"No; I meant my husband."

"Oh, I haven't seen him since dinner." And Cicely tranquilly returned to
her book, while Theodora departed in search of Mr. Farrington.

"Cicely," she said, when she came back again; "I am sorry; but I am
afraid Billy's name will have to be changed."

"Which?" Cicely inquired, as her dimples showed themselves.

"Yours. Mine is the older and has first right to the name. Do you mind,
dear? It is horribly confusing and it startles me a little to hear that
my husband is asleep under the piano."

The girl laughed, while she tossed her book on the table.

"As startling as it was to me, this noon, when you said my dog was
putting on his overcoat in the front hall. It doesn't seem to work well,
this duplicating names. What shall we call him,--the puppy, I mean?"

"Melchisedek, without beginning and without end, because his tail and
ears are docked," came from the corner.

"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 o