CHAPTER V.

Yes, some one was in the room. Theodora felt a little thrill of excitement as she realized this fact. Was it a robber who had hidden there? Perhaps, though, it was only one of the servants. She felt almost disappointed when this thought crossed her mind--a robber would be so much more uncommon. And yet he might try to kill her; robbers frequently did such things. She withdrew more into the shadow, and waited.

Not another sound was to be heard. Brave as she naturally was, Theodora felt a tremor of fear as she sat there in the silence of the night. She was quite sure that she had heard something; of that there was no doubt. She knew with absolute certainty that some one or something alive was in her aunts' parlor besides herself.

Should she go and call somebody? No, that would not do, for her aunts had had too much excitement already. If they knew that a burglar--for it certainly might be one--was in the drawing-room they would without doubt scream and faint, and that would be bad for her aunt Joanna, to say the least. The servants would be useless, for they were all elderly, and were quite as unstrung as were their five mistresses, and John, the only man of the household, was ill in his room over the stable.

The doctor was upstairs, to be sure, but it was early in the night, and he was in close attendance upon his patient, who was not yet out of danger. All these thoughts passed rapidly through Teddy's mind, and she saw that she must act alone.

"I don't believe a robber would kill a little girl," she said to herself, "and I will speak to him very politely."

Her first act was to walk around the room pulling up all the Venetian-blinds as high as they would go. There were seven windows in the large room--two at each end, and three on the side that had the two fireplaces. On the fourth side of the room were two doors, one leading into the front hall, the other into the back. The parlor occupied the whole of that side of the main house. The kitchens were in the "L" at the back, cut off by a door into the hall.

It required some courage to go from window to window, particularly when Teddy reached that part of the room whence the sound had come, but she felt that she must have as much light as possible. Her fingers trembled as she tried to fasten the cord which held the blinds. Once their strength failed them, and the slats of the blind fell down with a terrifying clatter; but she pulled them up again, and wound the cord firmly about the hook.

At last the seven shades were up, and the room was as light as the world without. Only here and there lay a black shadow which might contain--anything! Teddy then took up her position near the door, that she might escape should affairs become very alarming, and tried to speak. At first not a sound came from her. She cleared her throat, and tried again.

"Is anybody in this room?" she asked. Only the silence and the shadows made reply. "I am quite sure some one is," she continued, gaining courage at the sound of her own voice; "I heard you breathe a little while ago, and I heard you knock something. If you don't come out I shall have to go and call Dr. Morton, who is upstairs. He is with my aunt Joanna, who is very ill. I should lock the parlor doors while I am gone, so you couldn't get out."

She thought this was a brilliant inspiration, quite forgetting the seven windows within easy reach of the ground. To this long speech, however, there was no reply.

"I declare, it is too bad!" went on Teddy. "I do think you might say something. I won't let any one hurt you, and if you are a robber I'll let you get away as easily as anything, if you'll only come out!"

She ceased again, and suddenly a voice replied. It sounded so near, and it was so unexpected--for she had now almost made up her mind that no one was there, after all--that it made Teddy jump.

"Do you mean that?" it said.

"Yes, of course I do," said she, speaking very rapidly, and fixing her eyes upon the old-fashioned sofa with the high back, whence the voice seemed to proceed. "Please come out and tell me who you are and what you want."

The sofa was placed across a corner, and as Teddy watched it eagerly it was pushed slightly from behind, and a boyish figure rose against the wall. There was something about the intruder that seemed familiar to her, and she stepped forward.

"Why--why, is it you?" she exclaimed, as the boy climbed over the sofa and stood in the moonlight.

"Yes, it's me," was the reply.

Sure enough, it was Andy Morse, the boy who stoned the kitten.

"Why, what do you want here?" asked Teddy, all her fear vanishing at sight of this well-known face. "I am so glad it is you, for, do you know, I was really afraid it was somebody come to steal something. What have you come for, and why did you come in such a queer way in the middle of the night?"

The boy shuffled his feet, and looked away from her.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she continued.

"Yes," said he, in a hoarse whisper; "I'm awful hungry."

"Oh, are you? Well, just wait here, and I'll get you something to eat. Or perhaps you had better come with me, for my aunts don't like to have eating in the parlor. You might drop the crumbs, you know. I often do. We'll go out to the kitchen; but first I must find some matches."

"Here's one," said Morse, diving into his pocket.

He followed her through the door into the back hall. She could not reach the gas-burner, so he lighted it for her both there and in the kitchen. She went to the bread-box and took out a loaf of Catharine's delicious Graham-bread, and then she went to the refrigerator in the hall and procured some butter. A pitcher of milk and some cold mutton were also within reach. These she brought and placed upon the kitchen table, inviting her guest at the same time to draw up a chair. Then, having supplied him with a knife and fork, and some cookies which she found in the store-room, she sat down at the table herself.

"I am hungry too," she remarked, affably. "I have been up all night, and I went after the doctor on a bicycle. It makes you awfully hungry to do so much in the night."

