"I s'pose so. 'T ain't sealed," said Sissy, with resignation. "But she always forgets to seal 'em." Then, suddenly inspired, she caught up Professor Trask's pencil lying on the piano, and on the vacant half-page at the end of Miss Madigan's letter she wrote in her best school-girl hand:
You—whoever you are—needn't bother to answer this. None of us Madigans wants your help or annybody else's. It 't only that Aunt Anne's got the scribbles, and we'll thank you to mind your own buisness.
"Sissy Madigan."
She read her composition to the startled but, on the whole, approving Madigans, sealed the letter, and was ready for bed.
They were all scampering through the long hall playing leap-frog—a specialty of Split's which her present costume facilitated—when Francis Madigan, candle in hand, came out of his room on his usual tour of nightly inspection. His short-sighted eyes fell upon Irene, a pretty, lithe, wavy-haired boy, before she and the twins bolted.
"What boy have you got there?" he demanded. "Send him home."
Kate took Frances up in her arms and covered the retreat; she knew how much the better part of valor was discretion.
Sissy remained standing, looking up at him. When she was alone with her father she was conscious of her poor little barren favoriteship, though she dared not impose upon it. In the candle-light his harsh, rugged features stood out marked with lines of suffering.
"It's all right, father," she said, with a quick choice of the lesser irritation for him. "He'll go—right away. Good night."
"Good night, child."
But she walked a step or two with him, slipping her hand at last into his, and pressing it tenderly.