Ted read the letter coming up the Hill, and for once forebore to whistle as he made the ascent.  His mind was busy.  A week of Dunbury calm and sweet do-nothing had sufficed to make him undeniably restless.  Madeline’s proposal struck him as rather a jolly idea accordingly.  After all, she was a dandy little girl, and he owed her a lot for not making any fuss over his nearly killing her.  He didn’t like this Hubbard fellow, either.  He rather thought it was his duty to go and send him about his business.  Ted was a bit of a knight, at heart, and felt now the chivalric urge, combining with others less unselfish, to go to the rescue of the damsel and set her free of the false besieger.

Her undisguised admission of her caring for him was a bit disconcerting, although perhaps also a little sweet to his youthful male vanity.  Her caring was a complication, made him feel as if somehow he ought to make up to her for failing her in the big thing by granting her the smaller favor.

By the time he had reached the top of the Hill he was rather definitely committed in his own mind to the Holyoke trip, if he could throw enough dust in his uncle’s eyes to get away with it.

Arrived at the house he flung the other mail on the hall table and went upstairs.  As he passed his grandmother’s room he noticed that the door was ajar and stepped in for a word with her.  She looked very still and white as she lay there in the big, old fashioned four-poster bed!  Poor Granny!  It was awfully sad to be old.  Ted couldn’t quite imagine it for himself, somehow.

“’Lo, Granny dear,” he greeted, stooping to kiss the withered old cheek.  “How goes it?”

“About as usual, dear.  Any word from Larry?” There was a plaintive note in Madame Holiday’s voice.  She was never quite content unless all the “children” were under the family roof-tree.  And Larry was particularly dear to her heart.

“Yes, I just brought a letter for Uncle Phil.  The very idea of your wanting Larry when you have Tony and me, and you haven’t had us for so long.”  Ted pretended to be reproachful and his grandmother reached for his hand.

“I know, dear boy.  I am very glad to have you and Tony.  But Larry is a habit, like Philip.  You mustn’t mind my missing him.”

“Course I don’t mind, Granny.  I was just jossing.  I don’t blame you a bit for missing Larry.  He is a mighty good thing to have in the family.  Wish I were half as valuable.”

“You are, sonny.  I am so happy to be having you here all summer.”

“Maybe not quite all summer.  I’ll be going off for little trips,” he prepared her gently.

“Youth!  Youth!  Never still—­always wanting to fly off somewhere!”

“We all fly back mighty quick,” comforted Ted.  “There come the kiddies.”

A patter of small feet sounded down the hall.  In the next moment they were there—­sturdy Eric, the six year old, apple-cheeked, incredibly energetic, already bidding fair to equal if not to rival his cousin Ted’s reputation for juvenile naughtiness; and Hester, two years younger, a rose-and-snow creation, cherubic, adorable, with bobbing silver curls, delectably dimpled elbows and corn flower blue eyes.