"It's only that I've written a book and sent it to a publisher, and he says it's good enough to publish."
"Really? Really and truly?" Phebe's face expressed her incredulity. "Will he pay you a lot for it?"
"Something,—not a lot, though," Theodora answered, too much accustomed to Phebe's lack of sympathy to be hurt by her words. "But that's not the main thing, Babe. Think of the honor of it!"
"Hm!" Phebe said slowly. "It's the money I'd care for, Teddy. Ever so many people have written books before, and some of them younger than you."
Great was the rejoicing of the family, that day, when Theodora met them at the dinner-table with her news. In the clamor of question and congratulation, no word could be distinguished at first. Then Dr. McAlister's voice, clear and quiet, hushed the others.
"Teddy, dear," he said tenderly; "I couldn't love you more than I do; but this makes your old father very proud of you. I wish your own mother could have known it."
And Mrs. McAlister added softly,—
"Perhaps she does, Jack."
The clamor broke out again.
"When did you—?"