MISS BILLY'S DECISION

By Eleanor H. Porter

Author of "Miss Billy, " etc. 

TO My Cousin Helen

 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. CALDERWELL DOES SOME TALKING II. AUNT HANNAH GETS A LETTER III. BILLY AND BERTRAM IV. FOR MARY JANE V. MARIE SPEAKS HER MIND VI. AT THE SIGN OF THE PINK VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW VIII. M. J. OPENS THE GAME IX. A RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID X. A JOB FOR PETE--AND FOR BERTRAM XI. A CLOCK AND AUNT HANNAH XII. SISTER KATE XIII. CYRIL AND A WEDDING XIV. M. J. MAKES ANOTHER MOVE XV. "MR. BILLY" AND "MISS MARY JANE" XVI. A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT XVII. ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT-- XVIII. SUGARPLUMS XIX. ALICE GREGGORY XX. ARKWRIGHT TELLS A STORY XXI. A MATTER OF STRAIGHT BUSINESS XXII. PLANS AND PLOTTINGS XXIII. THE CAUSE AND BERTRAM XXIV. THE ARTIST AND HIS ART XXV. THE OPERETTA XXVI. ARKWRIGHT TELLS ANOTHER STORY XXVII. THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH XXVIII. BILLY TAKES HER TURN XXIX. KATE WRITES A LETTER XXX. "I'VE HINDERED HIM" XXXI. FLIGHT XXXII. PETE TO THE RESCUE XXXIII. BERTRAM TAKES THE REINS

MISS BILLY'S DECISION

CHAPTER I. CALDERWELL DOES SOME TALKING

Calderwell had met Mr. M. J. Arkwright in London through a commonfriend; since then they had tramped half over Europe together in acomradeship that was as delightful as it was unusual. As Calderwell putit in a letter to his sister, Belle:

"We smoke the same cigar and drink the same tea (he's just as much ofan old woman on that subject as I am!), and we agree beautifully onall necessary points of living, from tipping to late sleeping in themorning; while as for politics and religion--we disagree in those justenough to lend spice to an otherwise tame existence. "

Farther along in this same letter Calderwell touched upon his new friendagain. 

"I admit, however, I would like to know his name. To find out what thatmysterious 'M. J. ' stands for has got to be pretty nearly an obsessionwith me. I am about ready to pick his pocket or rifle his trunk insearch of some lurking 'Martin' or 'John' that will set me at peace. Asit is, I confess that I have ogled his incoming mail and his outgoingbaggage shamelessly, only to be slapped in the face always andeverlastingly by that bland 'M. J. ' I've got my revenge, now, though. Tomyself I call him 'Mary Jane'--and his broad-shouldered, brown-beardedsix feet of muscular manhood would so like to be called 'Mary Jane'!By the way, Belle, if you ever hear of murder and sudden death in mydirection, better set the sleuths on the trail of Arkwright. Six to oneyou'll find I called him 'Mary Jane' to his face!"

Calderwell was thinking of that letter now, as he sat at a small tablein a Paris café. Opposite him was the six feet of muscular manhood, broad shoulders, pointed brown beard, and all--and he had just addressedit, inadvertently, as "Mary Jane. "

During the brief, sickening moment of silence after the name had lefthis lips, Calderwell was conscious of a whimsical realization of thelights, music, and laughter all about him. 

"Well, I chose as safe a place as I could!" he was thinking. ThenArkwright spoke. 

"How long since you've been in correspondence with members of myfamily?"

"Eh?"

Arkwright laughed grimly. 

"Perhaps you thought of it yourself, then--I'll admit you're capable ofit, " he nodded, reaching for a cigar. "But it so happens you hit upon myfamily's favorite name for me. "

"_Mary Jane!_ You mean they actually _call_ you that?"

"Yes, " bowed the big fellow, calmly, as he struck a light. "Appropriate!--don't you think?"

Calderwell did not answer. He thought he could not. 

"Well, silence gives consent, they say, " laughed the other. "Anyhow, youmust have had _some_ reason for calling me that. "

"Arkwright, what _does_ 'M. J. ' stand for?" demanded Calderwell. 

"Oh, is that it?" smiled the man opposite. "Well, I'll own thoseinitials have been something of a puzzle to people. One man declaresthey're 'Merely Jokes'; but another, not so friendly, says they standfor 'Mostly Jealousy' of more fortunate chaps who have real names fora handle. My small brothers and sisters, discovering, with the usualperspicacity of one's family on such matters, that I never signed, orcalled myself anything but 'M. J. , ' dubbed me 'Mary Jane. ' And there youhave it. "

"Mary Jane! You!"

Arkwright smiled oddly. 

"Oh, well, what's the difference? Would you deprive them of theirinnocent amusement? And they do so love that 'Mary Jane'! Besides, what's in a name, anyway?" he went on, eyeing the glowing tip of thecigar between his fingers. "'A rose by any other name--'--you'veheard that, probably. Names don't always signify, my dear fellow. Forinstance, I know a 'Billy'--but he's a girl. "

Calderwell gave a sudden start. 

"You don't mean Billy--Neilson?"

The other turned sharply. 

"Do _you_ know Billy Neilson?"

Calderwell gave his friend a glance from scornful eyes. 

"Do I know Billy Neilson?" he cried. "Does a fellow usually know thegirl he's proposed to regularly once in three months? Oh, I know I'mtelling tales out of school, of course, " he went on, in response to thelook that had come into the brown eyes opposite. "But what's the use?Everybody knows it--that knows us. Billy herself got so she took it asa matter of course--and refused as a matter of course, too; just as shewould refuse a serving of apple pie at dinner, if she hadn't wanted it. "

"Apple pie!" scouted Arkwright. 

Calderwell shrugged his shoulders. 

"My dear fellow, you don't seem to realize it, but for the last sixmonths you have been assisting at the obsequies of a dead romance. "

"Indeed! And is it--buried, yet?"

"Oh, no, " sighed Calderwell, cheerfully. "I shall go back one of thesedays, I'll warrant, and begin the same old game again; though I willacknowledge that the last refusal was so very decided that it's been ayear, almost, since I received it. I think I was really convinced, fora while, that--that she didn't want that apple pie, " he finished witha whimsical lightness that did not quite coincide with the stern linesthat had come to his mouth. 

For a moment there was silence, then Calderwell spoke again. 

"Where did you know--Miss Billy?"

"Oh, I don't know her at all. I know of her--through Aunt Hannah. "

Calderwell sat suddenly erect. 

"Aunt Hannah! Is she your aunt, too? Jove! This _is_ a little old world, after all; isn't it?"

"She isn't my aunt. She's my mother's third cousin. None of us have seenher for years, but she writes to mother occasionally; and, of course, for some time now, her letters have been running over full of Billy. Shelives with her, I believe; doesn't she?"

"She does, " rejoined Calderwell, with an unexpected chuckle. "I wonderif you know how she happened to live with her, at first. "

"Why, no, I reckon not. What do you mean?"

Calderwell chuckled again. 

"Well, I'll tell you. You, being a 'Mary Jane, ' ought to appreciate it. You see, Billy was named for one William Henshaw, her father's chum, who promptly forgot all about her. At eighteen, Billy, being left quitealone in the world, wrote to 'Uncle William' and asked to come and livewith him. "

"Well?"

"But it wasn't well. William was a forty-year-old widower who lived withtwo younger brothers, an old butler, and a Chinese cook in one of thosefunny old Beacon Street houses in Boston. 'The Strata, ' Bertram calledit. Bright boy--Bertram!"

"The Strata!"

"Yes. I wish you could see that house, Arkwright. It's a regular layercake. Cyril--he's the second brother; must be thirty-four or fivenow--lives on the top floor in a rugless, curtainless, music-madexistence--just a plain crank. Below him comes William. William collectsthings--everything from tenpenny nails to teapots, I should say, andthey're all there in his rooms. Farther down somewhere comes Bertram. He's _the_ Bertram Henshaw, you understand; the artist. "

"Not the 'Face-of-a-Girl' Henshaw?"

"The same; only of course four years ago he wasn't quite so well knownas he is now. Well, to resume and go on. It was into this house, thismasculine paradise ruled over by Pete and Dong Ling in the kitchen, thatBilly's naïve request for a home came. "

"Great Scott!" breathed Arkwright, appreciatively. 

"Yes. Well, the letter was signed 'Billy. ' They took her for a boy, naturally, and after something of a struggle they agreed to let 'him'come. For his particular delectation they fixed up a room next toBertram with guns and fishing rods, and such ladylike specialties; andWilliam went to the station to meet the boy. "

"With never a suspicion?"

"With never a suspicion. "

"Gorry!"

"Well, 'he' came, and 'she' conquered. I guess things were lively fora while, though. Oh, there was a kitten, too, I believe, 'Spunk, ' whoadded to the gayety of nations. "

"But what did the Henshaws do?"

"Well, I wasn't there, of course; but Bertram says they spun around liketops gone mad for a time, but finally quieted down enough to summon amarried sister for immediate propriety, and to establish Aunt Hannah forpermanency the next day. "

"So that's how it happened! Well, by George!" cried Arkwright. 

"Yes, " nodded the other. "So you see there are untold possibilities justin a name. Remember that. Just suppose _you_, as Mary Jane, should beg ahome in a feminine household--say in Miss Billy's, for instance!"

"I'd like to, " retorted Arkwright, with sudden warmth. 

Calderwell stared a little. 

The other laughed shamefacedly. 

"Oh, it's only that I happen to have a devouring curiosity to meetthat special young lady. I sing her songs (you know she's written somedandies!), I've heard a lot about her, and I've seen her picture. "(He did not add that he had also purloined that same picture from hismother's bureau--the picture being a gift from Aunt Hannah. ) "So yousee I would, indeed, like to occupy a corner in the fair Miss Billy'shousehold. I could write to Aunt Hannah and beg a home with her, youknow; eh?"

"Of course! Why don't you--'Mary Jane'?" laughed Calderwell. "Billy'dtake you all right. She's had a little Miss Hawthorn, a music teacher, there for months. She's always doing stunts of that sort. Belle writesme that she's had a dozen forlornites there all this last summer, twoor three at a time-tired widows, lonesome old maids, and crippledkids--just to give them a royal good time. So you see she'd take you, without a doubt. Jove! what a pair you'd make: Miss Billy and Mr. MaryJane! You'd drive the suffragettes into conniption fits--just by thesound of you!"

Arkwright laughed quietly; then he frowned. 

"But how about it?" he asked. "I thought she was keeping house with AuntHannah. Didn't she stay at all with the Henshaws?"

"Oh, yes, a few months. I never knew just why she did leave, but Ifancied, from something Billy herself said once, that she discovered shewas creating rather too much of an upheaval in the Strata. So she tookherself off. She went to school, and travelled considerably. She wasover here when I met her first. After that she was with us all onesummer on the yacht. A couple of years ago, or so, she went back toBoston, bought a house and settled down with Aunt Hannah. "

"And she's not married--or even engaged?"

"Wasn't the last I heard. I haven't seen her since December, and I'veheard from her only indirectly. She corresponds with my sister, and sodo I--intermittently. I heard a month ago from Belle, and _she_ had aletter from Billy in August. But I heard nothing of any engagement. "

"How about the Henshaws? I should think there might be a chance therefor a romance--a charming girl, and three unattached men. "

Calderwell gave a slow shake of the head. 

