threw open the door, a stream
of water was dashed into his astonished face.

From her point of vantage on the stairway Split saw a paralyzed Sissy,
the empty pitcher in her guilty hand, the grin of satisfaction frozen
on her panic-stricken round face; while, before she fled, her eyes shot
one quick, hunted glance over Madigan's dripping head to the joyous
enemy above.

And Split was joyous. Her explosive laugh pealed out in the second
before fear of her father stifled it. So this was how Sissy had planned
to get even; so this was the plot behind Bep's baffling blue eyes! And
only the accident of Madigan's going to the door had saved Split--and
confounded her enemy.

Oh, it was good to be a Madigan! Standing there dry and triumphant,
Split hugged herself--her very own self--her individuality, which at
this minute she would not have changed for anything the world had to
offer. To be a Madigan, one's birthright to laugh and do battle with
one's peers; and to win, sometimes through strength, sometimes through
guile, sometimes through sheer luck--but to win!

THE LAST STRAW

Young as she was, Frances Madigan had known a great sorrow. She
remembered (or fancied she did, having heard the circumstance so often
related) how Francis Madigan had seized and confiscated her cradle as
soon as her sex had been avowed.

"It's too bad, Madigan!" was the form in which Dr. Murchison had made
the announcement of her birth.

"It's the last straw--that's what it is," Madigan answered grimly,
bearing the cradle out to the woodshed. There he chopped it to pieces,
as though defying a perverse destiny to send him another daughter.

With tears running down her cheeks, Frances had witnessed the pathetic
sight--or, if she had not, she believed she had; which was quite as
effective in her narrative of the occurrence.

"And he took my cwadle," Frank was accustomed to relate, with an abused
sniff to punctuate each phrase, "and he chopped it wif the hatchet all
in little bits o' pieces."

"How big, Frank?" Sissy liked to ask.

"Teeny-weeny bits--little as that," Frank whined, still in character,
and showing a small finger-nail. "And--"

"And then what did you do?" prompted Sissy.

Frank stamped her foot. The cynical tone of the question grated upon an
artistic temperament at the crucial moment when it was composing and
acting at the same time. "Don't you say it, Sissy Madigan!" she cried
petulantly. "I can say it myself. And t