“Oh, are you there, Babe?”

“Yes, I had some studying to do, and they were too noisy at home, so I came over here.  I’m through now, so I am going home.  Cicely, I wish you would let me see how many vertebra there are left in Billy’s tail.  I think he hasn’t but one.  That is butchery, not surgery, for it doesn’t leave him enough to waggle.”  And Phebe gathered up an armful of books and took her departure.

Silence followed her going.  Theodora had dropped down on the couch before the fire and lay staring at the coals.  For the moment, she was forgetful of the girl sitting near her, forgetful even of her story which was pressing upon her insistently, yet eluding her just as insistently.  In certain moods, she loved the old willow couch.  It had played a large part in her girlhood; and now at times it was good to turn her back upon the present and think of the days when, after the memorable Massawan Bridge disaster, Billy Farrington’s boyhood had been largely spent upon that lounge and in that library, while she had brought the fresh zest of her work and her play and all her gay girlish interests into his narrow life.  Her father’s skilful treatment had laid the foundations for the cure which the years had completed, until to-day her husband was as strong a man as she could hope to see.  Year after year, her life had grown better and brighter; yet she loved to linger now and then over the good old days.  She pressed her cheek into the cushion, and her lids drooped to keep the modern actual scene from destroying the old-time imaginary one.

“Tired, Cousin Ted?” Cicely had dropped down on the couch beside her.

“Not a bit.”

“Worried?”

“No, indeed.”

“I was afraid something was wrong, you were so quiet.”  The girl bent over and fell to touching Theodora’s hair with light fingers.  Suddenly she stooped and snuggled her face against Theodora’s cheek.  “Oh, I do love to cuddle you,” she said impulsively.  “I hope you don’t mind.  Papa used to let me; I wonder if he doesn’t miss it sometimes.”

Putting out her arm, Theodora drew the girl down at her side.

“Are you homesick, Cicely?”

“For papa, not for anything else.  If he were here, or even well, I should be perfectly happy here.  Only, Cousin Theodora—­”

“Well?”

“Are we very much in the way, Billy and I?  We don’t belong here, I know; and it isn’t our doing that we came.  Are you sorry that we are here?”

“No.  I am glad to have you with us, Cicely.”

Theodora spoke the truth.  In some strange fashion she had grown unaccountably fond of Cicely during the past four weeks.  The girl was no saint; she was only a clean-minded, healthy young thing, born of good stock, trained by a wise father who believed that, even at sixteen, his tall daughter was still a child, not a premature society girl.  He insisted upon plain gowns and a pigtail, upon hearty exercise