"Well, let's see." Teddy curled one foot under her, in the depths of the great easy-chair. "There must be two heroines, of course, and two,—no, three heroes."

"What'll you do with the odd one?" Billy asked.

"Kill him, to be sure." Theodora smacked her lips. "When the girl, his girl, you know, marries the wrong man, he will—" She paused and meditatively twisted the end of one of her long pigtails.

"Will what?"

"That's what I'm thinking about. It must be something original, not poison nor drowning. I know; I'll have him turn sleepless, and get up—No, he'll be a sleep-walker. He must dream that her house is on fire, and get up to save her, and walk into the barn and be kicked to death by her pet horse. She'll find him there in the morning, when she goes to give him sugar." In the triumph of her lurid ending, Theodora made havoc of her pronouns.

Billy pondered on the situation, clasping his hands under his head and turning to face his friend.

"Um-m. That's not so bad," he said at length. "It might possibly happen, even if it isn't likely. I had an uncle that somnambulated, and he used to hide the sheets in an old carriage in the barn. I suppose he might just as well have gone into a stall. Well?"

"And the other men would marry the girls. This one, the dead one, would be dark and sallow, with high cheek-bones and a thin nose. The others would be more commonplace. I think I'd have them something like Hu and you."

"Thanks."

"Oh, I don't mean you are too common; but you aren't a bit like my ideal hero," Theodora said bluntly. "I like the dead one best. I always do in stories, if he's only hectic enough. I asked papa once what hectic meant, and you ought to have heard him laugh when I told him the reason I wanted to know."

"Great shame I'm not hectic!" Billy commented. "What about the girls?"

"One is light, with yellow hair and very much fun in her. She's the one the dead man likes. The other is tall and still and stately, like a lily, with soft, dark hair that droops and is caught up with rare old combs."

"How many?"

"Oh, one at a time, of course, only she has ever so many, all of them of old silver. Stop interrupting! She sways when she walks."

"Gout or intoxication?"

"Keep still, Billy, or I won't tell." Theodora's tone was impatient. There were liberties which not even Billy was allowed to take, and this story, the outcome of her girlish dreams, was a sacred subject to her. She had pondered over it for months, and now that she felt the time had come to begin the actual work of writing, she was revealing the secret to Billy. Mrs. Farrington was spending a long rainy afternoon in her own room, writing letters, and the two young people had the library to themselves. For the most part, Billy was listening in respectful silence; but his sense of humor would assert itself occasionally, and Theodora, like all budding authors, was sensitive to ridicule.

Her threat was enough.

"I won't any more, Ted," Billy returned meekly; "only, if she wobbles like that, I don't see what keeps her combs from tumbling out. Don't make her too lop-sided, or else don't match her up to the man like me. I want girls that are put together tight. That's one reason I like you."

Theodora was only half appeased by the intended compliment. She had a secret liking for the "sweet disorder in the dress," and, of late, she had vainly attempted to achieve it.

"That's all right," she said rather loftily; "only you know everybody doesn't feel the way you do."

"Of course," Billy assented hastily. "What are their names, Ted?"

"The dark one is Violet Clementina Ascutney, and the little blond one is Marianne—with a final e—Euphrosyne Blackiston. The men are Eugene Vincent and Gerald Mortimer, and the dead one is Alessandro Stanley Farrington."

"Oh, great CÆsar, Ted! I can't stand that. Why can't you have a good plain Jack?"

"Jack is fearfully commonplace, and names do count for so much in a story."

Billy groaned.

"Maybe. Anyhow, you've got to leave out the Farrington. I can't go that. Which does Marianne-with-a-final-e take?"

"That's just it. She's left an orphan, rich as can be, and she asks Violet to live with her. Violet is the only daughter of a decayed Southern family, who had to teach for a living until she was rescued from her life of toil by the generosity of Marianne."

"With-a-final-e," Billy supplemented. His eyes were full of mischief, for Theodora's tone matched the pomp of her words.