"I don't think so. William is--let me see--nearly forty-five, I guess, by this time; and he isn't a marrying man. He buried his heart with hiswife and baby years ago. Cyril, according to Bertram, 'hates womenand all other confusion, ' so that ought to let him out. As for Bertramhimself--Bertram is 'only Bertram. ' He's always been that. Bertram lovesgirls--to paint; but I can't imagine him making serious love to any one. It would always be the tilt of a chin or the turn of a cheek that he wasadmiring--to paint. No, there's no chance for a romance there, I'llwarrant. "

"But there's--yourself. "

Calderwell's eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch. 

"Oh, of course. I presume January or February will find me back there, "he admitted with a sigh and a shrug. Then, a little bitterly, he added:"No, Arkwright. I shall keep away if I can. I _know_ there's no chancefor me--now. "

"Then you'll leave me a clear field?" bantered the other. 

"Of course--'Mary Jane, '" retorted Calderwell, with equal lightness. 

"Thank you. "

"Oh, you needn't, " laughed Calderwell. "My giving you the right of waydoesn't insure you a thoroughfare for yourself--there are others, youknow. Billy Neilson has had sighing swains about I her, I imagine, sinceshe could walk and talk. She is a wonderfully fascinating little bit offemininity, and she has a heart of pure gold. All is, I envy the man whowins it--for the man who wins that, wins her. "

There was no answer. Arkwright sat with his eyes on the moving throngoutside the window near them. Perhaps he had not heard. At all events, when he spoke some time later, it was of a matter far removed from MissBilly Neilson, or the way to her heart. Nor was the young lady mentionedbetween them again that day. 

Long hours later, just before parting for the night, Arkwright said:

"Calderwell, I'm sorry, but I believe, after all, I can't take that tripto the lakes with you. I--I'm going home next week. "

"Home! Hang it, Arkwright! I'd counted on you. Isn't this rathersudden?"

"Yes, and no. I'll own I've been drifting about with you contentedlyenough for the last six months to make you think mountain-climbing andboat-paddling were the end and aim of my existence. But they aren't, youknow, really. "

"Nonsense! At heart you're as much of a vagabond as I am; and you knowit. "

"Perhaps. But unfortunately I don't happen to carry your pocketbook. "

"You may, if you like. I'll hand it over any time, " grinned Calderwell. 

"Thanks. You know well enough what I mean, " shrugged the other. 

There was a moment's silence; then Calderwell queried:

"Arkwright, how old are you?"

"Twenty-four. "

"Good! Then you're merely travelling to supplement your education, see?"

"Oh, yes, I see. But something besides my education has got to besupplemented now, I reckon. "

"What are you going to do?"

There was an almost imperceptible hesitation; then, a little shortly, came the answer:

"Hit the trail for Grand Opera, and bring up, probably--in vaudeville. "

Calderwell smiled appreciatively. 

"You _can_ sing like the devil, " he admitted. 

"Thanks, " returned his friend, with uplifted eyebrows. "Do you mindcalling it 'an angel'--just for this occasion?"

"Oh, the matinée-girls will do that fast enough. But, I say, Arkwright, what are you going to do with those initials then?"

"Let 'em alone. "

"Oh, no, you won't. And you won't be 'Mary Jane, ' either. Imagine a MaryJane in Grand Opera! I know what you'll be. You'll be 'Señor MartiniJohnini Arkwrightino'! By the way, you didn't say what that 'M. J. 'really did stand for, " hinted Calderwell, shamelessly. 

"'Merely Jokes'--in your estimation, evidently, " shrugged the other. "But my going isn't a joke, Calderwell. I'm really going. And I'm goingto work. "

"But--how shall you manage?"

"Time will tell. "

Calderwell frowned and stirred restlessly in his chair. 

"But, honestly, now, to--to follow that trail of yours will takemoney. And--er--" a faint red stole to his forehead--"don't theyhave--er--patrons for these young and budding geniuses? Why can't I havea hand in this trail, too--or maybe you'd call it a foot, eh? I'd be noend glad to, Arkwright. "

"Thanks, old man. " The red was duplicated this time above the brownsilky beard. "That was mighty kind of you, and I appreciate it; but itwon't be necessary. A generous, but perhaps misguided bachelor uncleleft me a few thousands a year or so ago; and I'm going to put them alldown my throat--or rather, _into_ it--before I give up. "

"Where you going to study? New York?"

Again there was an almost imperceptible hesitation before the answercame. 

"I'm not quite prepared to say. "

"Why not try it here?"

Arkwright shook his head. 

"I did plan to, when I came over but I've changed my mind. I believe I'drather work while longer in America. "

"Hm-m, " murmured Calderwell. 

There was a brief silence, followed by other questions and otheranswers; after which the friends said good night. 

In his own room, as he was dropping off to sleep, Calderwell muttereddrowsily:

"By George! I haven't found out yet what that blamed 'M. J. ' standsfor!"

CHAPTER II. AUNT HANNAH GETS A LETTER

In the cozy living-room at Hillside, Billy Neilson's pretty home onCorey Hill, Billy herself sat writing at the desk. Her pen had justtraced the date, "October twenty-fifth, " when Mrs. Stetson entered witha letter in her hand. 

"Writing, my dear? Then don't let me disturb you. " She turned as if togo. 

Billy dropped her pen, sprang to her feet, flew to the little woman'sside and whirled her half across the room. 

"There!" she exclaimed, as she plumped the breathless and scandalizedAunt Hannah into the biggest easy chair. "I feel better. I just had tolet off steam some way. It's so lovely you came in just when you did!"

"Indeed! I--I'm not so sure of that, " stammered the lady, dropping theletter into her lap, and patting with agitated fingers her cap, hercurls, the two shawls about her shoulders, and the lace at her throat. "My grief and conscience, Billy! Wors't you _ever_ grow up?"

"Hope not, " purred Billy cheerfully, dropping herself on to a lowhassock at Aunt Hannah's feet. 

"But, my dear, you--you're engaged!"

Billy bubbled into a chuckling laugh. 

"As if I didn't know that, when I've just written a dozen notes toannounce it! And, oh, Aunt Hannah, such a time as I've had, telling whata dear Bertram is, and how I love, love, _love_ him, and what beautifuleyes he has, and _such_ a nose, and--"

"Billy!" Aunt Hannah was sitting erect in pale horror. 

"Eh?" Billy's eyes were roguish. 

"You didn't write that in those notes!"

"Write it? Oh, no! That's only what I _wanted_ to write, " chuckledBilly. "What I really did write was as staid and proper as--here, let meshow you, " she broke off, springing to her feet and running over to herdesk. "There! this is about what I wrote to them all, " she finished, whipping a note out of one of the unsealed envelopes on the desk andspreading it open before Aunt Hannah's suspicious eyes. 

"Hm-m; that is very good--for you, " admitted the lady. 

"Well, I like that!--after all my stern self-control and self-sacrificeto keep out all those things I _wanted_ to write, " bridled Billy. "Besides, they'd have been ever so much more interesting reading thanthese will be, " she pouted, as she took the note from her companion'shand. 

"I don't doubt it, " observed Aunt Hannah, dryly. 

Billy laughed, and tossed the note back on the desk. 

"I'm writing to Belle Calderwell, now, " she announced musingly, droppingherself again on the hassock. "I suppose she'll tell Hugh. "

"Poor boy! He'll be disappointed. "

Billy sighed, but she uptilted her chin a little. 

"He ought not to be. I told him long, long ago, the very first time, that--that I couldn't. "

"I know, dear; but--they don't always understand. " Aunt Hannah sighedin sympathy with the far-away Hugh Calderwell, as she looked down at thebright young face near her. 

There was a moment's silence; then Billy gave a little laugh. 

"He _will_ be surprised, " she said. "He told me once that Bertramwouldn't ever care for any girl except to paint. To paint, indeed! Asif Bertram didn't love me--just _me!_--if he never saw another tube ofpaint!"

"I think he does, my dear. "

Again there was silence; then, from Billy's lips there came softly:

"Just think; we've been engaged almost four weeks--and to-morrow it'llbe announced. I'm so glad I didn't ever announce the other two!"

"The other _two!_" cried Aunt Hannah. 

Billy laughed. 

"Oh, I forgot. You didn't know about Cyril. "

"Cyril!"

"Oh, there didn't anybody know it, either not even Cyril himself, "dimpled Billy, mischievously. "I just engaged myself to him inimagination, you know, to see how I'd like it. I didn't like it. Butit didn't last, anyhow, very long--just three weeks, I believe. Then Ibroke it off, " she finished, with unsmiling mouth, but dancing eyes. 

"Billy!" protested Aunt Hannah, feebly. 

"But I _am_ glad only the family knew about my engagement to UncleWilliam--oh, Aunt Hannah, you don't know how good it does seem to callhim 'Uncle' again. It was always slipping out, anyhow, all the time wewere engaged; and of course it was awful then. "

"That only goes to prove, my dear, how entirely unsuitable it was, fromthe start. "

A bright color flooded Billy's face. 

"I know; but if a girl _will_ think a man is asking for a wife when allhe wants is a daughter, and if she blandly says 'Yes, thank you, I'llmarry you, ' I don't know what you can expect!"

"You can expect just what you got--misery, and almost a tragedy, "retorted Aunt Hannah, severely. 

A tender light came into Billy's eyes. 

"Dear Uncle William! What a jewel he was, all the way through! And he'dhave marched straight to the altar, too, with never a flicker of aneyelid, I know--self-sacrificing martyr that he was!"

"Martyr!" bristled Aunt Hannah, with extraordinary violence for her. "I'm thinking that term belonged somewhere else. A month ago, BillyNeilson, you did not look as if you'd live out half your days. But Isuppose _you'd_ have gone to the altar, too, with never a flicker of aneyelid!"

"But I thought I had to, " protested Billy. "I couldn't grieve UncleWilliam so, after Mrs. Hartwell had said how he--he wanted me. "

Aunt Hannah's lips grew stern at the corners. 

"There are times when--when I think it would be wiser if Mrs. KateHartwell would attend to her own affairs!" Aunt Hannah's voice fairlyshook with wrath. 

"Why-Aunt Hannah!" reproved Billy in mischievous horror. "I'm shocked atyou!"

Aunt Hannah flushed miserably. 

"There, there, child, forget I said it. I ought not to have said it, ofcourse, " she murmured agitatedly. 

Billy laughed. 

"You should have heard what Uncle William said! But never mind. We allfound out the mistake before it was too late, and everything is lovelynow, even to Cyril and Marie. Did you ever see anything so beatificallyhappy as that couple are? Bertram says he hasn't heard a dirge fromCyril's rooms for three weeks; and that if anybody else played the kindof music he's been playing, it would be just common garden ragtime!"

"Music! Oh, my grief and conscience! That makes me think, Billy. If I'mnot actually forgetting what I came in here for, " cried Aunt Hannah, fumbling in the folds of her dress for the letter that had slipped fromher lap. "I've had word from a young niece. She's going to study musicin Boston. "

"A niece?"

"Well, not really, you know. She calls me 'Aunt, ' just as you and theHenshaw boys do. But I really am related to _her_, for her mother and Iare third cousins, while it was my husband who was distantly related tothe Henshaw family. "

"What's her name?"

"'Mary Jane Arkwright. ' Where is that letter?"

"Here it is, on the floor, " reported Billy. "Were you going to read itto me?" she asked, as she picked it up. 

