Phebe, Her Profession - A Sequel to Teddy: Her Book | Page 3

the young man gave a glance at the two women,
swift, yet long enough to take in every detail of their appearance and
stamp it upon his memory. The shorter one with the golden hair was
evidently Mac's mother, not only because she was the older, but
became the child's mischievous face was like a comic mask made in the
semblance of her own gentle features. Her companion was more
striking. Taller and more richly dressed, she carried the impression of
distinctiveness, of achievement, as if she were a person who had proved

her right to exist. Gifford Barrett's eyes lingered on her longer, at a loss
to account for a certain familiarity in her appearance. Where had he
seen her before? Both face and figure seemed known to him, other than
in the relation of Mac's Aunt Teddy.
"I saw the small boy again, to-day," he told his sister, that night.
"Who? Your little Mac?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I decline to assume any responsibility for him, Kate. He passes my
comprehension entirely. He looks like a cherub on a Della Robbia
frieze and converses like the king of the brownies. I expect to hear him
quote Arnold at any instant."
His sister laughed.
"I can't imagine who he can be," she said. "I wish you weren't going
East so soon, Giff, and we would go on a tour of investigation. Such a
child isn't likely to remain hid under a bushel; and, if I find him, I will
let you know all about him. What is it, Jack?" she added, as her
husband looked up from his paper with an exclamation of surprise.
"I've have been entertaining angels unawares,--in the next block, that
is," he answered. "Listen to this: 'Mrs. Theodora McAlister Farrington,
the novelist, who has been spending the winter with her sister, Mrs.
Holden of Murray Street, left for her home in New England, to-night.'"
"Ah--h!" There was a sigh of content from across the table. "Now I
have my bearings. My imp is Mac Holden and Mrs. Farrington is Aunt
Teddy, of course. I met her in New York, last winter, at a dinner or two;
but she evidently had forgotten me. Such is fame!"
"Which?" his sister inquired, as she rose to leave the table.
CHAPTER TWO

The Savins, glistening in its snowy blanket, wore an air of expectancy,
the house on the corner below was being swept and garnished, while
the cold twilight air was burdened with savory odors suggestive of
feastings to come. Mrs. McAlister came back from a final survey of the
corner house, made her eleventh tour of the parlor, dining-room and
kitchen at The Savins, and then took her stand at the front window
where she tapped restlessly on the glass and swayed the curtain to and
fro impatiently. She was not a nervous woman; but to-night her mood
demanded constant action. Moreover, it was only an hour and a quarter
before the train was due. If she were not watchful, the carriage might
come without her knowing it, and the occupants miss half their
welcome home.
Framed in the soft, white draperies, her face made an attractive picture
for the passer-by. Mrs. McAlister's girlhood had passed; a certain
girlishness, however, would never pass, and her clear blue eyes had all
the life and fire they had shown when, as Bess Holden she had been the
leader in most of the pranks of her class at Vassar. The brown hair was
still unmarked by grey threads and the complexion was still fresh and
rosy, while in expression the face in the window below was far younger
than the one peering out from the upper room, just above it.
Allyn McAlister was a graft on the family stock, in temperament, at
least. Born into a genial, jovial, healthy family, his was the only moody
nature there. His brother and sisters might be mischievous or even
fractious; but they were never prone to have black half-hours. It was
reserved for the youngest one of them all, Allyn McAlister, aged fifteen,
to spell his moods with a capital M. His father was wont to say that
Allyn was a mixture of two people, of two nameless, far-off ancestors.
For days at a time, he was a merry, happy-go-lucky boy. Then, for
some slight cause or for no cause at all, he retired within himself for a
space when he remained dumb and glowered at the rest of the world
morosely. Then he roused himself and emerged from his
self-absorption into a frank crossness which wore away but slowly. A
motherless childhood when he was alternately teased and spoiled by his
older sisters and brother had helped on the trouble, and not even the
wisdom of his father and the devotion of his stepmother could