"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.

"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."