"Yes--if you don't mind. "

"I'd love to hear it. "

"Then I'll read it. It--it rather annoys me in some ways. I thought thewhole family understood that I wasn't living by myself any longer--thatI was living with you. I'm sure I thought I wrote them that, long ago. But this sounds almost as if they didn't understand it--at least, as ifthis girl didn't. "

"How old is she?"

"I don't know; but she must be some old, to be coming here to Boston tostudy music, alone--singing, I think she said. "

"You don't remember her, then?"

Aunt Hannah frowned and paused, the letter half withdrawn from itsenvelope. 

"No--but that isn't strange. They live West. I haven't seen any of themfor years. I know there are several children--and I suppose I've beentold their names. I know there's a boy--the eldest, I think--who isquite a singer, and there's a girl who paints, I believe; but I don'tseem to remember a 'Mary Jane. '"

"Never mind! Suppose we let Mary Jane speak for herself, " suggestedBilly, dropping her chin into the small pink cup of her hand, andsettling herself to listen. 

"Very well, " sighed Aunt Hannah; and she opened the letter and began toread. 

 "DEAR AUNT HANNAH:--This is to tell you that I'm coming to Boston to study singing in the school for Grand Opera, and I'm planning to look you up. Do you object? I said to a friend the other day that I'd half a mind to write to Aunt Hannah and beg a home with her; and my friend retorted: 'Why don't you, Mary Jane?' But that, of course, I should not think of doing. 

 "But I know I shall be lonesome, Aunt Hannah, and I hope you'll let me see you once in a while, anyway. I plan now to come next week --I've already got as far as New York, as you see by the address--and I shall hope to see you soon. 

 "All the family would send love, I know. "M. J. ARKWRIGHT. "

"Grand Opera! Oh, how perfectly lovely, " cried Billy. 

"Yes, but Billy, do you think she is expecting me to invite her to makeher home with me? I shall have to write and explain that I can't--if shedoes, of course. "

Billy frowned and hesitated. 

"Why, it sounded--a little--that way; but--" Suddenly her face cleared. "Aunt Hannah, I've thought of the very thing. We _will_ take her!"

"Oh, Billy, I couldn't think of letting you do that, " demurred AuntHannah. "You're very kind--but, oh, no; not that!"

"Why not? I think it would be lovely; and we can just as well as not. After Marie is married in December, she can have that room. Until thenshe can have the little blue room next to me. "

"But--but--we don't know anything about her. "

"We know she's your niece, and she's lonesome; and we know she'smusical. I shall love her for every one of those things. Of course we'lltake her!"

"But--I don't know anything about her age. "

"All the more reason why she should be looked out for, then, " retortedBilly, promptly. "Why, Aunt Hannah, just as if you didn't want to givethis lonesome, unprotected young girl a home!"

"Oh, I do, of course; but--"

"Then it's all settled, " interposed Billy, springing to her feet. 

"But what if we--we shouldn't like her?"

"Nonsense! What if she shouldn't like us?" laughed Billy. "However, ifyou'd feel better, just ask her to come and stay with us a month. Weshall keep her all right, afterwards. See if we don't!"

Slowly Aunt Hannah got to her feet. 

"Very well, dear. I'll write, of course, as you tell me to; and it'slovely of you to do it. Now I'll leave you to your letters. I'vehindered you far too long, as it is. "

"You've rested me, " declared Billy, flinging wide her arms. 

Aunt Hannah, fearing a second dizzying whirl impelled by those sameyoung arms, drew her shawls about her shoulders and backed hastilytoward the hall door. 

Billy laughed. 

"Oh, I won't again--to-day, " she promised merrily. Then, as the ladyreached the arched doorway: "Tell Mary Jane to let us know the dayand train and we'll meet her. Oh, and Aunt Hannah, tell her to wear apink--a white pink; and tell her we will, too, " she finished gayly. 

CHAPTER III. BILLY AND BERTRAM

Bertram called that evening. Before the open fire in the living-room hefound a pensive Billy awaiting him--a Billy who let herself be kissed, it is true, and who even kissed back, shyly, adorably; but a Billy wholooked at him with wide, almost frightened eyes. 

"Why, darling, what's the matter?" he demanded, his own eyes growingwide and frightened. 

"Bertram, it's--done!"

"What's done? What do you mean?"

"Our engagement. It's--announced. I wrote stacks of notes to-day, and even now there are some left for to-morrow. And then there's--thenewspapers. Bertram, right away, now, _everybody_ will know it. " Hervoice was tragic. 

Bertram relaxed visibly. A tender light came to his eyes. 

"Well, didn't you expect everybody would know it, my dear?"

"Y-yes; but--"

At her hesitation, the tender light changed to a quick fear. 

"Billy, you aren't--sorry?"

The pink glory that suffused her face answered him before her words did. 

"Sorry! Oh, never, Bertram! It's only that it won't be ours anylonger--that is, it won't belong to just our two selves. Everybody willknow it. And they'll bow and smile and say 'How lovely!' to our faces, and 'Did you ever?' to our backs. Oh, no, I'm not sorry, Bertram; but Iam--afraid. "

"_Afraid_--Billy!"

"Yes. "

Billy sighed, and gazed with pensive eyes into the fire. 

Across Bertram's face swept surprise, consternation, and dismay. Bertramhad thought he knew Billy in all her moods and fancies; but he did notknow her in this one. 

"Why, Billy!" he breathed. 

Billy drew another sigh. It seemed to come from the very bottoms of hersmall, satin-slippered feet. 

"Well, I am. You're _the_ Bertram Henshaw. You know lots and lots ofpeople that I never even saw. And they'll come and stand around andstare and lift their lorgnettes and say: 'Is that the one? Dear me!'"

Bertram gave a relieved laugh. 

"Nonsense, sweetheart! I should think you were a picture I'd painted andhung on a wall. "

"I shall feel as if I were--with all those friends of yours. Bertram, what if they don't like it?" Her voice had grown tragic again. 

"_Like_ it!"

"Yes. The picture--me, I mean. "

"They can't help liking it, " he retorted, with the prompt certainty ofan adoring lover. 

Billy shook her head. Her eyes had gone back to the fire. 

"Oh, yes, they can. I can hear them. 'What, _she_--Bertram Henshaw'swife?--a frivolous, inconsequential "Billy" like that?' Bertram!"--Billyturned fiercely despairing eyes on her lover--"Bertram, sometimes Iwish my name were 'Clarissa Cordelia, ' or 'Arabella Maud, ' or 'HannahJane'--anything that's feminine and proper!"

Bertram's ringing laugh brought a faint smile to Billy's lips. But thewords that followed the laugh, and the caressing touch of the man'shands sent a flood of shy color to her face. 

"'Hannah Jane, ' indeed! As if I'd exchange my Billy for her or anyClarissa or Arabella that ever grew! I adore Billy--flame, nature, and--"

"And naughtiness?" put in Billy herself. 

"Yes--if there be any, " laughed Bertram, fondly. "But, see, " he added, taking a tiny box from his pocket, "see what I've brought for this sameBilly to wear. She'd have had it long ago if she hadn't insisted onwaiting for this announcement business. "

"Oh, Bertram, what a beauty!" dimpled Billy, as the flawless diamond inBertram's fingers caught the light and sent it back in a flash of flameand crimson. 

"Now you are mine--really mine, sweetheart!" The man's voice and handshook as he slipped the ring on Billy's outstretched finger. 

Billy caught her breath with almost a sob. 

"And I'm so glad to be--yours, dear, " she murmured brokenly. "And--andI'll make you proud that I am yours, even if I am just 'Billy, '" shechoked. "Oh, I know I'll write such beautiful, beautiful songs now. "

The man drew her into a close embrace. 

"As if I cared for that, " he scoffed lovingly. 

Billy looked up in quick horror. 

"Why, Bertram, you don't mean you don't--care?"

He laughed lightly, and took the dismayed little face between his twohands. 

"Care, darling? of course I care! You know how I love your music. Icare about everything that concerns you. I meant that I'm proud of you_now_--just you. I love _you_, you know. "

There was a moment's pause. Billy's eyes, as they looked at him, carrieda curious intentness in their dark depths. 

"You mean, you like--the turn of my head and the tilt of my chin?" sheasked a little breathlessly. 

"I adore them!" came the prompt answer. 

To Bertram's utter amazement, Billy drew back with a sharp cry. 

"No, no--not that!"

"Why, _Billy!_"

Billy laughed unexpectedly; then she sighed. 

"Oh, it's all right, of course, " she assured him hastily. "It's only--"Billy stopped and blushed. Billy was thinking of what Hugh Calderwellhad once said to her: that Bertram Henshaw would never love any girlseriously; that it would always be the turn of her head or the tilt ofher chin that he loved--to paint. 

"Well; only what?" demanded Bertram. 

Billy blushed the more deeply, but she gave a light laugh. 

"Nothing, only something Hugh Calderwell said to me once. You see, Bertram, I don't think Hugh ever thought you would--marry. "

"Oh, didn't he?" bridled Bertram. "Well, that only goes to show how muchhe knows about it. Er--did you announce it--to him?" Bertram's voice wasalmost savage now. 

Billy smiled. 

"No; but I did to his sister, and she'll tell him. Oh, Bertram, such atime as I had over those notes, " went on Billy, with a chuckle. Hereyes were dancing, and she was seeming more like her usual self, Bertramthought. "You see there were such a lot of things I wanted to say, aboutwhat a dear you were, and how much I--I liked you, and that you had suchlovely eyes, and a nose--"

"Billy!" This time it was Bertram who was sitting erect in pale horror. 

Billy threw him a roguish glance. 

"Goosey! You are as bad as Aunt Hannah! I said that was what I _wanted_to say. What I really said was--quite another matter, " she finished witha saucy uptilting of her chin. 

Bertram relaxed with a laugh. 

"You witch!" His admiring eyes still lingered on her face. "Billy, I'mgoing to paint you sometime in just that pose. You're adorable!"

"Pooh! Just another face of a girl, " teased the adorable one. 

Bertram gave a sudden exclamation. 

"There! And I haven't told you, yet. Guess what my next commission is. "

"To paint a portrait?"

"Yes. "

"Can't. Who is it?"

"J. G. Winthrop's daughter. "

"Not _the_ J. G. Winthrop?"

"The same. "

"Oh, Bertram, how splendid!"

"Isn't it? And then the girl herself! Have you seen her? But youhaven't, I know, unless you met her abroad. She hasn't been in Bostonfor years until now. "

"No, I haven't seen her. Is she so _very_ beautiful?" Billy spoke alittle soberly. 

"Yes--and no. " The artist lifted his head alertly. What Billy calledhis "painting look" came to his face. "It isn't that her features are soregular--though her mouth and chin are perfect. But her face has so muchcharacter, and there's an elusive something about her eyes--Jove! IfI can only catch it, it'll be the best thing yet that I've ever done, Billy. "

"Will it? I'm so glad--and you'll get it, I know you will, " claimedBilly, clearing her throat a little nervously. 

"I wish I felt so sure, " sighed Bertram. "But it'll be a great thing ifI do get it--J. G. Winthrop's daughter, you know, besides the merit ofthe likeness itself. "

"Yes; yes, indeed!" Billy cleared her throat again. "You've seen her, ofcourse, lately?"

"Oh, yes. I was there half the morning discussing the details--sittingsand costume, and deciding on the pose. "

"Did you find one--to suit?"

"Find one!" The artist made a despairing gesture. "I found a dozen thatI wanted. The trouble was to tell which I wanted the most. "

Billy gave a nervous little laugh. 

"Isn't that--unusual?" she asked. 

