"That's because he paid you a compliment. Your judgment isn't a fair one."
But Hope only added,—
"Wait and see what the morrow may bring forth."
The morrow brought forth Mac, rested, refreshed, ready for mischief. Before breakfast was on the table, he had had an unfriendly interview with Patrick, had come into collision with Melchisedek, and Mrs. McAlister met him hurriedly retiring from the kitchen with both hands full of fried potatoes. The next that was seen of him, he was playing horse on the front lawn, and Allyn was the horse. Even in his brief survey of the family, the night before, Mac had come to a decision upon two points. He did not like his Aunt Phebe; he did like his Uncle Allyn. And Allyn, unaccustomed to children though he was, promptly became the slave of his imperious young nephew.
"Oh, Hope, it is good to have you here," Theodora said, with a tempestuous embrace, when Mrs. Holden appeared at the door of the writing-room, that morning.
"Then I am not in the way?"
"Not a bit. I'm not writing, to-day; I can't settle myself, when I know you are within reach."
"Perhaps I'd better go back to Helena," Hope suggested.
"No; I shall calm down in time; but I never get used to having you so far away. It never seems quite right, when the rest of us are all here together."
"I am a little terrified at the prospect of the coming week," Hope said, as she sat down on the couch and looked across the lawn to where Mac was playing.