"I sha'n't mean to come between you and your father, Theodora," Mrs. McAlister went on; "and I shall never expect to take your own mother's place. And yet, in time I hope you can care for me a little, too." Suddenly the girl turned and laid her lithe young arm across her stepmother's knee. "I think I can--in time," she said. "It takes me a good while to get used to new things, some new things, that is, and I didn't want somebody to come here and drive my own mother farther off. She was different from everybody else, somehow. But your mother died, and you'll understand about it." Her tone was quiet and dispassionate, yet, underneath, it rang true, and Mrs. McAlister was satisfied. "Thank you, Teddy," she said gently. "Or would you rather I called you Theodora?" "Theodora, please," the girl answered, flushing a little. "Teddy was my baby name; but I'm not a baby any longer. The others have called me Teddy so long that I can't break them of the habit; but I don't like the name." "It suits you, though," Mrs. McAlister said, smiling as her eyes rested on the intent young face beside her. "But I'll try to remember. And now I wish you'd tell me a little about the younger ones, Phebe and Allyn. Your father told me that Hope was the housekeeper, but that, in some ways, you were the real mother of them all." Theodora's face lighted, and she laughed. "Did he truly say that? Hope has the real care of them, and she never fights with them, as I do." There was an amusing, off-hand directness in Theodora's tone which pleased her stepmother. Already she felt more at home and on cordial terms with the outspoken girl than with the gentle, courteous Hope; yet she realized that her own course was by no means open before her, that it would be long before Theodora would accept her sway in the home. It would be necessary to proceed slowly, but firmly. Little Allyn and fractious Phebe would be less difficult for her to manage than their older sister. She lingered for half an hour longer, talking with Theodora until she heard Dr. McAlister's step upon the stairs; and when at last she left the room, Theodora's good-night sounded quite as cordial as her own. CHAPTER FOUR "I wish I could have all my wishes granted," Theodora said. She was sitting in her favorite position on the grass beside Billy's lounge, with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her clasped hands. Billy, propped up among his cushions, smiled back at her benignly. "You'd be most awfully disagreeable to live with," he returned. "Thank you for the compliment. I'd like to run the risk, though." "Let me move out of town first," the boy replied teasingly. "But you needn't be greedy; I'd be satisfied to have one wish." "That's because you don't need so many things as I do." "It's because I have one thing I want so much more than I do the others," he retorted. She looked up at him with a sudden flash of tenderness in her eyes. "I know," she said gently; "but it won't be long."