"Breakfast waits, Miss Billy. Did you go back to bed again?"
The family had assembled at breakfast when the younger daughter entered the dining room, smiling over Theodore's improvised poetry. "Mother looks more sober than usual," she thought, as she drew the sweet face to her own.
"Morning, motherie."
"Good-morning, little daughter. You left your footprints behind you. The violets are lovely."
There was an unsealed letter at Miss Billy's plate, and similar envelopes for Beatrice and Theodore. Miss Billy opened hers first. It ran:
"You are requested to be present at a family meeting to be held in the study this morning at eight o'clock. Important matters to be discussed. By order of
"Father."
The letters excited no comment. They were an every-day occurrence in the Lee family. If Theodore's unruly tongue caused mischief, or his love of a joke was carried too far, a delicate reminder at his plate was sure to call attention to the fact. If Beatrice stopped for a moment to exchange compliments with her old enemy, Personal Vanity, or did she pursue an uneven tenor of fault-finding for a time, a letter was the means of bringing her to order. But upon Miss Billy,—energetic, wideawake Miss Billy,—who was always doing things, and doing them hard, the missives descended like flocks of white doves. These letters did not all contain censure. Some of them were so full of praise as to make their owner blush with an embarrassment of happiness, but one could never be sure beforehand of the contents.
Theodore was already in the study when Miss Billy entered. He was stretched out on the floor with two sofa pillows under his head and four under his feet.