Bertram lifted his eyebrows with a quizzical smile. 

"Well, they aren't all Marguerite Winthrops, " he reminded her. 

"Marguerite!" cried Billy. "Oh, is her name Marguerite? I do thinkMarguerite is the dearest name!" Billy's eyes and voice were wistful. 

"I don't--not the _dearest_. Oh, it's all well enough, of course, but itcan't be compared for a moment to--well, say, 'Billy'!"

Billy smiled, but she shook her head. 

"I'm afraid you're not a good judge of names, " she objected. 

"Yes, I am; though, for that matter, I should love your name, no matterwhat it was. "

"Even if 'twas 'Mary Jane, ' eh?" bantered Billy. "Well, you'll have achance to find out how you like that name pretty quick, sir. We're goingto have one here. "

"You're going to have a Mary Jane here? Do you mean that Rosa's goingaway?"

"Mercy! I hope not, " shuddered Billy. "You don't find a Rosa in everykitchen--and never in employment agencies! My Mary Jane is a niece ofAunt Hannah's, --or rather, a cousin. She's coming to Boston to studymusic, and I've invited her here. We've asked her for a month, though Ipresume we shall keep her right along. "

Bertram frowned. 

"Well, of course, that's very nice for--_Mary Jane_, " he sighed withmeaning emphasis. 

Billy laughed. 

"Don't worry, dear. She won't bother us any. "

"Oh, yes, she will, " sighed Bertram. "She'll be 'round--lots; you seeif she isn't. Billy, I think sometimes you're almost too kind--to otherfolks. "

"Never!" laughed Billy. "Besides, what would you have me do when alonesome young girl was coming to Boston? Anyhow, _you're_ not the oneto talk, young man. I've known _you_ to take in a lonesome girl and giveher a home, " she flashed merrily. 

Bertram chuckled. 

"Jove! What a time that was!" he exclaimed, regarding his companion withfond eyes. "And Spunk, too! Is she going to bring a Spunk?"

"Not that I've heard, " smiled Billy; "but she _is_ going to wear apink. "

"Not really, Billy?"

"Of course she is! I told her to. How do you suppose we could know herwhen we saw her, if she didn't?" demanded the girl, indignantly. "Andwhat is more, sir, there will be _two_ pinks worn this time. _I_ sha'n'tdo as Uncle William did, and leave off my pink. Only think what longminutes--that seemed hours of misery--I spent waiting there in thattrain-shed, just because I didn't know which man was my Uncle William!"

Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders. 

"Well, your Mary Jane won't probably turn out to be quite such abombshell as our Billy did--unless she should prove to be a boy, " headded whimsically. "Oh, but Billy, she _can't_ turn out to be such adear treasure, " finished the man. And at the adoring look in his eyesBilly blushed deeply--and promptly forgot all about Mary Jane and herpink. 

CHAPTER IV. FOR MARY JANE

"I have a letter here from Mary Jane, my dear, " announced Aunt Hannah atthe luncheon table one day. 

"Have you?" Billy raised interested eyes from her own letters. "Whatdoes she say?"

"She will be here Thursday. Her train is due at the South Station atfour-thirty. She seems to be very grateful to you for your offer to lether come right here for a month; but she says she's afraid you don'trealize, perhaps, just what you are doing--to take her in like that, with her singing, and all. "

"Nonsense! She doesn't refuse, does she?"

"Oh, no; she doesn't refuse--but she doesn't accept either, exactly, asI can see. I've read the letter over twice, too. I'll let you judge foryourself by and by, when you have time to read it. "

Billy laughed. 

"Never mind. I don't want to read it. She's just a little shy aboutcoming, that's all. She'll stay all right, when we come to meet her. What time did you say it was, Thursday?"

"Half past four, South Station. "

"Thursday, at half past four. Let me see--that's the day of theCarletons' 'At Home, ' isn't it?"

"Oh, my grief and conscience, yes! But I had forgotten it. What shall wedo?"

"Oh, that will be easy. We'll just go to the Carletons' early and haveJohn wait, then take us from there to the South Station. Meanwhile we'llmake sure that the little blue room is all ready for her. I put in mywhite enamel work-basket yesterday, and that pretty little blue case forhairpins and curling tongs that I bought at the fair. I want the room tolook homey to her, you know. "

"As if it could look any other way, if _you_ had anything to do withit, " sighed Aunt Hannah, admiringly. 

Billy laughed. 

"If we get stranded we might ask the Henshaw boys to help us out, AuntHannah. They'd probably suggest guns and swords. That's the way theyfixed up _my_ room. "

Aunt Hannah raised shocked hands of protest. 

"As if we would! Mercy, what a time that was!"

Billy laughed again. 

"I never shall forget, _never_, my first glimpse of that room when Mrs. Hartwell switched on the lights. Oh, Aunt Hannah, I wish you could haveseen it before they took out those guns and spiders!"

"As if I didn't see quite enough when I saw William's face that morninghe came for me!" retorted Aunt Hannah, spiritedly. 

"Dear Uncle William! What an old saint he has been all the way through, "mused Billy aloud. "And Cyril--who would ever have believed that theday would come when Cyril would say to me, as he did last night, that hefelt as if Marie had been gone a month. It's been just seven days, youknow. "

"I know. She comes to-morrow, doesn't she?"

"Yes, and I'm glad. I shall tell Marie she needn't leave Cyril on _my_hands again. Bertram says that at home Cyril hasn't played a dirge sincehis engagement; but I notice that up here--where Marie might be, butisn't--his tunes would never be mistaken for ragtime. By the way, " sheadded, as she rose from the table, "that's another surprise in store forHugh Calderwell. He always declared that Cyril wasn't a marrying man, either, any more than Bertram. You know he said Bertram only cared forgirls to paint; but--" She stopped and looked inquiringly at Rosa, whohad appeared at that moment in the hall doorway. 

"It's the telephone, Miss Neilson. Mr. Bertram Henshaw wants you. "

A few minutes later Aunt Hannah heard Billy at the piano. For fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes the brilliant scales and arpeggios rippledthrough the rooms and up the stairs to Aunt Hannah, who knew, by thevery sound of them, that some unusual nervousness was being worked offat the finger tips that played them. At the end of forty-five minutesAunt Hannah went down-stairs. 

"Billy, my dear, excuse me, but have you forgotten what time it is?Weren't you going out with Bertram?"

Billy stopped playing at once, but she did not turn her head. Herfingers busied themselves with some music on the piano. 

"We aren't going, Aunt Hannah, " she said. 

"Bertram can't. "

"_Can't!_"

"Well, he didn't want to--so of course I said not to. He's been paintingthis morning on a new portrait, and she said he might stay to luncheonand keep right on for a while this afternoon, if he liked. And--he didlike, so he stayed. "

"Why, how--how--" Aunt Hannah stopped helplessly. 

"Oh, no, not at all, " interposed Billy, lightly. "He told me all aboutit the other night. It's going to be a very wonderful portrait; and, of course, I wouldn't want to interfere with--his work!" And again abrilliant scale rippled from Billy's fingers after a crashing chord inthe bass. 

Slowly Aunt Hannah turned and went up-stairs. Her eyes were troubled. Not since Billy's engagement had she heard Billy play like that. 

Bertram did not find a pensive Billy awaiting him that evening. Hefound a bright-eyed, flushed-cheeked Billy, who let herself bekissed--once--but who did not kiss back; a blithe, elusive Billy, whoplayed tripping little melodies, and sang jolly little songs, insteadof sitting before the fire and talking; a Billy who at last turned, andasked tranquilly:

"Well, how did the picture go?"

Bertram rose then, crossed the room, and took Billy very gently into hisarms. 

"Sweetheart, you were a dear this noon to let me off like that, " hebegan in a voice shaken with emotion. "You don't know, perhaps, exactlywhat you did. You see, I was nearly wild between wanting to be with you, and wanting to go on with my work. And I was just at that pointwhere one little word from you, one hint that you wanted me to comeanyway--and I should have come. But you didn't say it, nor hint it. Likethe brave little bit of inspiration that you are, you bade me stay andgo on with my work. "

The "inspiration's" head drooped a little lower, but this only broughta wealth of soft bronze hair to just where Bertram could lay his cheekagainst it--and Bertram promptly took advantage of his opportunity. "Andso I stayed, Billy, and I did good work; I know I did good work. Why, Billy, "--Bertram stepped back now, and held Billy by the shoulders atarms' length--"Billy, that's going to be the best work I've ever done. Ican see it coming even now, under my fingers. "

Billy lifted her head and looked into her lover's face. His eyes wereglowing. His cheeks were flushed. His whole countenance was aflame withthe soul of the artist who sees his vision taking shape before him. AndBilly, looking at him, felt suddenly--ashamed. 

"Oh, Bertram, I'm proud, proud, _proud_ of you!" she breathed. "Come, let's go over to the fire-and talk!"

CHAPTER V. MARIE SPEAKS HER MIND

Billy with John and Peggy met Marie Hawthorn at the station. "Peggy"was short for "Pegasus, " and was what Billy always called her luxurious, seven-seated touring car. 

"I simply won't call it 'automobile, '" she had declared when she boughtit. "In the first place, it takes too long to say it, and in the secondplace, I don't want to add one more to the nineteen different ways topronounce it that I hear all around me every day now. As for calling itmy 'car, ' or my 'motor car'--I should expect to see a Pullman or oneof those huge black trucks before my door, if I ordered it by either ofthose names. Neither will I insult the beautiful thing by calling it a'machine. ' Its name is Pegasus. I shall call it 'Peggy. '"

And "Peggy" she called it. John sniffed his disdain, and Billy's friendsmade no secret of their amused tolerance; but, in an astonishingly shorttime, half the automobile owners of her acquaintance were calling theirown cars "Peggy"; and even the dignified John himself was heard to order"some gasoline for Peggy, " quite as a matter of course. 

When Marie Hawthorn stepped from the train at the North Station shegreeted Billy with affectionate warmth, though at once her blue eyesswept the space beyond expectantly and eagerly. 

Billy's lips curved in a mischievous smile. 

"No, he didn't come, " she said. "He didn't want to--a little bit. "

Marie grew actually pale. 

"Didn't _want_ to!" she stammered. 

Billy gave her a spasmodic hug. 

"Goosey! No, he didn't--a _little_ bit; but he did a great _big_ bit. As if you didn't know he was dying to come, Marie! But he simplycouldn't--something about his concert Monday night. He told me over thetelephone; but between his joy that you were coming, and his rage thathe couldn't see you the first minute you did come, I couldn't quite makeout what was the trouble. But he's coming to dinner to-night, so he'lldoubtless tell you all about it. "

Marie sighed her relief. 

"Oh, that's all right then. I was afraid he was sick--when I didn't seehim. "

Billy laughed softly. 

"No, he isn't sick, Marie; but you needn't go away again before thewedding--not to leave him on my hands. I wouldn't have believed CyrilHenshaw, confirmed old bachelor and avowed woman-hater, could have actedthe part of a love-sick boy as he has the last week or two. "

The rose-flush on Marie's cheek spread to the roots of her fine yellowhair. 

"Billy, dear, he--he didn't!"

"Marie, dear--he--he did!"

Marie laughed. She did not say anything, but the rose-flush deepenedas she occupied herself very busily in getting her trunk-check from thelittle hand bag she carried. 

Cyril was not mentioned again until the two girls, veils tied and coatsbuttoned, were snugly ensconced in the tonneau, and Peggy's nose wasturned toward home. Then Billy asked:

"Have you settled on where you're going to live?"

