o be given in New York, on the twelfth of December," he
said, and Phebe wondered at the slight catch in his breath. "I'm to
conduct the orchestra, you know. I have sent for Mrs. Farrington to come
down and bring Miss Cicely, and--I wondered--do you suppose--at least,
could you make time to run over and join them in my box?"

Phebe clasped her hands rapturously.

"Oh, Mr. Barrett! Could I? I should like nothing better. How good you are
to ask me! I shall be so glad of the chance to see Teddy again."

When the night of the twelfth came, Theodora and Phebe and Cicely were in
the box set apart for Mr. Barrett's use. Eager and happy as a child,
dressed in rose-pink and with a great bunch of pink roses in her hand,
Phebe was looking her very best. Unconscious of the envious eyes which
watched her, she talked to the young composer with the same girlish
frankness she had shown, that day in the park. Theodora looked at her in
surprise. This was a new Phebe to her, gentler, infinitely more lovable;
yet she smiled now and then as she saw the utter unconcern with which
her young sister was receiving the attentions of the hero of the evening.

The symphony over and the aria, Gifford Barrett left them and, a moment
later, came forward to the conductor's desk. Applause, a hush, then the
orchestra gave out the low, ominous chords of the introduction before the
violins took up the opening theme which repeated itself, met another
theme, paused to play with it for a space, then in slow, majestic growth
passed on and up to a climax which left the audience breathless, so much
moved that it needed time to rally before bursting into the well-won
applause. The _Alan Breck Overture_ was surpassed, and Gifford Barrett's
name was in every mouth; but Phebe, while she watched him, tried in vain
to realize that the man now bowing before the footlights was the man she
had capsized upon Bannock Hill, that the right arm which had swayed the
orchestra, now banging their approval on their racks, was the arm she had
broken, once upon a time, and then tugged back into place.

Gifford Barrett came back into the box, trailing after him a huge
wreath. He laid it down at Phebe's side.

"What in the world is that for?" she demanded. "I didn't write your
music for you."

"No" he answered, with a queer little smile; "but perhaps you
helped it on."

CHAPTER TWENTY

"Billy, I am low in my mind."

"You look it, Ted; but cheer up. What's the matter