of his face. "Now we're coming to the good part,—good for me, that is, for I don't know what you'll say to it. She is going to be away for six weeks, and I'm to be at your house."

"Oh, Billy, how splendid!" Theodora's tone left no doubt of her sincerity. "When are you coming?"

"Day after to-morrow. Mamma had a letter, this morning, and she's been in a great pickle about it. She felt she ought to go, for there isn't anybody else; but she couldn't take me. I'm not up to mountain climbing just yet, and she was bound she wouldn't leave me alone. Finally, I suggested going to your house, and that struck her as a good scheme. She's had a long session with your father and mother, and it's all settled, unless you veto it."

"I'll be likely to. Now we shall have a chance to work on our play."

"And to develop our pictures," added Billy, who just now was suffering from an attack of the photographic mania.

"Yes, dozens of things. We can do so much in six weeks."

"The worst of it is," Billy remarked pensively; "I'm sure to have such a fine time of it at your house that I can't seem to get up much regret over my mother's departure."

"You'll be homesick enough," Theodora predicted. "Wait a week and see."

Two days later, Mrs. Farrington took the morning train for New York, where she was to meet her brother and go with him to the Adirondacks. Billy stood on the steps to wave her a farewell; then he slowly crossed the lawn towards the gate which had been cut through the fence under "Teddy's tree." For the next week or two, he and Theodora were busy from morning till night, revelling in the thousand and one interests for which the days had been all too short, when they were obliged to take their meals and to sleep in places six hundred feet apart.

One golden September day, Billy and Theodora were out under the old apple-tree, hard at work on the play which they had long been planning to write. It was to be given on the following Christmas; and the parts, written to order, included the three older McAlisters, Billy, and Archie who had promised to come East in time for the holidays. There was need for strict division of labor. Billy, more familiar with theatres, was able to supply the stage craft and the plot, while Theodora padded the skeleton and covered the dry bones of his outline with sonorous speeches over which she was forced to pause, now and then, to smack her lips.

"'Die, villain, die; and drink the cup of retribution for all your sins!'" she read. "How does that go, Billy?"

"All right. Do I say that, or does Hu?"

"Hu. Poor Uncle Archie! Then he tumbles over with a whack and dies in Hope's arms."

"What kills him? You never do half kill people, Ted. You take too much for granted."

"Conscience. No; Hu, that is, Sir James, shoots him."

"I remember now. I'd forgotten. I hope Hu's a safe shot."

"He couldn't hit a church, if he tried." Theodora giggled. "What's the matter, Hope?" For she saw Hope coming rapidly across the lawn towards them.

"Bad news, dear." Hope's eyes were full of tears. "Mamma has a letter from Butte, and Archie is in the hospital there, with typhoid fever."

"Hope! Not really?"

"Do they think he'll die?" Billy asked anxiously, with boyish bluntness.

Hope's tears began to fall on the letter in her hand.

"They say he's very ill, and that they felt it was best to write. Papa says typhoid is always uncertain, and he wants mamma to start West, to-night."

"Will she go?"

"I don't know yet. She's half wild, for Archie is her only brother, and she loves him so."

"Don't we all?" Theodora questioned impulsively.

Even in the midst of her tears, Hope blushed scarlet.

"Not in the same way, Teddy," she said gently. "You know they were all alone with each other for so long. I hope she will go."

"It would be better if I weren't here," Billy said thoughtfully.

"No; you're like one of us, Billy, and it's easier, with you here to be sorry for us," Hope said gratefully, for she had been quick to realize the sympathy in his look and tone. "Besides, it may not be so bad. Mamma, if she goes, may find him better and able to come home with her."

Back of Theodora, Billy stretched out his hand to Hope and pressed her hand in silent token of understanding and pity. Nothing increases the power of observation like suffering. Billy's long months of helpless idleness had taught him to read the faces and moods of the people about him as a strong, active boy could never have done. He had fathomed the true state of affairs between Archie and Hope. He knew how much of Hope's future happiness, unknown to herself even, was depending on the outcome of that illness of Archie, and he saw her present pain, and the brave self-control which helped her to master it.