"Not quite. We're going to talk of that to-night; but we _do_ know thatwe aren't going to live at the Strata. "

"Marie!"

Marie stirred uneasily at the obvious disappointment and reproach in herfriend's voice. 

"But, dear, it wouldn't be wise, I'm sure, " she argued hastily. "Therewill be you and Bertram--"

"We sha'n't be there for a year, nearly, " cut in Billy, with swiftpromptness. "Besides, I think it would be lovely--all together. "

Marie smiled, but she shook her head. 

"Lovely--but not practical, dear. "

Billy laughed ruefully. 

"I know; you're worrying about those puddings of yours. You're afraidsomebody is going to interfere with your making quite so many as youwant to; and Cyril is worrying for fear there'll be somebody else in thecircle of his shaded lamp besides his little Marie with the light on herhair, and the mending basket by her side. "

"Billy, what are you talking about?"

Billy threw a roguish glance into her friend's amazed blue eyes. 

"Oh, just a little picture Cyril drew once for me of what home meant forhim: a room with a table and a shaded lamp, and a little woman beside itwith the light on her hair and a great basket of sewing by her side. "

Marie's eyes softened. 

"Did he say--that?"

"Yes. Oh, he declared he shouldn't want her to sit under that lamp allthe time, of course; but he hoped she'd like that sort of thing. "

Marie threw a quick glance at the stolid back of John beyond the twoempty seats in front of them. Although she knew he could not hear herwords, instinctively she lowered her voice. 

"Did you know--then--about--me?" she asked, with heightened color. 

"No, only that there was a girl somewhere who, he hoped, would sit underthe lamp some day. And when I asked him if the girl did like that sortof thing, he said yes, he thought so; for she had told him once thatthe things she liked best of all to do were to mend stockings and makepuddings. Then I knew, of course, 'twas you, for I'd heard you say thesame thing. So I sent him right along out to you in the summer-house. "

The pink flush on Marie's face grew to a red one. Her blue eyes turnedagain to John's broad back, then drifted to the long, imposing line ofwindowed walls and doorways on the right. The automobile was passingsmoothly along Beacon Street now with the Public Garden just behind themon the left. After a moment Marie turned to Billy again. 

"I'm so glad he wants--just puddings and stockings, " she began a littlebreathlessly. "You see, for so long I supposed he _wouldn't_ wantanything but a very brilliant, talented wife who could play and singbeautifully; a wife he'd be proud of--like you. "

"Me? Nonsense!" laughed Billy. "Cyril never wanted me, and I neverwanted him--only once for a few minutes, so to speak, when I thought, I did. In spite of our music, we aren't a mite congenial. I like peoplearound; he doesn't. I like to go to plays; he doesn't. He likes rainydays, and I abhor them. Mercy! Life with me for him would be one longjangling discord, my love, while with you it'll be one long sweet song!"

Marie drew a deep breath. Her eyes were fixed on a point far ahead upthe curveless street. 

"I hope it will, indeed!" she breathed. 

Not until they were almost home did Billy say suddenly:

"Oh, did Cyril write you? A young relative of Aunt Hannah's is comingto-morrow to stay a while at the house. "

"Er--yes, Cyril told me, " admitted Marie. 

Billy smiled. 

"Didn't like it, I suppose; eh?" she queried shrewdly. 

"N-no, I'm afraid he didn't--very well. He said she'd be--one more to bearound. "

"There, what did I tell you?" dimpled Billy. "You can see what you'recoming to when you do get that shaded lamp and the mending basket!"

A moment later, coming in sight of the house, Billy saw a tall, smooth-shaven man standing on the porch. The man lifted his hat andwaved it gayly, baring a slightly bald head to the sun. 

"It's Uncle William--bless his heart!" cried Billy. "They're all comingto dinner, then he and Aunt Hannah and Bertram and I are going down tothe Hollis Street Theatre and let you and Cyril have a taste of whatthat shaded lamp is going to be. I hope you won't be lonesome, " shefinished mischievously, as the car drew up before the door. 

CHAPTER VI. AT THE SIGN OF THE PINK

After a week of beautiful autumn weather, Thursday dawned raw and cold. By noon an east wind had made the temperature still more uncomfortable. 

At two o'clock Aunt Hannah tapped at Billy's chamber door. She showed atroubled face to the girl who answered her knock. 

"Billy, _would_ you mind very much if I asked you to go alone to theCarletons' and to meet Mary Jane?" she inquired anxiously. 

"Why, no--that is, of course I should _mind_, dear, because I alwayslike to have you go to places with me. But it isn't necessary. Youaren't sick; are you?"

"N-no, not exactly; but I have been sneezing all the morning, and takingcamphor and sugar to break it up--if it is a cold. But it is so raw andNovemberish out, that--"

"Why, of course you sha'n't go, you poor dear! Mercy! don't get oneof those dreadful colds on to you before the wedding! Have you felta draft? Where's another shawl?" Billy turned and cast searching eyesabout the room--Billy always kept shawls everywhere for Aunt Hannah'sshoulders and feet. Bertram had been known to say, indeed, that a room, according to Aunt Hannah, was not fully furnished unless it containedfrom one to four shawls, assorted as to size and warmth. Shawls, certainly, did seem to be a necessity with Aunt Hannah, as she usuallywore from one to three at the same time--which again caused Bertram todeclare that he always counted Aunt Hannah's shawls when he wished toknow what the thermometer was. 

"No, I'm not cold, and I haven't felt a draft, " said Aunt Hannah now. "Iput on my thickest gray shawl this morning with the little pink one fordown-stairs, and the blue one for breakfast; so you see I've been verycareful. But I _have_ sneezed six times, so I think 'twould be safer notto go out in this east wind. You were going to stop for Mrs. Granger, anyway, weren't you? So you'll have her with you for the tea. "

"Yes, dear, don't worry. I'll take your cards and explain to Mrs. Carleton and her daughters. "

"And, of course, as far as Mary Jane is concerned, I don't know her anymore than you do; so I couldn't be any help there, " sighed Aunt Hannah. 

"Not a bit, " smiled Billy, cheerily. "Don't give it another thought, mydear. I sha'n't have a bit of trouble. All I'll have to do is to lookfor a girl alone with a pink. Of course I'll have mine on, too, andshe'll be watching for me. So just run along and take your nap, dear, and be all rested and ready to welcome her when she comes, " finishedBilly, stooping to give the soft, faintly pink cheek a warm kiss. 

"Well, thank you, my dear; perhaps I will, " sighed Aunt Hannah, drawingthe gray shawl about her as she turned away contentedly. 

Mrs. Carleton's tea that afternoon was, for Billy, not an occasion ofunalloyed joy. It was the first time she had appeared at a gathering ofany size since the announcement of her engagement; and, as she dolefullytold Bertram afterwards, she had very much the feeling of the picturehung on the wall. 

"And they _did_ put up their lorgnettes and say, 'Is _that_ the one?'"she declared; "and I know some of them finished with 'Did you ever?'too, " she sighed. 

But Billy did not stay long in Mrs. Carleton's softly-lighted, flower-perfumed rooms. At ten minutes past four she was saying good-byto a group of friends who were vainly urging her to remain longer. 

"I can't--I really can't, " she declared. "I'm due at the South Stationat half past four to meet a Miss Arkwright, a young cousin of AuntHannah's, whom I've never seen before. We're to meet at the sign ofthe pink, " she explained smilingly, just touching the single flower shewore. 

Her hostess gave a sudden laugh. 

"Let me see, my dear; if I remember rightly, you've had experiencebefore, meeting at this sign of the pink. At least, I have a very vividrecollection of Mr. William Henshaw's going once to meet a _boy_ witha pink, who turned out to be a girl. Now, to even things up, your girlshould turn out to be a boy!"

Billy smiled and reddened. 

"Perhaps--but I don't think to-day will strike the balance, " sheretorted, backing toward the door. "This young lady's name is 'MaryJane'; and I'll leave it to you to find anything very masculine inthat!"

It was a short drive from Mrs. Carleton's Commonwealth Avenue home tothe South Station, and Peggy made as quick work of it as the narrow, congested cross streets would allow. In ample time Billy found herselfin the great waiting-room, with John saying respectfully in her ear:

"The man says the train comes in on Track Fourteen, Miss, an' it's ontime. "

At twenty-nine minutes past four Billy left her seat and walked down thetrain-shed platform to Track Number Fourteen. She had pinned the pinknow to the outside of her long coat, and it made an attractive dashof white against the dark-blue velvet. Billy was looking particularlylovely to-day. Framing her face was the big dark-blue velvet picture hatwith its becoming white plumes. 

During the brief minutes' wait before the clanging locomotive puffedinto view far down the long track, Billy's thoughts involuntarily wentback to that other watcher beside a train gate not quite five yearsbefore. 

"Dear Uncle William!" she murmured tenderly. Then suddenly shelaughed--so nearly aloud that a man behind her gave her a covert glancefrom curious eyes. "My! but what a jolt I must have been to UncleWilliam!" Billy was thinking. 

The next minute she drew nearer the gate and regarded with absorbedattention the long line of passengers already sweeping up the narrowaisle between the cars. 

Hurrying men came first, with long strides, and eyes that lookedstraight ahead. These Billy let pass with a mere glance. The next groupshowed a sprinkling of women--women whose trig hats and linen collarsspelled promptness as well as certainty of aim and accomplishment. Tothese, also, Billy paid scant attention. Couples came next--the menanxious-eyed, and usually walking two steps ahead of their companions;the women plainly flustered and hurried, and invariably buttoning glovesor gathering up trailing ends of scarfs or boas. 

The crowd was thickening fast, now, and Billy's eyes were alert. Children were appearing, and young women walking alone. One of thesewore a bunch of violets. Billy gave her a second glance. Then she saw apink--but it was on the coat lapel of a tall young fellow with a brownbeard; so with a slight frown she looked beyond down the line. 

Old men came now, and old women; fleshy women, and women with smallchildren and babies. Couples came, too--dawdling couples, plainly newlymarried: the men were not two steps ahead, and the women's gloves werebuttoned and their furs in place. 

Gradually the line thinned, and soon there were left only an old manwith a cane, and a young woman with three children. Yet nowhere hadBilly seen a girl wearing a white carnation, and walking alone. 

With a deeper frown on her face Billy turned and looked about her. Shethought that somewhere in the crowd she had missed Mary Jane, and thatshe would find her now, standing near. But there was no one standingnear except the good-looking young fellow with the little pointedbrown beard, who, as Billy noticed a second time, was wearing a whitecarnation. 

As she glanced toward him, their eyes met. Then, to Billy's unboundedamazement, the man advanced with uplifted hat. 

"I beg your pardon, but is not this--Miss Neilson?"

Billy drew back with just a touch of hauteur. 

"Y-yes, " she murmured. 

"I thought so--yet I was expecting to see you with Aunt Hannah. I am M. J. Arkwright, Miss Neilson. "

For a brief instant Billy stared dazedly. 

"You don't mean--Mary Jane?" she gasped. 

"I'm afraid I do. " His lips twitched. 

"But I thought--we were expecting--" She stopped helplessly. For onemore brief instant she stared; then, suddenly, a swift change came toher face. Her eyes danced. 

"Oh--oh!" she chuckled. "How perfectly funny! You _have_ evened thingsup, after all. To think that Mary Jane should be a--" She paused andflashed almost angrily suspicious eyes into his face. "But mine _was_'Billy, '" she cried. "Your name isn't really--Mary Jane'?"

