Slowly, very slowly, Theodora was turning about in front of her mirror to inspect her new suit. It was her nearest approach to that glory of modern womankind, the tailor-made gown, and Theodora's face was expressive of unmitigated approval. The dark green cloth suited her complexion to perfection, the jacket was edged with fur, and the dark green hat, rolled sharply upwards, framed her eager young face in a soft setting of velvet and feathers. Theodora looked her best, and, like a true daughter of Eve, she was perfectly aware of the fact. With the aid of a hand-glass, she studied her right side, her left side, her back, petulantly brushed away the heavy masses of her short hair, made sure that Archie's pin showed its gleam at her throat; then she descended the stairs in search of admiration.

She found Archie in the parlor, the symmetry of his face somewhat marred by the patch of plaster on his right temple.

"How do you like it, Uncle Arch?" she demanded, clasping her hands and revolving before him like a teetotum.

"It's good. You look warm and comfortable, and not a bit floppy," he answered. "When do you go?"

"Friday. I'd much rather wait till Tuesday, and see you off; but beggars mustn't be choosers, and it was lovely of Mrs. Farrington to ask me."

"You'll have a great time with them," Archie returned, privately reflecting that Mrs. Farrington had no cause to be ashamed of her charge. For the past three days, he had been devoting most of his spare time to gentle Hope, yet he confessed to a hearty admiration for off-hand, boyish Theodora, who had done so much to make his stay a pleasant one. "Going to write to me, Ted?" he added persuasively.

"I don't know. What for?"

"To tell me the gossip, of course. When a fellow is away in camp, it's good to get letters from friends at home." Archie's tone was charged with the sentimentality of his years. He was sorry to turn his back upon civilization once more, sorry to lose touch with his adopted nieces; and, above all, most humanly sorry to find that Theodora was taking his approaching departure in such a philosophical spirit.

"Oh, I'd just as soon write, if you want me to," she answered, while she settled her collar and gave a feminine tweak to her sleeves; "only I don't see the use of it. Mamma will be sure to write, and there's no use wasting stamps in telling you the news twice over."

Assuredly Theodora was not inclined to sentiment, and Archie strolled away to Hope, in search of appreciation, just as Phebe bounced into the room. At sight of Theodora's new gown, she halted abruptly.

"I suppose you think you look pretty well," she said crushingly.

"Well, yes, I do," Theodora replied, with feigned indifference, for she always shrank from Phebe's criticism. "How do you like it?"

Phebe walked around her and inspected her from top to toe with provoking deliberation.

"It wouldn't be so bad," she remarked at length. "The coat isn't quite right in the back, somehow; and isn't your hat a little mite one-sided?"

"Oh, Babe, I wish anything ever suited you," Theodora broke out impatiently. "You always find something wrong somewhere."

But Phebe rebuked her.

"Now, don't get cross, Teddy. Mrs. Farrington won't think you're a good companion for Billy, if you are as cross as that."

"Companion?"

"Yes. Of course she wouldn't have taken you to New York, if she hadn't wanted somebody to take care of Billy when she was busy."

Phebe had a genius for aiming her shafts which was far in advance of her years. Theodora winced; then she turned to her little sister with a sort of fierceness.

"Who said so?" she demanded.

"I say so," Phebe returned calmly, as she settled herself on the sofa; "and so does Isabel St. John."

Theodora's exasperation reached a climax.

"If you two children don't stop talking over my affairs, I'll tell papa," she said in impotent rage, for the McAlister code of honor scorned brute force, and she dared not give her young sister the shaking she so richly deserved.

"Tattle-tale!" Phebe replied in brief derision.

Theodora fled to her room, for she felt that she was no match for her composed young adversary. Hope found her, an hour later, sitting in a heap on the side of her bed.