"Then they live in this beautiful house," Theodora went on, sternly regardless of his flippancy; "with an old housekeeper, and they have beautiful times, parties and everything. One stormy night in summer, when they are sitting by the fire, watching the blaze and seeing pictures in it, the bell rings and a man in livery comes in to tell them that there has been a runaway accident and a man hurt. That's Alessandro, and I mean to get all this part out of papa's books."

"Well?"

"Well, he's there for weeks, and the housekeeper takes care of him and the girls don't see him; they just make him broth and things, and send them up to his room. One day, when he is pale and interesting, he leaves his room and sees Marianne and falls in love with her; but she never knows it. He is poor and too honorable to tell her his love, so he just wastes away, and she never guesses. It's all terribly sad."

"Well, yes, I should say so," Billy observed. "Are the others as forlorn?"

"No. Gerald is a student, and Marianne's cousin, who lives next door. He's jolly, with yellow hair, and means to be a doctor. He loves Violet, even if she is poor. He has a friend, Eugene, that isn't well,—not hectic a bit, but has trouble with his eyes or something, so he can't work, and comes to spend the summer there, and falls in love with Marianne. They all have great times, and poor Alessandro, in bed upstairs, can hear all their fun, when they sit on the piazza in the moonlight, and he buries his head in the pillows and sobs. One night, just in fun, Marianne makes her will and leaves all she has to Violet. Then Marianne and Eugene get engaged. Then Marianne dies of a fever, and they find the will and accuse Violet of killing her, and Eugene is so sorrowful that he goes into a convent."

"I thought men usually took to a monastery."

"What's the difference? Well, they have a trial, and Gerald stops being a doctor and studies law and makes a brilliant plea and saves her. Then, right in the court-room before them all, he presses her hand to his lips and cries, 'Mine! Mine forever!' and the whole room full of people thunders applause."

Theodora paused. Her cheeks were glowing with excitement. Billy had turned away his head and his arm half shielded his face.

"What do you think?" she demanded.

"It's great," he answered, with an odd huskiness in his tone.

"You really like it? You're not laughing at me?" Her tone was eager, yet mistrustful.

Billy's loyalty asserted itself. He took down his arm.

"Honestly, Ted, it's a great thing," he said with perfect gravity. "It's different, too; not just like all the others."

Theodora drew a deep sigh of relief as she nestled back in the chair.

"I'm so glad you like it, Billy, for I did want you to. You're the only living soul I've ever told, and now, if you don't think it's too bad, I'm going right to work on it." There was still a little note of question in her voice.

Billy held out his hand to her.

"Do you know what I honestly think, Teddy? Some day, you'll get there. If I were in your place, I'd go right to work on this, and I don't believe you'll ever be sorry. This first one may not be the success; but I'd try the chance, and keep on trying."

He was only a boy, though developed and deepened in character by his long illness until at times he spoke with the dignity and thoughtfulness of a man. Now his words rang true, and Theodora, as she stood beside him looking down into his eyes, was satisfied; and as she went home to begin her great undertaking, she thanked Providence, as she had so often done before during the past few weeks, for bringing her so loyal a friend.

It was with a feeling of elated self-consciousness that Theodora took her place in the family circle, that evening, with her little writing tablet in her hand. As she seated herself near the light, she cast a pitying glance at her family who were talking of trivial details, quite unconscious of the fact that that evening would mark an epoch in the literary history of America. They were used to her and to her tablet, and beyond the slight shifting of the group needful to give her a place by the table, she called forth no comment from anyone but Phebe, who, bent on teasing, turned the fire of her questions upon her older sister. Mrs. McAlister promptly quieted her by a suggestion of bedtime; and Theodora, left to herself, paused to smile in anticipation of the day when, book in hand, she could remind them all of that evening. Then she launched forth into a description of the swaying figure and drooping hair of Violet, too eagerly intent upon mustering the forces of her adjectives to heed the scratching of her own pen, or the conversation of the others. Once only she was roused from her writing to hear her father say, as he entered the room,—

"Yes, I've just been over there, and Will is improving, every day. I can't see why he won't be walking a little, in a week or so. I hope so, for he's had a long pull of it, and he has shown splendid pluck."

