"I must say," she remarked in a scornfully careless tone when the silence became oppressive, "that Trask plays funny accompaniments." And she lifted her head, fancying herself rather clever in finding a scapegoat. She ducked immediately, but not in time. One of her own slippers,--oh, the irony of things!--torn off and thrown by Split's impatient hand, struck her in the face. Sissy's cheek flamed. "Did you do that on purpose, Split Madigan?" Split Madigan had not done it on purpose, for the reason mainly that it had not occurred to her. But now that it was done, it was not in her present fury against all the world to disclaim intention to insult so small a part of it. Glad of an excuse to outrage some one, any one,--and, even then, preferably Sissy,--to make her sister share some of that hurt and sting and smart that burned within herself, she met Sissy's eye maliciously, triumphantly, significantly. Sissy gasped. She took the slipper in her hand and made for her enemy. She intended, she believed, to ram her own best Sunday slipper down Split Madigan's throat! And she got quite close before she could have been made to believe that anything on earth or anywhere else could alter her intention. But a little thing did; merely the sound of voices outside the door and a swift, piteous change of expression in that defiant face opposite. Sissy dropped the slipper and flew to the door. She had a glimpse--which she pretended not to have seen--of the Merry Zingara crumbling in a passion of regretful sobs to the floor. Then she was standing outside, her back to the closed door, a determined, fat little Horatius in purple, with two red cheeks,--one, indeed, redder than the other where the slipper had struck,--vowing to hold the bridge against all comers, so that Split might mourn in peace. * * * * * [Illustration: "'But is she _very_ sick?'"] "But is she _very_ sick?" came the eager question. "Well--pretty sick," said the doctor, gravely. "Not very?" Sissy's voice fell disappointedly. She opened the door for him and stood at the head of the steps as he prepared cautiously to descend. "You don't want your sister to be dangerously ill, do you?" Dr. Murchison demanded sharply, turning upon her. "N-no," said Sissy. "Well, see that you don't squabble with her. Your aunt ought to have sent for me five days ago, instead of which she lets a sick, nervous, half-crazy child dance and sing on the stage. All poppycock!" "Can I help you down the first step, doctor?" asked Sissy, gratefully. She was so thankful for his words. No one--not even a Madigan, accustomed to be held strictly accountable--could be to blame for a failure if she had been ill at the time. The family was almost rehabilitated, it seemed to Sissy.