this.
There had been little need for the doctor or his wife to add a word.
Theodora's sorrow and shame were intense; intense, too, was her power of
self-abasement. For a week, she spent most of the time in her own room,
as if she feared to meet the eyes of her family; and, in this
self-imposed isolation, it chanced that she had heard no mention of the
Farringtons.

It had taken repeated calls to bring Theodora down to breakfast, the
morning after her outbreak. In all her after-life, she never forgot the
exclamations of horror and surprise which greeted her when she appeared,
half-defiant, half-sulky, and altogether shamefaced. For a few moments,
there was a babel of comment; then Mrs. McAlister rose and took her
hand.

"Theodora, dear," she said gently; "come into my room, and tell me all
about it."

The door closed behind them, and for two hours they were alone together.
What passed between them, no one else ever knew. When the long talk was
ended, and Theodora, clinging to her new mother just as she had been
wont to cling to her own mother, years ago, had sobbed till she could
sob no more, Mrs. McAlister left her and went to her husband.

"She's punished enough, Jack," she said to him. "There wasn't much need
for me to say anything; but I think perhaps this has given me my
opportunity. I've come closer to the child than I ever dared to hope,
and, with Heaven's help, I mean to stay there."

Her husband bent over her.

"You're good to my naughty girl, Bess," he said gently.

She smiled; but her eyes looked heavy.

"She is worth it, Jack. At heart, she is sweet and sound as a girl can
be. It is only this ungovernable temper of hers. She is quick and
impulsive; but she is sorry enough now. I think she won't do anything
like this again. And I have promised that she sha'n't be teased about
it, and, above all, that no one shall speak of the affair to the
Farringtons. Can you see about it, Jack? A word from you will help me in
this."

For the next few days, a spirit of heavy quiet rested on the McAlister
household. As a rule, Theodora was the life of the house, and now that
she moped in corners, hiding her shorn head as best she could, the
others were dull and listless in sympathy.

"I hate everybody," Phebe said, coming into the dining-room where Hope
was arranging flowers, one morning.

"Why, Babe, what's the matter?" Hope looked up in surprise.

"Nothing, only I'm lonesome."

"Where's Allyn?"

"In the a