"I am often called that. " His brown eyes twinkled, but they did notswerve from their direct gaze into her own. 

"But--" Billy hesitated, and turned her eyes away. She saw then thatmany curious glances were already being flung in her direction. Thecolor in her cheeks deepened. With an odd little gesture she seemed totoss something aside. "Never mind, " she laughed a little hysterically. "If you'll pick up your bag, please, Mr. Mary Jane, and come with me. John and Peggy are waiting. Or--I forgot--you have a trunk, of course?"

The man raised a protesting hand. 

"Thank you; but, Miss Neilson, really--I couldn't think of trespassingon your hospitality--now, you know. "

"But we--we invited you, " stammered Billy. 

He shook his head. 

"You invited _Miss_ Mary Jane. "

Billy bubbled into low laughter. 

"I beg your pardon, but it _is_ funny, " she sighed. "You see _I_ cameonce just the same way, and now to have the tables turned like this!What will Aunt Hannah say--what will everybody say? Come, I want them tobegin--to say it, " she chuckled irrepressibly. 

"Thank you, but I shall go to a hotel, of course. Later, if you'll be sogood as to let me call, and explain--!"

"But I'm afraid Aunt Hannah will think--" Billy stopped abruptly. Somedistance away she saw John coming toward them. She turned hurriedly tothe man at her side. Her eyes still danced, but her voice was mockinglyserious. "Really, Mr. Mary Jane, I'm afraid you'll have to come todinner; then you can settle the rest with Aunt Hannah. John is almostupon us--and _I_ don't want to make explanations. Do you?"

"John, " she said airily to the somewhat dazed chauffeur (who had beentold he was to meet a young woman), "take Mr. Arkwright's bag, please, and show him where Peggy is waiting. It will be five minutes, perhaps, before I can come--if you'll kindly excuse me, " she added to Arkwright, with a flashing glance from merry eyes. "I have some--telephoning todo. "

All the way to the telephone booth Billy was trying to bring order outof the chaos of her mind; but all the way, too, she was chuckling. 

"To think that this thing should have happened to _me!_" shesaid, almost aloud. "And here I am telephoning just like UncleWilliam--Bertram said Uncle William _did_ telephone about _me!_"

In due course Billy had Aunt Hannah at the other end of the wire. 

"Aunt Hannah, listen. I'd never have believed it, but it's happened. Mary Jane is--a man. "

Billy heard a dismayed gasp and a muttered "Oh, my grief andconscience!" then a shaking "Wha-at?"

"I say, Mary Jane is a man. " Billy was enjoying herself hugely. 

"A _ma-an!_"

"Yes; a great big man with a brown beard. He's waiting now with John andI must go. "

"But, Billy, I don't understand, " chattered an agitated voice over theline. "He--he called himself 'Mary Jane. ' He hasn't any business to bea big man with a brown beard! What shall we do? We don't want a big manwith a brown beard--here!"

Billy laughed roguishly. 

"I don't know. _You_ asked him! How he will like that little blueroom--Aunt Hannah!" Billy's voice turned suddenly tragic. "For pity'ssake take out those curling tongs and hairpins, and the work-basket. I'd _never_ hear the last of it if he saw those, I know. He's just thatkind!"

A half stifled groan came over the wire. 

"Billy, he can't stay here. "

Billy laughed again. 

"No, no, dear; he won't, I know. He says he's going to a hotel. ButI had to bring him home to dinner; there was no other way, under thecircumstances. He won't stay. Don't you worry. But good-by. I mustgo. _Remember those curling tongs!_" And the receiver clicked sharplyagainst the hook. 

In the automobile some minutes later, Billy and Mr. M. J. Arkwrightwere speeding toward Corey Hill. It was during a slight pause in theconversation that Billy turned to her companion with a demure:

"I telephoned Aunt Hannah, Mr. Arkwright. I thought she ought tobe--warned. "

"You are very kind. What did she say?--if I may ask. "

There was a brief moment of hesitation before Billy answered. 

"She said you called yourself 'Mary Jane, ' and that you hadn't anybusiness to be a big man with a brown beard. "

Arkwright laughed. 

"I'm afraid I owe Aunt Hannah an apology, " he said. He hesitated, glanced admiringly at the glowing, half-averted face near him, then wenton decisively. He wore the air of a man who has set the match to hisbridges. "I signed both letters 'M. J. Arkwright, ' but in the first oneI quoted a remark of a friend, and in that remark I was addressed as'Mary Jane. ' I did not know but Aunt Hannah knew of the nickname. "(Arkwright was speaking a little slowly now, as if weighing his words. )"But when she answered, I saw that she did not; for, from something shesaid, I realized that she thought I was a real Mary Jane. For the jokeof the thing I let it pass. But--if she noticed my letter carefully, shesaw that I did not accept your kind invitation to give 'Mary Jane' ahome. "

"Yes, we noticed that, " nodded Billy, merrily. "But we didn't think youmeant it. You see we pictured you as a shy young thing. But, really, "she went on with a low laugh, "you see your coming as a masculine 'MaryJane' was particularly funny--for me; for, though perhaps you didn'tknow it, I came once to this very same city, wearing a pink, and wasexpected to be Billy, a boy. And only to-day a lady warned me thatyour coming might even things up. But I didn't believe it would--a MaryJane!"

Arkwright laughed. Again he hesitated, and seemed to be weighing hiswords. 

"Yes, I heard about that coming of yours. I might almost say--that's whyI--let the mistake pass in Aunt Hannah's letter, " he said. 

Billy turned with reproachful eyes. 

"Oh, how could--you? But then--it was a temptation!" She laughedsuddenly. "What sinful joy you must have had watching me hunt for 'MaryJane. '"

"I didn't, " acknowledged the other, with unexpected candor. "Ifelt--ashamed. And when I saw you were there alone without Aunt Hannah, I came very near not speaking at all--until I realized that that wouldbe even worse, under the circumstances. "

"Of course it would, " smiled Billy, brightly; "so I don't see but Ishall have to forgive you, after all. And here we are at home, Mr. MaryJane. By the way, what did you say that 'M. J. ' did stand for?" sheasked, as the car came to a stop. 

The man did not seem to hear; at least he did not answer. He washelping his hostess to alight. A moment later a plainly agitated AuntHannah--her gray shawl topped with a huge black one--opened the door ofthe house. 

CHAPTER VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW

At ten minutes before six on the afternoon of Arkwright's arrival, Billycame into the living-room to welcome the three Henshaw brothers, who, aswas frequently the case, were dining at Hillside. 

Bertram thought Billy had never looked prettier than she did thisafternoon with the bronze sheen of her pretty house gown bringingout the bronze lights in her dark eyes and in the soft waves of herbeautiful hair. Her countenance, too, carried a peculiar something thatthe artist's eye was quick to detect, and that the artist's fingerstingled to put on canvas. 

"Jove! Billy, " he said low in her ear, as he greeted her, "I wish I hada brush in my hand this minute. I'd have a 'Face of a Girl' that wouldbe worth while!"

Billy laughed and dimpled her appreciation; but down in her heart shewas conscious of a vague unrest. Billy wished, sometimes, that she didnot so often seem to Bertram--a picture. 

She turned to Cyril with outstretched hand. 

"Oh, yes, Marie's coming, " she smiled in answer to the quick shiftingof Cyril's eyes to the hall doorway. "And Aunt Hannah, too. They'reup-stairs. "

"And Mary Jane?" demanded William, a little anxiously

"Will's getting nervous, " volunteered Bertram, airily. "He wants to seeMary Jane. You see we've told him that we shall expect him to see thatshe doesn't bother us four too much, you know. He's expected always toremove her quietly but effectually, whenever he sees that she is likelyto interrupt a tête-á-tête. Naturally, then, Will wants to seeMary Jane. "

Billy began to laugh hysterically. She dropped into a chair and raisedboth her hands, palms outward. 

"Don't, don't--please don't!" she choked, "or I shall die. I've had allI can stand, already. "

"All you can stand?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is she so--impossible?" This last was from Bertram, spoken softly, andwith a hurried glance toward the hall. 

Billy dropped her hands and lifted her head. By heroic effort she pulledher face into sobriety--all but her eyes--and announced:

"Mary Jane is--a man. "

"Wha-at?"

"A _man!_"

"Billy!"

Three masculine forms sat suddenly erect. 

"Yes. Oh, Uncle William, I know now just how you felt--I know, I know, "gurgled Billy, incoherently. "There he stood with his pink just as Idid--only he had a brown beard, and he didn't have Spunk--and I had totelephone to prepare folks, just as you did. And the room--the room!I fixed the room, too, " she babbled breathlessly, "only I had curlingtongs and hair pins in it instead of guns and spiders!"

"Child, child! what _are_ you talking about?" William's face was red. 

"A _man!_--_Mary Jane!_" Cyril was merely cross. 

"Billy, what does this mean?" Bertram had grown a little white. 

Billy began to laugh again, yet she was plainly trying to controlherself. 

"I'll tell you. I must tell you. Aunt Hannah is keeping him up-stairsso I can tell you, " she panted. "But it was so funny, when I expected agirl, you know, to see him with his brown beard, and he was so tall andbig! And, of course, it made me think how _I_ came, and was a girl whenyou expected a boy; and Mrs. Carleton had just said to-day that maybethis girl would even things up. Oh, it was so funny!"

"Billy, my-my dear, " remonstrated Uncle William, mildly. 

"But what _is_ his name?" demanded Cyril. 

"Did the creature sign himself 'Mary Jane'?" exploded Bertram. 

"I don't know his name, except that it's 'M. J. '--and that's how hesigned the letters. But he _is_ called 'Mary Jane' sometimes, and in theletter he quoted somebody's speech--I've forgotten just how--but in ithe was called 'Mary Jane, ' and, of course, Aunt Hannah took him for agirl, " explained Billy, grown a little more coherent now. 

"Didn't he write again?" asked William. 

"Yes. "

"Well, why didn't he correct the mistake, then?" demanded Bertram. 

Billy chuckled. 

"He didn't want to, I guess. He thought it was too good a joke. "

"Joke!" scoffed Cyril. 

"But, see here, Billy, he isn't going to live here--now?" Bertram'svoice was almost savage. 

"Oh, no, he isn't going to live here--now, " interposed smooth tones fromthe doorway. 

"Mr. --Arkwright!" breathed Billy, confusedly. 

Three crimson-faced men sprang to their feet. The situation, for amoment, threatened embarrassed misery for all concerned; but Arkwright, with a cheery smile, advanced straight toward Bertram, and held out afriendly hand. 

"The proverbial fate of listeners, " he said easily; "but I don't blameyou at all. No, 'he' isn't going to live here, " he went on, graspingeach brother's hand in turn, as Billy murmured faint introductions; "andwhat is more, he hereby asks everybody's pardon for the annoyance hislittle joke has caused. He might add that he's heartily-ashamed ofhimself, as well; but if any of you--" Arkwright turned to the threetall men still standing by their chairs--"if any of you had sufferedwhat he has at the hands of a swarm of youngsters for that name's sake, you wouldn't blame him for being tempted to get what fun he could out ofMary Jane--if there ever came a chance!"

Naturally, after this, there could be nothing stiff or embarrassing. Billy laughed in relief, and motioned Mr. Arkwright to a seat near her. William said "Of course, of course!" and shook hands again. Bertram andCyril laughed shamefacedly and sat down. Somebody said: "But what doesthe 'M. J. ' stand for, anyhow?" Nobody answered this, however; perhapsbecause Aunt Hannah and Marie appeared just then in the doorway. 