Mrs. McAlister left for the West, that night The days which followed were gloomy ones to them all, anxious and busy ones to Hope in particular, for upon her devolved the care of the housekeeping and much of the responsibility over Allyn and Phebe who was as fractious as never before and resented Hope's gentle rule. Two more letters came from the hospital; but they reported no change. Until Mrs. McAlister could reach her brother, they could know nothing definite. They could only wait and hope.

During all these weary, dreary days, it was a comfort to them all to have Billy with them. It had long been impossible to think of him as an outsider; but now he came closer to them than ever before, comforting Hope, helping Theodora to pass the time of restless waiting, cajoling Phebe into good humor, and entertaining Allyn by the hour. Blithe and sunny-tempered himself, he kept them from becoming too blue, while the little care and half-tender, half-playful coddling which the girls gave him was a safety valve for their tensely-strung nerves.

"I believe I love those old crutches of yours, Billy," Theodora said impetuously, one night.

He had been unusually weak, all that day. Even now, there were times when his strength failed him and when, for the passing hour, the old pain came back to give him a few twinges, as a reminder that he could not afford to be too careless. He had been lying stretched out on the sofa with Theodora sitting beside him, while the twilight dropped over the room. At her words, he looked up abruptly.

"I can't say that I do."

"No; I suppose not. Still, I owe them a good deal."

"I don't see why," he said vaguely, as his eyes rested on her bright face, just now looking unusually dreamy and thoughtful, while she sat staring at the long rosewood staff in her hand.

"Perhaps it's selfish," she said, with a smile; "but I've an idea that if, when I first knew you, you'd been strong and—just like other boys, I should never have known you half so well. Do you know, Billy Farrington, I'd just like a chance to fight for you, to do something to show I'm not a friend just in talk and nothing else."

He laughed at the sudden fierceness of her tone, little thinking how soon her words would be put to the test.

"I hope you won't have the chance, Ted; but I've an idea that, if ever I were in a tight place, you'd help me out of it sooner than anyone else."

"Try me and see," she answered briefly.

Good news came to them, only the next day. Mrs. McAlister had reached her brother, to find that convalescence had already begun. The attack of fever had been sudden and sharp; but Archie's fresh young strength had held its own, and his recovery was likely to be a rapid one.

"I shall bring him home with me," Mrs. McAlister wrote. "He oughtn't to go back into camp, this fall; and the doctor says that the long rest will be the best tonic he can have, for he's been working altogether too hard. If he is able, we shall start for home, next week, and get there by the twenty-fifth."

Hope sang blithely to herself, all that day, and even Phebe was moved into a more agreeable mood than was her wont. Allyn took a more materialistic view of the situation.

"Uncle Archie's going to get well," he remarked to Billy. "Now he can bring me nonner engine."

For two days, the McAlister household felt that it was living in an atmosphere of perpetual sunshine. Then the clouds fell again. It was one Saturday morning. Theodora was at her desk, straightening out the account of Mr. Huntington's weekly sales, Hubert was playing football, and Hope had gone to market, taking Allyn with her. Out on the lawn west of the house, Phebe and Isabel St. John were playing tennis and wrangling loudly over the score. Left to himself in the house, Billy threw aside his book, took up his crutches, and went away to the barn, where Dr. McAlister had given up an old harness closet for his use in developing his pictures. It opened out of the barn not far from the stalls where Vigil and Prince were kept; but it was easily accessible and sufficiently roomy, and Billy had accepted the doctor's offer eagerly.

Once shut up in the dark in company with his ruby lantern, Billy fell to work on a picture of Allyn, taken only the day before. So absorbed was he that it was only vaguely that he heard the voices of Phebe and Isabel in the barn close at hand. The murmur went on for some moments, broken by girlish gigglings and little squeals of merriment. Suddenly there came another squeal, louder, this time, and more earnest; there was an interchange of swift, low words, and then silence fell, and Billy dismissed the incident from his mind.

