"Something he oughtn't to have, ma'am," she answered quickly, her finger on her lip. But Billy missed the signal. "Let's see it," he demanded. For an instant, Cicely hesitated. Long before this, Allyn had told her of the girlish fit of temper which had led Theodora to cut off her own hair, and she had a shrewd suspicion of the history of Melchisedek's trophy. "Let's see it," Billy repeated, while Melchisedek on appealing hindlegs walked around and around her, praying that his own might be restored to him. Cicely hesitated for a minute longer. Then the spirit of mischief triumphed, and she held out to Billy a long, soft braid of silky brown hair, tied at either end with a bow of scarlet ribbon. "Here it is, sir," she said demurely. "Billy!" Theodora's voice was sharp with exclamation points. "I know it." "Where did it come from, at this day?" "My box in the garret. I was up there, this afternoon, and I must have left it open." "And you've had it all this time?" "Yes." "You silly old boy!" Her face had grown scarlet and her eyes were shining. Then she turned to her mystified guest. "Excuse this family by-play, Mr. Gilwyn; but that was a lock of hair I cut off, in the early days of our acquaintance, and my husband has kept it ever since. You see a small dog in the family is rather destructive to sentiment." When the carriage was announced, Theodora was upstairs, putting on her hat. Mr. Gilwyn came down the stairs and marched straight to the dining-room where Cicely, divested of her cap and encased in a gingham apron, was busy clearing the table. In his hand was a book, and his face had suddenly lost all its pomposity and grown genial and merry. "I found this on the table in my room," he said without preface; "and it isn't a very common name." As he spoke, he opened to the flyleaf and pointed to the two lines written there. "Cicely Everard," it said; "with the love of Cousin Theodora." "I've a daughter of my own," he added; and Theodora, when she came in search of her guest, found the guest and the maid laughing uproariously. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE "Oh, Cis!" "Well?" "Come down here." "Can't. I'm busy." "What are you doing?" "Washing Melchisedek. He hunted an hypothetical rat all over the coal cellar, and came out looking like a chimney sweep." "Well, hurry up. I have something to tell you, something exciting." "I can't. It is a work of time to get him bleached out again. Come up and talk to me while I scrub." Allyn clattered up the stairs. He found Cicely kneeling before a pail in which Melchisedek stood upright, a picture of sooty dolefulness, with water trickling from every sodden spike of his coat. The corners of his mouth drooped dejectedly, whether from Cicely's chidings or from the taste of the soap it would be hard to say. "Pretty little dear; isn't he, Allyn?" she asked, while she scoured away at the tiny paws. "Just my ideal of a dainty lap dog. Melchisedek mustn't go into the coal. No, no!"