"Don't mind, dear," she said gently. "I knew Babe had been saying something hateful; but it's only her way. Mrs. Farrington wants you to have a good time, and I'm so glad you are going. Three weeks in New York will be good for you, and you will see ever so much. Just think how lonely we are going to be without you and Archie!" Her voice broke a little.

Theodora kissed her impulsively.

"Truly, are you going to miss me so much, Hope? I'll stay at home, if you will. I really shouldn't mind."

"Of course we shall miss you, Ted, you and Archie both. Hu and I are going to be forlorn and dull enough; but that's no reason you are to stay here, and lose such a chance. Archie has asked me to write to him," she added a little inconsequently.

Not even Phebe's cutting remarks could blunt the edge of Theodora's happiness, three days later, as she went gliding into the vast babel of the Grand Central Station. It had been her first real journey; it was her first sight of New York, that Mecca of all true and loyal Americans, and she gave a little gasp of sheer delight while she followed Mrs. Farrington from the car and turned to wait for Patrick and Billy. She watched it all with open-eyed content, the uniformed porters, the throng of hungry-looking cabmen, the comfortable carriage, and the broad, crowded streets through which they drove to reach the hotel. The hotel itself completed her satisfaction. Mrs. Farrington liked luxury, both for herself and for the sake of her invalid son, and Theodora could not wonder enough at the greatness and glitter of it all, the halls and parlors, the huge dining-room and their own cosy suite of rooms near by. Strange to say, after the first night, she was quite at her ease, and settled into her luxurious surroundings with an apparent unconsciousness which was as gratifying to Mrs. Farrington as it was amusing.

It was all old ground to Mrs. Farrington and Billy; but they enjoyed exploring the city with their eager young guest, who revelled in it with all the enthusiasm of her years. Wherever a carriage could go, wherever the faithful Patrick could help his young master, there they went, until Theodora, with the aid of her well-studied map, knew the city from the Battery to the fastnesses of Harlem. It seemed to the young girl that the ordinary laws of time and space had been suspended, and that she was living in a gilded fairyland which would continue till the end of days.

There was even one wonderful evening when Theodora, in a fresh, light gown which had mysteriously appeared from one of Mrs. Farrington's trunks, and Billy, in a brand-new suit and immaculate tie, went with Mrs. Farrington to hear CalvÉ and the De ReszkÉs sing Carmen. After that, the rest was rather of the nature of an anticlimax, and Theodora spent the next day in a grove of paper, transporting Marianne and Violet to the Metropolitan Opera House in a blaze of diamonds and yards of white silk gowns.

On the following morning, she was still deep in this pleasant task. The rain was sweeping against the windows; yet, in imagination, Violet was cantering through one of the bridle paths in the Park, with Gerald at her side, when Mrs. Farrington came into the room.

"May I interrupt you, Teddy?" she asked, with the gentle courtesy which made Theodora feel so grown-up and elegant.

Theodora threw aside her pen.

"What is it?" she asked with alacrity.

"Nothing very pleasant, for I shall have to send you out in this storm. I've just taken Will down to Joe Everard's to spend the morning, and I promised to call for him, this noon. When I came back, I found a note from Mrs. Keith, asking me to come to lunch, to meet one of our California cousins. Do you feel as if you could go down in the carriage and come back with Will? I hate to have him alone, in case anything happens."

Theodora laughed contentedly.

"What an idea! Of course I'll go. I always love to drive, you know. Where's the place?"

"Away down town, near Washington Square. You'd better go right down Fifth Avenue. I'll dress, then, and go to Mrs. Keith's; and then send the carriage back for you, if you'll be ready."

Theodora went back to her writing, and the moments slid away only too rapidly. Whatever was the result of her labors, she enjoyed them keenly. All through the winter, though Phebe scolded and Allyn teased and the world about her went awry, she had been able to forget it all in the adventures of her imaginary friends, the tale of whose doings had come to be bulky and dog's-eared from frequent readings. She was still busy over her work, when Patrick came to the door.

"The carriage is here, Miss Theodora."