Her guest made no reply to this, but devoted himself to his supper with an avidity which left no doubt of his being hungry himself. Every drop of the milk had disappeared, every scrap of meat upon the mutton bone had been devoured before he spoke. Then he pushed back his chair. "Thank you," said he. "I 'ain't had nothin' ter eat since day before yesterday."

"Oh!" cried Theodora, "I don't wonder you were hungry! Won't you have something more? Why, how did it happen?"

"It happened 'cause I'm tired of askin' folks ter give me somethun when they don't want ter, and I 'ain't had no money ter pay for it, and yer can't get nothin' without payin' for it unless yer wants ter get chucked inter jail. So that is the reason I come here. I thought I'd get ter jail sooner or later, and I might as well try for somethun big first. Yer don't much care what yer do when yer as hungry as I was."

"What do you mean?" asked Teddy. "I don't quite understand what you say about jail."

The boy looked at her in silence for a moment or two. "Look ahere," said he, at last. "I thought I hated yer 'count o' that black eye yer give me long o' that cat. I 'ain't never been set onter by a girl before, and it jest made me rippin' mad. I didn't s'pose I'd ever git over it, and I'd 'a' liked ter 'a' paid yer back over and over again, but I feel diff'runt now. Yer've been mighty perlite, and give me as good a lot o' victuals as I ever tasted. I feel better, now I've got somethun inside o' me, and I'm agoin' ter tell yer somethun. I don't believe, after all, as yer the kind o' girl as would git me inter trouble."

"Oh no; of course not!" said Teddy, earnestly. "I was very mad at you that day, for I do think it is perfectly horrible for any one to hurt an animal. I'm sorry I hurt you very badly, but I may just as well tell you the truth. You had better never do it again if you see me anywhere near, for I am sure, perfectly sure, that it would make me just as mad as it did that day, and I am very much afraid I should attack you the same way. My aunts did not like my doing it at all, and they said it was unladylike, and I suppose it was. But oh! you don't know how angry it makes me to see any one cruel to animals!"

They were standing facing each other, the little girl in her pretty red frock, with the mass of tumbled brown hair falling over her shoulders; the tall ungainly boy in his ragged clothes, twisting his hat in his hands as he listened to this tirade. When she had finished, he lifted his eyes and looked at her admiringly.

"Yer a good one," said he. "I kinder like yer underneath fer it, though yer did give me a black eye and make me mad. And yer've been that good ter me ter-night, givin' me such a lot ter eat, that I'm willin' ter promise yer somethun. I won't stone no more kittens, not if I can help it, nor puppies neither."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Theodora, fervently. "I am so much obliged to you for saying that! Will you really be kind to animals after this? You don't know what a relief to my mind it is. I have often thought of you since, and wondered if you were being cruel; and now I shall feel quite easy about you. The poor kitten died, you know."

Morse said nothing to this.

"And we had a funeral," continued Teddy. "That was a dreadful day altogether, except the funeral. That was nice, but a terrible misfortune happened to our family that day. But you said you were going to tell me something. Was it about being kind to animals?"

"No, it warn't about animals."

"What was it?" asked Theodora, much interested.

"Will yer promise not ter git me inter trouble?" he asked again.

"Of course I'll promise."

"Then I'll tell yer. Do yer know how I got in here ter-night?"

"No; I was going to ask you that."

"Well, yer know when yer went out on the bike?"

"When I went for the doctor? Yes."

"Well, I was down near the gate, a-hangin' round, not knowin' what I was agoin' ter do, and when I seen yer go by, I thinks here's a chance. Most likely she's left a door open or somethun, and I can git in and git somethun or other. Yer see, I was so hungry I was ready for anything. And I found the back door open, and I walked in as easy as anything. I was afraid to hide in the kitchen, for I heard people movin' round, so I crep' inter the parlor, for I knew the big sofa there'd hide me."

"Why, how did you know that?" asked Theodora. "Have you ever been in our parlor?"

The boy dropped his eyes again, and again shifted his hat.

"I jest thought there'd be some place there," said he; "most folks has sofas."

"And what were you going to do? Were you going to stay there all night?"

"I was agoin' ter stay there till the house got quiet, and then I was agoin' ter make a grab and be off."

"A grab?" repeated Teddy, wonderingly.

"Yes, a grab. I was agoin' ter take a lot o' things--them silver things and some o' the chiny--anythin' I could get."

"You mean you were going to _steal_ something?"

"Yes," he said, doggedly.

Theodora drew a step nearer.

"Then you were a robber after all!" she said. "I never saw one before. But oh, I am so sorry it was you! I am _too_ sorry! I was just getting to like you, because you said you would be kind to animals after this. Are, you really a robber?"

"I ain't one yet," said the boy, "and now I dun'no' as I'll ever be one. I feel kinder diff'runt about it, now I've got somethun inside o' me. I guess you'd feel like stealin' if yer hadn't had nothin' ter eat since day before yesterday."

"I do believe I would," said Theodora, compassionately; "it must be perfectly awful! But oh, I hope you won't steal anything. It is such a wicked thing to do. You know there is a commandment entirely about that, so it must be one of the wickedest things there are. _Please_ don't steal!"

"I won't," said Andy Morse. "I feel diff'runt now."

