"Phebe has just found out about Huntington's, papa," she said, with brave dignity. "Are you willing to tell them how it happened, and why I did it?" CHAPTER EIGHTEEN "Ted! Teddy! Theodora McAlister!" Theodora was passing the Farringtons' grounds. At the third call, she looked up. Billy, on the piazza, was waving his cap in one hand and pounding the floor with one of his crutches with the other. "What's the matter?" she called, at a loss to account for these vigorous demonstrations. "Come up, and I'll tell you," he shouted. "Hurry up about it, too." "Is the house on fire?" she demanded in feminine alarm, as she turned and sped across the lawn. Billy laughed derisively. "If that isn't just like a girl! It's nothing of the kind, Ted; it's good news." "What a scare you gave me, you sinner!" She dropped down on the step below him and fanned herself with her hat, for it was noon of an August day. "What is your great news, anyway?" "Uncle Frank is sick again." "But I thought you said it was good news," Theodora said, in some perplexity. "So 'tis. Wait till you hear the rest of it. He isn't dangerous, only comfortable; but the doctors say he'll die unless he goes up into the mountains. He won't go unless mamma goes, and so she's going." "But for the life of me, I don't see anything so very good in all that," Theodora said again. "It is very solemn and serious so far, for he's really awfully ill, and mamma doesn't want to leave me, and she feels that it is her duty to go," Billy answered, trying to subdue the rapture written in every line of his face. "Now we're coming to the good part,--good for me, that is, for I don't know what you'll say to it. She is going to be away for six weeks, and I'm to be at your house." "Oh, Billy, how splendid!" Theodora's tone left no doubt of her sincerity. "When are you coming?" "Day after to-morrow. Mamma had a letter, this morning, and she's been in a great pickle about it. She felt she ought to go, for there isn't anybody else; but she couldn't take me. I'm not up to mountain climbing just yet, and she was bound she wouldn't leave me alone. Finally, I suggested going to your house, and that struck her as a good scheme. She's had a long session with your father and mother, and it's all settled, unless you veto it." "I'll be likely to. Now we shall have a chance to work on our play." "And to develop our pictures," added Billy, who just now was suffering from an attack of the photographic mania. "Yes, dozens of things. We can do so much in six weeks." "The worst of it is," Billy remarked pensively; "I'm sure to have such a fine time of it at your house that I can't seem to get up much regret over my mother's departure." "You'll be homesick enough," Theodora predicted. "Wait a week and see."