ligent horse in some metropolitan fire department. It was her
instinct still to run at the sound of the bell; every other Madigan,
therefore, delighted in preventing that impulse's gratification. But
this time Bessie came hurriedly to meet her and even speed her on her
errand.

[Illustration:
"'Oh, you needn't glare at me!' exclaimed Bep"]

"Quick--it's your father, Split!" she cried.

Split looked at her. She trusted Bep no more than she did Sissy, whose
lieutenant the blonde twin was.

"Oh, you needn't glare at me!" exclaimed Bep, her guilty conscience
sensitive to accusation by implication. "Fom told me all you told her
about him. She was 'fraid you were coming after her for letting you fall
off the see-saw, and she told me the whole thing. She said you expected
him to-night--don't you?"

"How--do you know it's--my father that's at the door?" demanded Split,
all the warier of the enemy because of her acquaintance with her secret.

"Why!" Bep opened clear, china-blue eyes, as shallow and baffling as
bits of porcelain. "Hasn't he been here once for you already, while you
were out?"

Split turned and ran down the hall. In the minute this took she had
lived through a long, heart-breaking, childish regret--regret for the
familiar, apprehension of the unknown. It was so warm and snug in this
Madigan house; she seemed so to belong there. Why must that unknown
parent come to claim her just now, when her spirit was still sorely
vexed with the failings of the various fathers she had borne with in
one short afternoon!

She got to the top of the staircase that led down to the front door,
when she saw that some one had preceded her. It was Madigan, who was on
his way down to dinner; poor old Madigan, with his slippered, slow, but
positive tread, his straight, assertive back expressing indignation, as
it always did when his door-bell was rung. Oh, that familiar old back!
Something swelled in Split's throat and held her choking, as she grasped
the banister and gazed yearningly down upon him. For a moment she had
the idea of flying down past him to save him from what was coming. But
it was too late; already he had his hand on the door-knob. Did he know
who it was for whom he was opening his door? Split gasped. Did he
anticipate what was coming? Some one ought to tell him--to break it to
him--to--

But evidently Split herself could not have done this, for in almost the
identical moment that Madigan resentfully