of
Mac's Aunt Teddy.

"I saw the small boy again, to-day," he told his sister, that night.

"Who? Your little Mac?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I decline to assume any responsibility for him, Kate. He passes my
comprehension entirely. He looks like a cherub on a Della Robbia frieze
and converses like the king of the brownies. I expect to hear him quote
Arnold at any instant."

His sister laughed.

"I can't imagine who he can be," she said. "I wish you weren't going East
so soon, Giff, and we would go on a tour of investigation. Such a child
isn't likely to remain hid under a bushel; and, if I find him, I will let
you know all about him. What is it, Jack?" she added, as her husband
looked up from his paper with an exclamation of surprise.

"I've have been entertaining angels unawares,--in the next block, that
is," he answered. "Listen to this: 'Mrs. Theodora McAlister Farrington,
the novelist, who has been spending the winter with her sister, Mrs.
Holden of Murray Street, left for her home in New England, to-night.'"

"Ah--h!" There was a sigh of content from across the table. "Now I have
my bearings. My imp is Mac Holden and Mrs. Farrington is Aunt Teddy, of
course. I met her in New York, last winter, at a dinner or two; but she
evidently had forgotten me. Such is fame!"

"Which?" his sister inquired, as she rose to leave the table.

CHAPTER TWO

The Savins, glistening in its snowy blanket, wore an air of expectancy,
the house on the corner below was being swept and garnished, while the
cold twilight air was burdened with savory odors suggestive of feastings
to come. Mrs. McAlister came back from a final survey of the corner
house, made her eleventh tour of the parlor, dining-room and kitchen at
The Savins, and then took her stand at the front window where she tapped
restlessly on the glass and swayed the curtain to and fro impatiently.
She was not a nervous woman; but to-night her mood demanded constant
action. Moreover, it was only an hour and a quarter before the train was
due. If she were not watchful, the carriage might come without her
knowing it, and the occupants miss half their welcome home.

Framed in the soft, white draperies, her face made an attractive picture
for the passer-by. Mrs. McAlister's girlhood had passed; a certain
girlishness, however, would never pass, and her clear blue eyes had all
the life and fire they had shown when, as Bess Holden she had been the
leader in most o