"May I come in to say good-night?" she asked, pausing in the doorway, for Theodora's face was slightly forbidding. "Of course." The girl drew forward a low willow chair. As she passed, Mrs. McAlister laid a caressing hand on the brown hair. "What a mass of it you have!" she said, seating herself and looking up at her stepdaughter who stood before her, not knowing how to meet this unexpected invasion. The remark seemed to call for no reply, and Theodora took up her brush again. "Did you have a pleasant journey?" she asked, after a pause. "Very; but the home-coming was pleasantest of all. It was very sweet of you all to be at the door to welcome me." "That was Hope's doing," Theodora said bluntly. "She told us we ought to be there when you came." "It was good, whoever thought of it," Mrs. McAlister answered gently. "Remember that it is years since I've known what it meant to come home." Theodora tossed aside her hair and turned to face her. "How do you mean?" she asked curiously. "My father and mother died when I was in college," her stepmother replied. "There were only two of us left, my little brother and I, and we never had a home, a real one, after that. I taught, and he was sent away to school." "Where is he now?" "In Montana, a civil engineer. I find it hard to realize that my little brother Archie is twenty-two, and a grown man." There was another pause. Then Mrs. McAlister suddenly drew a low footstool to her side. "Theodora, child," she said; "sit down here and let me talk to you. You seem so far off, standing there. Remember, I'm a stranger to you all, and I want somebody to cuddle me a little, this first night." She had chanced to strike the right chord. Theodora never failed to respond to an appeal to her sympathy and care. All enveloped in her loosened hair, she dropped down at her stepmother's side. "You aren't homesick, I hope." "No; I couldn't be, with such a welcome home. But papa is down in the office, and I needed somebody to talk to. I thought you'd understand, dear. And then there were things I wanted to say to you." "What?" Theodora asked suspiciously. Mrs. McAlister rested her hand on the girl's shoulder. "About the flowers, for one thing. I know so well how you felt, Theodora, when you put them there." "What do you mean?" Theodora faced her sharply. "My own mother died before I was seventeen, a year before my father did, and I used to wake up in the night and cry, because I was so afraid he would marry again." "But you married papa," Theodora said slowly. "I know I did. Since then, Theodora, I have come to see the other side of it all. But I remember the way I used to feel about it; and I know that you think I am an interloper here. Hope doesn't mind it so much, nor Hubert; it is hardest of all for you." She paused and stroked the brown hair again. Theodora sat silent, her eyes fixed on the floor.