She quickly put on her hat and coat. Patrick banged the carriage door behind her and mounted the box beside the driver, and they drove away. It was the first time she had driven out in solitary splendor, and Theodora felt very dignified and luxurious as she leaned back on the cushions and idly watched the passing show which had grown so familiar to her during the past two weeks. When they came to the lower end of the Avenue, she sat up in quick attention, for she was passing window after window full of books spread out in enticing array, and above the doorways she read on the gilded signs the names which she had learned to know were on the titlepages of the books within. At the sight, there came into her mind a sudden recollection of her well-worn manuscript at home, and of the tales she had read of young writers who had made their way into the publisher's presence.

With an impulsive movement, she tapped sharply on the window.

"Stop, please," she said. "On this side."

Obediently the driver drew up opposite the doorway of a firm of international fame, and Theodora, secure in the consciousness of her new gown and the unwonted luxury of the carriage and Patrick, entered the store. It was a dreary day of a dull season, and with comparatively little trouble she found herself in a quiet office on the third floor of the building. Its occupant, a tall, thin man with iron-gray hair, looked up at her approach, and a slight expression of wonder came into his eyes as they rested on his girlish visitor.

"What can I do for you?" he asked courteously.

Theodora was breathing a little quickly, and the bright color came and went in her cheeks. All unconsciously, she was looking her very best.

"I came to ask you about publishing a book."

"Mm. Is it one you have written?"

"Yes."

There was a pause, slight, yet perceptible. Then the man asked,—

"What sort of a book is it?"

"It's a novel. Kind of a love story."

"How long is it?"

"There are thirty-seven chapters done."

"Then it isn't finished?"

"No; but I could end it off about any time, if you are in a hurry for it."

In spite of himself, the publisher smiled. Theodora's girlish naÏvetÉ was refreshing to him. He liked her face and manner, and he was curious to see more of this young aspirant for fame, so he pushed forward a chair.

"Sit down," he said genially; "and tell me more about it."

With the off-hand, healthy directness of a boy, Theodora plunged into the midst of her plot and unfolded all its intricacies. The publisher listened till the end, always with the same little smile on his face.

"How old are you?" he asked, when she paused for breath.

"Sixteen."

"And you want to write books?"

"Awfully." Theodora's hand shut, as it lay in her lap. "I'm going to do it, too, some day."

"Good! I think perhaps you will. And you live in New York?"

"No; I live in Massachusetts; but I'm here with Mrs. Farrington."

"Mrs. Farrington? Mrs. William H. Farrington?"

"Yes."

"Is it possible! Did she send you to me?"

"No; I came. Do you know her?"

"Very well, and for ever so many years, since she was younger than you."

"I never heard her say anything about you," Theodora said, with unflattering directness.

"Very likely not. But now, my dear little girl, I am going to give you some advice. I am afraid we can't take your book. It isn't in our line; but some day you may write something that is, and then I shall be glad to see it. Now, if you really mean to write good books, you must read good ones, the best ones that are written; you must study a great deal and study all sorts of things, for you can never tell what will help you most. Keep on writing, if you want to; but don't expect to have anything published for ten years. By that time, you will just be ready to begin your work. Sometime, we may meet again," he added, as he rose; "and then you must tell me all you have done. I think I shall have reason to congratulate you. Till then, good-by. Give my regards to Mrs. Farrington, and tell her that I shall try to call on her before she leaves the city."

Theodora read her dismissal in the shrewd, kindly brown eyes. She went away in a glorified dream of the future which lasted until she saw Billy crossing the pavement, leaning on one crutch and with Patrick's strong arm supporting his weight on the other side. He looked tired, and his brave helplessness struck her in strong contrast to her own exuberant happiness. It suddenly seemed to her that it would be selfish to boast of her own hopes, in the face of his uncertain future, so she locked her lips on the subject of her morning's adventure, and turned to greet him with a bright interest which concerned itself with his doings alone.