Lake Lodge, 28 September.
To Dr. John McAlister:

Jessie Farrington.

This was the telegram which was delivered at the doctor's door, two days later. It came in upon an anxious household, for up to that time they had been able to gain no clue to Theodora's disappearance. Billy alone had had an inkling of the truth, but he dared not hint it to the rest. It was only an inkling, vague and groundless, and he felt that it would do no good to speak of it. At best, he would be accused of urging his friend to take the sudden journey, and he was unwilling to increase the suspicion which already lay heavy upon him.

He knew, however, that Theodora's departure had something to do with himself. Her last words seemed to him, as he went back to them, to convey no doubtful hint of her intentions. He had had no suspicion at the time; but now he realized how like her impulsive loyalty it would be to go flying off somewhere, anywhere, to get help for him, to find some way of putting an end to the wretched situation. He was thoroughly sorry for her absence, and uneasy about her; yet he felt little alarm, for he was perfectly convinced of her ability to look out for herself. Moreover, he was human enough to watch the distraction of the family with a certain amusement. He was sure that Theodora would turn up soon, alive and well, and full of entertaining stories of her adventure. Meanwhile, it was their turn to be anxious.

Then a new anxiety came into the household. Phebe, who had been nervous and irritable, all the day after Theodora's disappearance, grew feverish at night. Her father made a short examination, pronounced her to be suffering from the epidemic of chicken pox which had infested the schools of late, and ordered her to bed. She obeyed him by going to her room, escaping by way of the back stairs and taking a long walk in the twilight with Isabel St. John, with whom lately it had been necessary for Phebe to hold many secret conferences. The next morning, the rash had entirely disappeared, and Phebe lay tossing in delirium.

It was into this household that Mrs. Farrington's telegram came, like a message sent from Heaven.

The doctor tore open the long yellow envelope. His face, already of a dull grayish color, grew a shade more pale, and he shut his teeth together, as one prepared for bad tidings. He read the few words; then he drew his hand across his eyes.

"Thank God!" he said brokenly. "Teddy is safe."

The news went like wildfire through the house. There was a babel of rejoicing and exclamation; but it was to Billy that the doctor had turned.

"My dear boy," he said, laying his hand on Billy's shoulder; "our troubles are over now, if Phebe pulls through."

Billy answered his handclasp.

"We'll forget it ever happened," he said jovially.

"One doesn't forget such things," the doctor said gravely; but Billy laughed his old glad, clear laugh.

"You've done enough for me, Dr. McAlister, to balance anything else. Remember what I was when I came here, and look at me now."

The family council which followed was short. Neither Dr. McAlister nor his wife liked to leave Phebe while she was still so ill; Hubert was too young, they felt, to go to his sister; so it was Archie who finally volunteered to bring back the runaway.

"Shall I scold her very hard?" he asked, laughing, as he took up his dress-suit case, an hour later.

"Leave that to me," the doctor replied, while he tried in vain to look stern.

As Archie passed him, Billy slipped a note into his hand.

"Take that to Ted," he whispered, and Archie nodded.

It was high noon, the next day, when Archie walked into the Lodge. Theodora met him with a little, glad outcry.

"Archie! Did you come for me?"

"It looks like it. What's more, I've brought good news."

"What?"

"Billy is cleared, and I left the whole family munching humble pie."

"Archie!" And Theodora cast herself into his arms and wept hysterically.

The young man looked half abashed, half pleased, at his burden.

"Go easy, now, Ted," he remonstrated. "Don't take all the starch out of my collar, you know."

"Who did it?" she demanded.

"Phebe."

"Archie Holden! The little wretch! And she let Billy bear the blame! I—"

"She's getting her come-uppance," Archie observed, with scant pity for Phebe. "She's no end ill with chicken pox. That's the reason your father couldn't come for you."

"I don't care; she deserves it," Theodora said vengefully. "How did it come out?"

"Providence seemed to take a hand in it, Ted. 'Twas the queerest thing. The night after you left, when the family were all half wild about you, and no wonder, Babe took her hand in the game by coming down with hen pox. She caught cold somehow, the rash went in and struck on the brain, and she turned delirious. The first thing she did, she told the whole story. I suppose she had been harping on it so much that it came out, like murder."

"What did she do?"

