g attention. Strange to say, it had been much easier
to talk when she had been half-hidden in the apple-tree. A sudden
shyness came upon them both, as they looked in each other's eyes. There
was an interval of silence. Then Theodora dropped down on the turf by
the lounge, and held up a handful of apples.

"Take one of these. They're ever so much better than the first one."

"This is good enough, thank you." He took another from her outstretched
hand, however. "Do you usually inhabit trees like this? I didn't hear
you come."

"I've been there all the morning," Theodora answered, while she told
herself that his bright blue eyes were almost as fine as Hubert's brown
ones. "That tree is my city of refuge. The others call it 'Teddy's
tree.'"

"And you are--" he hesitated.

She laughed, while she chose one of the apples that lay beside her, and
plunged her strong young teeth into it.

"Yes, I'm Teddy," she said, with her mouth somewhat too full for
elegance. "My real name is Theodora," she added, speaking rather more
distinctly.

"I think I like the other best," the boy replied, laughing in his turn.

"I don't. Teddy is like a boy; but Theodora is stately and dignified. I
want to be called Theodora; but in a family like ours, there are bound
to be nicknames."

"You aren't the only one, then?"

"Mercy, no! There are five of us."

"How jolly it must be! I'm the only one." The boy's tone was a bit
wishful. "Are they all like you?"

"I hope not." Theodora's laugh rang out a second time, hearty and
infectious. "There are two good ones, and two bad ones, and a baby."

"Which are you?" the boy asked mischievously.

"What a question! I'm bad, of course, that is, in comparison with Hope.
She's the oldest, and we get worse as we go down the line. I shudder to
think what the baby may develop into."

The boy nestled down contentedly among his cushions and watched her with
merry eyes.

"Go on and tell about them," he urged. "It's such fun to hear about a
large family."

Theodora's quick eye saw that one of the cushions was slipping to one
side. She replaced it with a deftness of touch natural to her, yet
seemingly incongruous with her harum-scarum ways. Then she settled
herself with her back against a tree, facing her new friend.

"Hope is past seventeen and an angel," she said; "one of the good, quiet
kind with yellow hair and not any temper. She's had all the care of us,
since my mother died. Then there's Hubert,