For an instant, Theodora was conscious of a jealous pang. Once on his feet and independent, good-by to her good times with Billy. He would be free to seek boy society and boy sports, and her company would cease to interest him. Angry at herself for her selfishness, yet conscious of a vague dissatisfaction with the future, she bent still closer over her writing, while her stepmother answered,—

"Really, Jack? I had no idea of it's coming so soon. Did you know that Jessie has asked us all to eat Thanksgiving dinner with her?"

The talk strayed on, but Theodora had lost herself once more. She had finished with Violet, and was now painting the horrors of the stormy night outside the house where the two girls sat over the fire. Like most girls of her age, Theodora had a natural talent for melodrama, and she revelled in her description, as her pen raced over the paper. Pausing at last to decide whether lurid or murky best described the night, she caught Hope's eyes fixed on her steadily.

"What is it?" she asked abruptly.

"I was thinking it was about time you began to put up your hair," Hope answered, rising and laying her hand upon Theodora's heavy braids.

The transition was sudden and sharp. Theodora had been feeling as if she trod on air. Now the clouds seemed to part and let her drop into the common clay. She shook off her sister's hand.

"I don't want to put up my hair," she said sharply.

"But you're old enough, and you would look so much better. Don't you think so?" Hope appealed to her stepmother.

"I don't care how I look. I want to be comfortable." Theodora threw her pen down on the table.

"But you're almost a young lady," Hope urged, with a quiet persistency which exasperated Theodora. "You are really too old to wear two tails, any longer."

"I don't care if I am!" Theodora exclaimed hotly. "It's neat, and it's comfortable, and I intend to wear it like this till I get ready to put it up. You can take care of your own hair, Hope McAlister, and I'll take care of mine."

At best, Theodora was hot-tempered. To-night, excited by her attempt at writing and tired with the unwonted effort, she flashed like a train of powder. She realized, even in the midst of it, that her annoyance was out of all proportion to the cause. Before she could control herself, Hubert gave a new direction to her thoughts.

"If all you're after is comfort, Teddy," he drawled; "I'd advise you to get a hair-cut. It's much the most comfortable thing you can find."

For the moment, Theodora was too angry to see the humor of his suggestion.

"I will," she exclaimed. "Hope McAlister, if you say another word, I'll have my hair cut off."

"Oh, Teddy dear!" Hope's hand was very gentle, as it touched her hair. "You wouldn't do anything so crazy. Just see how pretty I can make you look."

But Theodora jerked herself away, rushed out of the room and up to her own room.

"I won't! I won't!" she said fiercely. "I hate Hope. She's jealous because my hair is better than hers. I won't put it up. I'd rather cut it off, myself, short off."

She paused to listen. Hope was coming up the stairs. She recognized the slow, gentle footfall. It came nearer the door. Theodora took a quick step to the table and caught up the scissors from her little work-basket.

"Come, Teddy," Hope called; "don't be silly and get cross about a little thing like that."

Theodora clashed her scissors ominously. Even in her anger, there came a sudden wonder how Marianne would meet such a crisis, and her voice took a higher, more incisive note, as she said,—

"Hope, unless you let me alone, I'm going to cut it off."

"But, Teddy—"

There came a snip and a long, grinding cut, followed by a light thud, as one heavy braid fell to the floor. Startled at what she had done, Theodora turned to the mirror. One side of her head was covered with loose, shaggy locks standing out in wild disorder. As she looked, she grew white and her lips quivered. She hesitated for a moment; then, shutting her teeth, she sheared away the other braid. For a moment longer, she stood staring at the white face and wide, terrified eyes reflected in the mirror. Then, throwing aside the scissors, she cast herself down on her bed and pulled the pillows over her head to smother the sound of her sobs.