"As nearly as we can piece it together, she and Isabel went into the barn, that morning, and started to feed Vigil. Then in fun they began firing things at each other, till at last Babe picked up a box of Paris green and shied it at Isabel. It struck the manger and broke all to pieces. They cleaned up what they could, and sneaked away. Whether Babe started to throw the blame on Billy at first, they don't know; but, after dinner, Babe hunted up the bottle and hid it in the manger. It isn't a pretty story, Ted; but it's true."

"Babe ought to be—"

"Abolished," Archie supplemented, with a jovial laugh. "No matter, your father will have something to say to her by and by. By Jove, Ted, I wish you'd seen him go down on his knees to Billy! There was something grand in it, to see him, with his gray hair and great brown eyes, apologizing to a boy like that. Of course, he owed him an apology and a big one; but not many men would have made it so generously before us all."

"There aren't many men like him," Theodora said proudly. "And Billy? How is he?"

"Jolly as a sandpiper. He vows that there's no one quite like you, though. You did stand by him like a good fellow, Ted, for a fact."

"You too, Archie. You helped me out, when you came. I wish you were my brother."

Archie laughed a little consciously.

"Maybe we can fix that up in time. Now go along and pack up your trumpery."

Theodora's face suddenly grew grave.

"Are they very angry at me at home, Archie?"

He laughed.

"Horribly. Still, I've an idea that, if you're meek enough, you'll be in a fair way to be forgiven."

And she was forgiven. Her welcome home was hearty and loving from them all, pathetically so from Billy, who tried in vain to cover his real emotion under a boyish indifference. The last words were still to be said, however; and it was not until Theodora sat alone in the office with her father, that night, that she felt the incident was ended and she stood among them on precisely the old ground.

"I can't blame you, my girl," he said at last, as he drew his arm yet more tightly about her waist. "You were rash and headstrong. You caused us two days of terrible anxiety, and you might have run into serious difficulties; but your purpose was a good one, even if it was too impetuous and daring for a child like you. We were all blind, Teddy, strangely blind; and I can never forgive myself for my unjust suspicions, nor be glad enough that you stood by your old friend in the face of all this evidence." There was a silence. Then he bent over and kissed her forehead. "Teddy dear, if you can only tame down this rashness of yours, and yet be the same loyal girl you are now, your womanhood will be very big and beautiful. But remember this, dear, in all this wilful, hasty end of the century, a true woman must be as gentle as she is brave, as thoughtful as she is loving."

"But I'm glad it's all over," Theodora said contentedly, the next day.

She and Billy sat on the piazza, in the golden noon of an early October day. Hope was in the hammock, with Allyn beside her and Archie on the floor at her feet, while Hubert sat on the rail facing them all. Theodora had been entertaining them with an account of her journey, and she ended her story with these words.

"It has been a terrible month," Hope said thoughtfully. "After our years of placid existence, it seems as if a cyclone had struck us, all at once. I should think you'd wish you had never set eyes on us, Billy."

"I do," he replied tranquilly, as he stared at Theodora's bright face.

"Poor old William!" she said, laughing. "It was a sorry day for you when I descended on you from the apple-tree."

"Adam and Eve never knew how well off they were, till the serpent came," Archie suggested. "I have a notion we shall have a better time than ever, now it's all over."

"You can crow over it, if you like," Hubert said remorsefully. "You and Ted were on the winning side of things. Billy, my friendship isn't good for much; but I'll be hanged if I ever expected to go back on you and make such a jay of myself."

"Never mind, Hu; it's over now," Theodora said consolingly.

"Yes, thanks to you," Hubert returned. "My share in it isn't much."

Theodora laughed.

"Thanks to Babe, you'd better say. We should still have been a divided household, if Babe hadn't been benevolent enough to have chicken pox."

"She didn't," Allyn objected suddenly. "The chicken didn't come out any. I watched to see it, and I couldn't, and papa said so, too, and that's what made her so wretchable."

"But it's over, as Teddy says," Hope observed, breaking in on the laugh that followed Allyn's contribution to medical science; "and I can't help feeling that we are going to have a lovely winter, with Archie here, and Billy to stay on till Thanksgiving. There's time to make up for all we've lost now."

"We'll make the most of it, then, for this will be my last winter here, for ever so long," Billy said, rising. "If I enter college, next fall, it will be a good while before I settle down at home again."

"And I too," Theodora added, as she rose and stood beside him.

He smiled down into her eyes for a moment, as they stood there. Then together they turned and walked away. The world about them lay golden in the sunlight and in the glow reflected back from the yellow leaves of the hickories; but not one whit less golden was the future, as it stretched away and away before their glad young eyes.