There was a pause, while Theodora rapidly thought over the situation.

"What are you going to do to-morrow?" she asked. "How will you get something to eat then?"

"Dun'no'. Trust ter luck, I guess."

"Haven't you any relations?"

"Only an uncle, and he's drunk most o' the time and won't give me nothin'."

"And won't any of your friends give you anything?"

"'Ain't got none, and I'm tired of askin' people ter give me victuals. There ain't no one as seems ter want ter. Yer see, I've got a kinder bad name round here. That's the reason I can't get no work."

"Wouldn't you like some money?" asked Teddy. "I've got some upstairs I could very well give you, if you would let me. Then you could buy yourself something to eat for a few days, at any rate."

The boy looked at her. "Yer a real good un," said he, after a moment's grateful pause. "If I had a little money ter git some decent clo'es, I might git some work somewhere or other. I'd rather be honest if I can, but a poor shabby-lookin' feller like me don't stand no chance, and everybody in Alden thinks I'm no good. If I could git away from here, I might git somethun ter do somewheres else. Do yer really mean yer'd give me some money?"

"Of course I do," replied Teddy; "I'll go up and get it now. It's in my bank. Suppose we put this light out and go back to the parlor; you can wait for me there."

They reached the drawing-room door, and Teddy, opening it, motioned to her guest to go in and be seated. The moonlight still flooded the room, and it lighted up the old silver snuffers and trays, the tall silver candelabra which flanked both ends of the two mantel-pieces, and even Great-grandfather Middleton's gold snuff-box, which was always kept upon a cabinet in the front of the room.

"Say!" exclaimed Andy Morse, in a sharp whisper; "ain't yer 'fraid ter leave me here with all them things? Ain't yer 'fraid I might steal 'em, after all?"

"Oh no," said Theodora, following him into the room and closing the door; "of course not. You just told me you wouldn't steal, that you were going to be honest, and _of course_ I believe you."

And then she went out of the parlor and left him alone in the moonlight with the gold and the silver, and all the priceless china, from the Middleton bowl down. She was absent about ten minutes. When she returned she carried a small silk bag in her hand, which she gave to Morse.

"It is all in there," she said--"all I have. I just emptied my bank right into that work-bag, for I thought it would be easier for you to carry the money that way. I don't know how much there is there, but I think it is about fifteen dollars, for I've been saving it for some time. It seems heavy, for so much of it is in pennies and five and ten cent pieces, but I don't believe you will mind carrying it."

Andy Morse was speechless. He took the bag, shook it, weighed it, looked at it in the light. Twice he tried to speak, but no words came.

"Do yer--do yer really mean ter give me all this?" he stammered at last.

"Certainly I do," replied Teddy. "I only hope it will be enough for you to get what you want."

"Look ahere," said Andy; "jest yer listen ter me! I solemnly promise I'll act straight after this. I won't steal, and I won't hurt no animals, and I won't do nothin' yer wouldn't like. And if I ever make enough, I'll pay yer back this money, sure 's I'm alive. I'll count it, and I'll pay yer back every cent. Do yer believe me?"

"Yes, indeed I do; but you needn't bother about paying it back, for you really need it a great deal more than I do." As she spoke her glance fell upon the Middleton bowl, gleaming in the moonlight. "Before you go, I want to show you this," she said, moving over to the Chinese table in the window.

"This was broken the day--the day the kitten died, and we can't find out who did it. It is very, very valuable, and all of our family think more of it than anything else we own, because my great-grandfather brought it home and gave it to his son, and when my aunts die it is to go to my father, and then to me. It is never to go out of the family, and now it is broken, and had to be mended. We can't find out who did it, and it has given us lots of trouble. My aunts thought at first that I did it, and sometimes they think so now, I am sure; but I didn't. It makes me so unhappy to think they don't believe me." She paused for a moment and gazed at the bowl. Then she continued. "It isn't nice not to be believed, and that is the reason I am telling you about it. I just happened to think of it. I want to tell you again that I really and truly believe you. I don't want you to feel unhappy about that, the way I do about the Middleton bowl."

Andy looked at it in silence. Then he turned away.

"I'm agoin' now," he said. "Good-by. Yer've saved me, and I'll never forgit it. Would yer please tell me what yer name is?" he asked, shyly. "Yer first name, I mean. Of course I know yer other name's Middleton."

"Theodora," said she, "but everybody calls me Teddy, and I like that best. Good-by! I hope you will be able to get some work. I'm very glad I came down here to-night. If Aunt Joanna hadn't been so ill I shouldn't have come. If I can ever do anything else for you, I wish you would tell me. Please go out the back door, the way you came in, if you don't mind, for I am afraid my aunts might hear the front door shut, and it would frighten them."

She followed him to the back door and watched him walk away in the moonlight, swinging the bag in his hand. Then she closed the door and went back to the drawing-room.

"It must be dreadful to be so hungry," she said, to herself, as she again stood by the Middleton bowl, "and I'm glad I told him I believed him. It certainly is dreadful not to be believed."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A LOYAL TRAITOR.

A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.

BY JAMES BARNES.