The picture proved refractory and refused to come out. Then at length Billy gave it up in despair, threw away the developing fluid, cast the plate into a pile of similar failures, took up his crutches, and started for the house again. On the way, he met Phebe and Isabel. They looked at him furtively as he passed.

"What's up, Phebe?" he asked.

"Nothing. I only thought you looked tired," she replied, with unusual thoughtfulness.

"So I am, of doing nothing. Come in and play casino with me."

"Can't," Phebe said hastily. "We'd like to, Billy; but there's something else we've got to do."

"All right." And he passed on.

They were all seated at the dinner-table, that noon, when the doctor came into the room. His face was white and very stern.

"Vigil is dead," he said abruptly. "Do any of you children know anything about it?"

"I don't," said the twins, in a breath, and Hope echoed them; but Phebe started and cast a swift glance at Billy.

"Do you, Billy?" the doctor asked, for the glance was not lost on him.

"No; of course not. When did she die?"

"This noon, when I came in, I found her. She was groaning pitifully, and very weak. I wonder that you didn't hear her."

"She died?" Billy asked sympathetically, for the doctor's voice broke over the last words. Vigil had been his favorite horse, and together, man and beast, they had passed through many a tragic night and day. Such friends cause bitter mourning.

"I shot her, to put her out of her misery," he responded briefly. Then he turned to Phebe.

"Phebe, do you know anything about this?"

She grew white.

"No," she stammered. "At least, not exactly."

"What do you mean? Do you know anything about Vigil?"

"I—I'd rather not tell."

"Answer me," he said sternly.

For her only reply, she burst out crying, and cast another glance at Billy. Her father took her hand and led her away to the office.

"Now, Phebe, I want you to tell me about this," he said.

"Oh, no."

"Did you do anything to Vigil?"

"No."

"Do you know who did?"

"N—no."

"Phebe, this isn't a time to shield the culprit. Tell me what you know."

"I don't know anything," she sobbed.

"Were you at the barn, this morning?"

"No."

"Did you see any one go there?"

"No—only Billy."

"Was Billy there?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"About ten o'clock."

"You saw him?"

"Yes; Isabel and I were playing tennis, and I saw him go. When he came back, I met him, and he looked so queer that I asked him if anything was the matter."

"Queer? How?"

"Dark, sort of, under his eyes, and—scared."

"Phebe," the doctor looked at her steadily, searchingly; "is this all true?"

"Yes."

He took a quick turn up and down the room.

"And I thought the fellow was true as steel," he muttered to himself. "Those eyes ought to be true. Poor fellow! I wish Bess were here to talk to him."

His face was very gentle as he went back to the dining-room. As soon as the meal was over, he turned to Billy.

"Come to the office a minute, Billy," he said.

With a look of wonder on his face, Billy followed him to the door. When they were alone, the doctor spoke.

"Billy," he said quietly; "Phebe says you were at the barn, this morning."

"So I was," he answered.

"That you were the only one who went there."

"How does she know?" Billy asked easily, for as yet he did not see whither the doctor's questions were leading.

"Did you see Vigil?"

Then, of a sudden, the truth burst on the boy, and he flushed with anger. The doctor saw his heightened color, and mistook it for guilt.

"And I trusted you so, Billy," he said sorrowfully.

"Dr. McAlister, do you think I did anything to your horse?"

"Who else?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," the boy returned recklessly. Then, with an effort, he regained his self-control. "Dr. McAlister," he said, and his true, honest blue eyes met the doctor's eyes steadily; "Dr. McAlister, on my honor, I have not been near Vigil, nor done anything to hurt her. That is all I can say about it."

There was a silence, long and tense. Then, as the doctor made no sign, Billy turned away and went out of the office.