"
The girl laughed, while she tossed her book on the table.
"As startling as it was to me, this noon, when you said my dog was
putting on his overcoat in the front hall. It doesn't seem to work well,
this duplicating names. What shall we call him,--the puppy, I mean?"
"Melchisedek, without beginning and without end, because his tail and
ears are docked," came from the corner.
"Oh, are you there, Babe?"
"Yes, I had some studying to do, and they were too noisy at home, so I
came over here. I'm through now, so I am going home. Cicely, I wish you
would let me see how many vertebra there are left in Billy's tail. I
think he hasn't but one. That is butchery, not surgery, for it doesn't
leave him enough to waggle." And Phebe gathered up an armful of books and
took her departure.
Silence followed her going. Theodora had dropped down on the couch before
the fire and lay staring at the coals. For the moment, she was forgetful
of the girl sitting near her, forgetful even of her story which was
pressing upon her insistently, yet eluding her just as insistently. In
certain moods, she loved the old willow couch. It had played a large part
in her girlhood; and now at times it was good to turn her back upon the
present and think of the days when, after the memorable Massawan Bridge
disaster, Billy Farrington's boyhood had been largely spent upon that
lounge and in that library, while she had brought the fresh zest of her
work and her play and all her gay girlish interests into his narrow life.
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