Dinner proved to be a lively meal. In the newcomer, Bertram met hismatch for wit and satire; and "Mr. Mary Jane, " as he was promptly calledby every one but Aunt Hannah, was found to be a most entertaining guest. 

After dinner somebody suggested music. 

Cyril frowned, and got up abruptly. Still frowning, he turned to abookcase near him and began to take down and examine some of the books. 

Bertram twinkled and glanced at Billy. 

"Which is it, Cyril?" he called with cheerful impertinence; "stool, piano, or audience that is the matter to-night?"

Only a shrug from Cyril answered. 

"You see, " explained Bertram, jauntily, to Arkwright, whose eyes wereslightly puzzled, "Cyril never plays unless the piano and the pedals andthe weather and your ears and my watch and his fingers are just right!"

"Nonsense!" scorned Cyril, dropping his book and walking back to hischair. "I don't feel like playing to-night; that's all. "

"You see, " nodded Bertram again. 

"I see, " bowed Arkwright with quiet amusement. 

"I believe--Mr. Mary Jane--sings, " observed Billy, at this point, demurely. 

"Why, yes, of course, " chimed in Aunt Hannah with some nervousness. "That's what she--I mean he--was coming to Boston for--to study music. "

Everybody laughed. 

"Won't you sing, please?" asked Billy. "Can you--without your notes? Ihave lots of songs if you want them. "

For a moment--but only a moment--Arkwright hesitated; then he rose andwent to the piano. 

With the easy sureness of the trained musician his fingers dropped tothe keys and slid into preliminary chords and arpeggios to test thetouch of the piano; then, with a sweetness and purity that made everylistener turn in amazed delight, a well-trained tenor began the "Thro'the leaves the night winds moving, " of Schubert's Serenade. 

Cyril's chin had lifted at the first tone. He was listening now withvery obvious pleasure. Bertram, too, was showing by his attitude thekeenest appreciation. William and Aunt Hannah, resting back in theirchairs, were contentedly nodding their approval to each other. Marie inher corner was motionless with rapture. As to Billy--Billy was plainlyoblivious of everything but the song and the singer. She seemed scarcelyto move or to breathe till the song's completion; then there came a low"Oh, how beautiful!" through her parted lips. 

Bertram, looking at her, was conscious of a vague irritation. 

"Arkwright, you're a lucky dog, " he declared almost crossly. "I wish Icould sing like that!"

"I wish I could paint a 'Face of a Girl, '" smiled the tenor as he turnedfrom the piano. 

"Oh, but, Mr. Arkwright, don't stop, " objected Billy, springing to herfeet and going to her music cabinet by the piano. "There's a little songof Nevin's I want you to sing. There, here it is. Just let me play itfor you. " And she slipped into the place the singer had just left. 

It was the beginning of the end. After Nevin came De Koven, and afterDe Koven, Gounod. Then came Nevin again, Billy still playing theaccompaniment. Next followed a duet. Billy did not consider herself muchof a singer, but her voice was sweet and true, and not without training. It blended very prettily with the clear, pure tenor. 

William and Aunt Hannah still smiled contentedly in their chairs, thoughAunt Hannah had reached for the pink shawl near her--the music had sentlittle shivers down her spine. Cyril, with Marie, had slipped into thelittle reception-room across the hall, ostensibly to look at some plansfor a house, although--as everybody knew--they were not intending tobuild for a year. 

Bertram, still sitting stiffly erect in his chair, was not consciousof a vague irritation now. He was conscious of a very real, and a verydecided one--an irritation that was directed against himself, againstBilly, and against this man, Arkwright; but chiefly against music, _per se_. He hated music. He wished he could sing. He wondered how longit took to teach a man to sing, anyhow; and he wondered if a man couldsing--who never had sung. 

At this point the duet came to an end, and Billy and her guest leftthe piano. Almost at once, after this, Arkwright made his very gracefuladieus, and went off with his suit-case to the hotel where, as he hadinformed Aunt Hannah, his room was already engaged. 

William went home then, and Aunt Hannah went up-stairs. Cyril and Mariewithdrew into a still more secluded corner to look at their plans, andBertram found himself at last alone with Billy. He forgot, then, inthe blissful hour he spent with her before the open fire, how he hatedmusic; though he did say, just before he went home that night:

"Billy, how long does it take--to learn to sing?"

"Why, I don't know, I'm sure, " replied Billy, abstractedly; then, withsudden fervor: "Oh, Bertram, hasn't Mr. Mary Jane a beautiful voice?"

Bertram wished then he had not asked the question; but all he said was:

"'Mr. Mary Jane, ' indeed! What an absurd name!"

"But doesn't he sing beautifully?"

"Eh? Oh, yes, he sings all right, " said Bertram's tongue. Bertram'smanner said: "Oh, yes, anybody can sing. "

CHAPTER VIII. M. J. OPENS THE GAME

On the morning after Cyril's first concert of the season, Billy satsewing with Aunt Hannah in the little sitting-room at the end of thehall upstairs. Aunt Hannah wore only one shawl this morning, --whichmeant that she was feeling unusually well. 

"Marie ought to be here to mend these stockings, " remarked Billy, as shecritically examined a tiny break in the black silk mesh stretched acrossthe darning-egg in her hand; "only she'd want a bigger hole. She does solove to make a beautiful black latticework bridge across a yawning whitechina sea--and you'd think the safety of an army depended on the wayeach plank was laid, too, " she concluded. 

Aunt Hannah smiled tranquilly, but she did not speak. 

"I suppose you don't happen to know if Cyril does wear big holes in hissocks, " resumed Billy, after a moment's silence. "If you'll believe it, that thought popped into my head last night when Cyril was playingthat concerto so superbly. It did, actually--right in the middle of theadagio movement, too. And in spite of my joy and pride in the music Ihad all I could do to keep from nudging Marie right there and then andasking her whether or not the dear man was hard on his hose. "

"Billy!" gasped the shocked Aunt Hannah; but the gasp broke at once intowhat--in Aunt Hannah--passed for a chuckle. "If I remember rightly, whenI was there at the house with you at first, my dear, William told methat Cyril wouldn't wear any sock after it came to mending. "

"Horrors!" Billy waved her stocking in mock despair. "That will neverdo in the world. It would break Marie's heart. You know how she dotes ondarning. "

"Yes, I know, " smiled Aunt Hannah. "By the way, where is she thismorning?"

Billy raised her eyebrows quizzically. 

"Gone to look at an apartment in Cambridge, I believe. Really, Aunt Hannah, between her home-hunting in the morning, and herfurniture-and-rug hunting in the afternoon, and her poring overhouse-plans in the evening, I can't get her to attend to her clothes atall. Never did I see a bride so utterly indifferent to her trousseau asMarie Hawthorn--and her wedding less than a month away!"

"But she's been shopping with you once or twice, since she came back, hasn't she? And she said it was for her trousseau. "

Billy laughed. 

"Her trousseau! Oh, yes, it was. I'll tell you what she got for hertrousseau that first day. We started out to buy two hats, some lace forher wedding gown, some crêpe de Chine and net for a little dinnerfrock, and some silk for a couple of waists to go with her tailoredsuit; and what did we get? We purchased a new-style egg-beater and aset of cake tins. Marie got into the kitchen department and I simplycouldn't get her out of it. But the next day I was not to be inveigledbelow stairs by any plaintive prayer for a nutmeg-grater or a sodaspoon. She _shopped_ that day, and to some purpose. We accomplishedlots. "

Aunt Hannah looked a little concerned. 

"But she must have _some_ things started!"

"Oh, she has--'most everything now. _I've_ seen to that. Of course heroutfit is very simple, anyway. Marie hasn't much money, you know, andshe simply won't let me do half what I want to. Still, she had savedup some money, and I've finally convinced her that a trousseau doesn'tconsist of egg-beaters and cake tins, and that Cyril would want her tolook pretty. That name will fetch her every time, and I've learned touse it beautifully. I think if I told her Cyril approved of short hairand near-sightedness she'd I cut off her golden locks and don spectacleson the spot. "

Aunt Hannah laughed softly. 

"What a child you are, Billy! Besides, just as if Marie were the onlyone in the house who is ruled by a magic name!"

The color deepened in Billy's cheeks. 

"Well, of course, any girl--cares something--for the man she loves. Justas if I wouldn't do anything in the world I could for Bertram!"

"Oh, that makes me think; who was that young woman Bertram was talkingwith last evening--just after he left us, I mean?"

"Miss Winthrop--Miss Marguerite Winthrop. Bertram is--is painting herportrait, you know. "

"Oh, is that the one?" murmured Aunt Hannah. "Hm-m; well, she has abeautiful face. "

"Yes, she has. " Billy spoke very cheerfully. She even hummed a littletune as she carefully selected a needle from the cushion in her basket. 

"There's a peculiar something in her face, " mused Aunt Hannah, aloud. 

The little tune stopped abruptly, ending in a nervous laugh. 

"Dear me! I wonder how it feels to have a peculiar something in yourface. Bertram, too, says she has it. He's trying to 'catch it, ' he says. I wonder now--if he does catch it, does she lose it?" Flippant as werethe words, the voice that uttered them shook a little. 

Aunt Hannah smiled indulgently--Aunt Hannah had heard only theflippancy, not the shake. 

"I don't know, my dear. You might ask him this afternoon. "

Billy made a sudden movement. The china egg in her lap rolled to thefloor. 

"Oh, but I don't see him this afternoon, " she said lightly, as shestooped to pick up the egg. 

"Why, I'm sure he told me--" Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in aquestioning pause. 

"Yes, I know, " nodded Billy, brightly; "but he's told me somethingsince. He isn't going. He telephoned me this morning. Miss Winthropwanted the sitting changed from to-morrow to this afternoon. He said heknew I'd understand. "

"Why, yes; but--" Aunt Hannah did not finish her sentence. The whir ofan electric bell had sounded through the house. A few moments later Rosaappeared in the open doorway. 

"It, 's Mr. Arkwright, Miss. He said as how he had brought the music, "she announced. 

"Tell him I'll be down at once, " directed the mistress of Hillside. 

As the maid disappeared, Billy put aside her work and sprang lightly toher feet. 

"Now wasn't that nice of him? We were talking last night about someduets he had, and he said he'd bring them over. I didn't know he'd comeso soon, though. "

Billy had almost reached the bottom of the stairway, when a low, familiar strain of music drifted out from the living-room. Billy caughther breath, and held her foot suspended. The next moment the familiarstrain of music had become a lullaby--one of Billy's own--and sung nowby a melting tenor voice that lingered caressingly and understandinglyon every tender cadence. 

Motionless and almost breathless, Billy waited until the lastlow "lul-la-by" vibrated into silence; then with shining eyes andoutstretched hands she entered the living-room. 

"Oh, that was--beautiful, " she breathed. 

Arkwright was on his feet instantly. His eyes, too, were alight. 

"I could not resist singing it just once--here, " he said a littleunsteadily, as their hands met. 

"But to hear my little song sung like that! I couldn't believe it wasmine, " choked Billy, still plainly very much moved. "You sang it as I'venever heard it sung before. "

Arkwright shook his head slowly. 

"The inspiration of the room--that is all, ", he said. "It is a beautifulsong. All of your songs are beautiful. "

Billy blushed rosily. 

"Thank you. You know--more of them, then?"

"I think I know them all--unless you have some new ones out. Have yousome new ones, lately?"

Billy shook her head. 

"No; I haven't written anything since last spring. "

"But you're going to?"

She drew a long sigh. 

"Yes, oh, yes. I know that _now_--" With a swift biting of her lowerlip Billy caught herself up in time. As if she could tell this man, thisstranger, what she had told Bertram that night by the fire--that sheknew that now, _now_ she would write beautiful songs, with his love, andhis pride in her, as incentives. "Oh, yes, I think I shall write moreone of these days, " she finished lightly. "But come, this isn't singingduets! I want to see the music you brought. "

They sang then, one after another of the duets. To Billy, the music wasnew and interesting. To Billy, too, it was new (and interesting) to hearher own voice blending with another's so perfectly--to feel herself apart of such exquisite harmony. 

"Oh, oh!" she breathed ecstatically, after the last note of aparticularly beautiful phrase. "I never knew before how lovely it was tosing duets. "

"Nor I, " replied Arkwright in a voice that was not quite steady. 

Arkwright's eyes were on the enraptured face of the girl so near him. It was well, perhaps, that Billy did not happen to turn and catch theirexpression. Still, it might have been better if she had turned, afterall. But Billy's eyes were on the music before her. Her fingers werebusy with the fluttering pages, searching for another duet. 

"Didn't you?" she murmured abstractedly. "I supposed _you'd_ sung thembefore; but you see I never did--until the other night. There, let's trythis one!"

"This one" was followed by another and another. Then Billy drew a longbreath. 

"There! that must positively be the last, " she declared reluctantly. "I'm so hoarse now I can scarcely croak. You see, I don't pretend tosing, really. "

"Don't you? You sing far better than some who do, anyhow, " retorted theman, warmly. 

"Thank you, " smiled Billy; "that was nice of you to say so--for mysake--and the others aren't here to care. But tell me of yourself. Ihaven't had a chance to ask you yet; and--I think you said Mary Jane wasgoing to study for Grand Opera. "

Arkwright laughed and shrugged his shoulders. 

"She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she's quite likely to bring up invaudeville. "

"Calderwell! Do you mean--Hugh Calderwell?" Billy's cheeks showed adeeper color. 

The man gave an embarrassed little laugh. He had not meant to let thatname slip out just yet. 

"Yes. " He hesitated, then plunged on recklessly. "We tramped half overEurope together last summer. "

"Did you?" Billy left her seat at the piano for one nearer the fire. "But this isn't telling me about your own plans, " she hurried on alittle precipitately. "You've studied before, of course. Your voiceshows that. "

"Oh, yes; I've studied singing several years, and I've had a year or twoof church work, besides a little concert practice of a mild sort. "

"Have you begun here, yet?"

"Y-yes, I've had my voice tried. "

Billy sat erect with eager interest. 

"They liked it, of course?"

Arkwright laughed. 

"I'm not saying that. "

"No, but I am, " declared Billy, with conviction. "They couldn't helpliking it. "

Arkwright laughed again. Just how well they had "liked it" he did notintend to say. Their remarks had been quite too flattering to repeateven to this very plainly interested young woman--delightful andheart-warming as was this same show of interest, to himself. 

"Thank you, " was all he said. 

Billy gave an excited little bounce in her chair. 

"And you'll begin to learn rôles right away?"

"I already have, some--after a fashion--before I came here. "

"Really? How splendid! Why, then you'll be acting them next right on theBoston Opera House stage, and we'll all go to hear you. How perfectlylovely! I can hardly wait. "

Arkwright laughed--but his eyes glowed with pleasure. 

"Aren't you hurrying things a little?" he ventured. 

"But they do let the students appear, " argued Billy. "I knew a girl lastyear who went on in 'Aida, ' and she was a pupil at the School. She sangfirst in a Sunday concert, then they put her in the bill for a Saturdaynight. She did splendidly--so well that they gave her a chance later ata subscription performance. Oh, you'll be there--and soon, too!"

"Thank you! I only wish the powers that could put me there had yourflattering enthusiasm on the matter, " he smiled. 

"I don't worry any, " nodded Billy, "only please don't 'arrive' toosoon--not before the wedding, you know, " she added jokingly. "We shallbe too busy to give you proper attention until after that. "

A peculiar look crossed Arkwright's face. 

"The--_wedding?_" he asked, a little faintly. 

"Yes. Didn't you know? My friend, Miss Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. CyrilHenshaw next month. "

The man opposite relaxed visibly. 

"Oh, _Miss Hawthorn!_ No, I didn't know, " he murmured; then, with suddenastonishment he added: "And to Mr. Cyril, the musician, did you say?"

"Yes. You seem surprised. "

"I am. " Arkwright paused, then went on almost defiantly. "You see, Calderwell was telling me only last September how very unmarriageableall the Henshaw brothers were. So I am surprised--naturally, " finishedArkwright, as he rose to take his leave. 

A swift crimson stained Billy's face. 

"But surely you must know that--that--"

"That he has a right to change his mind, of course, " supplementedArkwright smilingly, coming to her rescue in the evident confusionthat would not let her finish her sentence. "But Calderwell made it soemphatic, you see, about all the brothers. He said that William had losthis heart long ago; that Cyril hadn't any to lose; and that Bertram--"

"But, Mr. Arkwright, Bertram is--is--" Billy had moistened her lips, andplunged hurriedly in to prevent Arkwright's next words. But again wasshe unable to finish her sentence, and again was she forced to listento a very different completion from the smiling lips of the man at herside. 

"Is an artist, of course, " said Arkwright. "That's what Calderwelldeclared--that it would always be the tilt of a chin or the curve of acheek that the artist loved--to paint. "

Billy drew back suddenly. Her face paled. As if _now_ she could tellthis man that Bertram Henshaw was engaged to her! He would find it outsoon, of course, for himself; and perhaps he, like Hugh Calderwell, would think it was the curve of _her_ cheek, or the tilt of _her_ chin--

Billy lifted her chin very defiantly now as she held out her hand ingood-by. 

CHAPTER IX. A RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID

Thanksgiving came. Once again the Henshaw brothers invited Billy andAunt Hannah to spend the day with them. This time, however, there was tobe an additional guest present in the person of Marie Hawthorn. 

And what a day it was, for everything and everybody concerned! Firstthe Strata itself: from Dong Ling's kitchen in the basement to Cyril'sdomain on the top floor, the house was as spick-and-span as Pete's eagerold hands could make it. In the drawing-room and in Bertram's den andstudio, great clusters of pink roses perfumed the air, and brightenedthe sombre richness of the old-time furnishings. Before the open fire inthe den a sleek gray cat--adorned with a huge ribbon bow the exact shadeof the roses (Bertram had seen to that!)--winked and blinked sleepyyellow eyes. In Bertram's studio the latest "Face of a Girl" had madeway for a group of canvases and plaques, every one of which showed BillyNeilson in one pose or another. Up-stairs, where William's chaos oftreasures filled shelves and cabinets, the place of honor was given toa small black velvet square on which rested a pair of quaint Batterseaenamel mirror knobs. In Cyril's rooms--usually so austerely bare--ahandsome Oriental rug and several curtain-draped chairs hinted atpurchases made at the instigation of a taste other than his own. 

When the doorbell rang Pete admitted the ladies with a promptness thatwas suggestive of surreptitious watching at some window. On Pete'sface the dignity of his high office and the delight of the moment werefighting for mastery. The dignity held firmly through Mrs. Stetson'sfriendly greeting; but it fled in defeat when Billy Neilson stepped overthe threshold with a cheery "Good morning, Pete. "

"Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again, " stammered theman, --delight now in sole possession. 

"She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete, " smiled the eldestHenshaw, hurrying forward. 

"I wish she had now, " whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William'squick stride, had reached Billy's side first. 

From the stairway came the patter of a man's slippered feet. 

"The rug has come, and the curtains, too, " called a "householder" sortof voice that few would have recognized as belonging to Cyril Henshaw. "You must all come up-stairs and see them after dinner. " The voice, apparently, spoke to everybody; but the eyes of the owner of the voiceplainly saw only the fair-haired young woman who stood a little in theshadow behind Billy, and who was looking about her now as at something alittle fearsome, but very dear. 

"You know--I've never been--where you live--before, " explained MarieHawthorn in a low, vibrant tone, when Cyril bent over her to take thefurs from her shoulders. 

In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and guests advanced towardthe fire, the sleek gray cat rose, stretched lazily, and turned her headwith majestic condescension. 

"Well, Spunkie, come here, " commanded Billy, snapping her fingers atthe slow-moving creature on the hearthrug. "Spunkie, when I am yourmistress, you'll have to change either your name or your nature. As ifI were going to have such a bunch of independent moderation as youmasquerading as an understudy to my frisky little Spunk!"

Everybody laughed. William regarded his namesake with fond eyes as hesaid:

"Spunkie doesn't seem to be worrying. " The cat had jumped into Billy'slap with a matter-of-course air that was unmistakable--and to Bertram, adorable. Bertram's eyes, as they rested on Billy, were even fonder thanwere his brother's. 

"I don't think any one is--_worrying_, " he said with quiet emphasis. 

Billy smiled. 

"I should think they might be, " she answered. "Only think how dreadfullyupsetting I was in the first place!"

William's beaming face grew a little stern. 

"Nobody knew it but Kate--and she didn't _know_ it; she only imaginedit, " he said tersely. 

Billy shook her head. 

"I'm not so sure, " she demurred. "As I look back at it now, I think Ican discern a few evidences myself--that I was upsetting. I was a botherto Bertram in his painting, I am sure. "

"You were an inspiration, " corrected Bertram. "Think of the posing youdid for me. "

A swift something like a shadow crossed Billy's face; but before herlover could question its meaning, it was gone. 

"And I know I was a torment to Cyril. " Billy had turned to the musiciannow. 

"Well, I admit you were a little--upsetting, at times, " retorted thatindividual, with something of his old imperturbable rudeness. 

"Nonsense!" cut in William, sharply. "You were never anything but acomfort in the house, Billy, my dear--and you never will be. "

"Thank you, " murmured Billy, demurely. "I'll remember that--when Peteand I disagree about the table decorations, and Dong Ling doesn't likethe way I want my soup seasoned. "

An anxious frown showed on Bertram's face. 

"Billy, " he said in a low voice, as the others laughed at her sally, "you needn't have Pete nor Dong Ling here if you don't want them. "

"Don't want them!" echoed Billy, indignantly. "Of course I want them!"

"But--Pete _is_ old, and--"

"Yes; and where's he grown old? For whom has he worked the last fiftyyears, while he's been growing old? I wonder if you think I'd let Peteleave this house as long as he _wants_ to stay! As for Dong Ling--"

A sudden movement of Bertram's hand arrested her words. She looked up tofind Pete in the doorway. 

"Dinner is served, sir, " announced the old butler, his eyes on hismaster's face. 

William rose with alacrity, and gave his arm to Aunt Hannah. 

"Well, I'm sure we're ready for dinner, " he declared. 

It was a good dinner, and it was well served. It could scarcely havebeen otherwise with Dong Ling in the kitchen and Pete in the dining-roomdoing their utmost to please. But even had the turkey been tough insteadof tender, and even had the pies been filled with sawdust instead ofwith delicious mincemeat, it is doubtful if four at the table would haveknown the difference: Cyril and Marie at one end were discussing whereto put their new sideboard in their dining-room, and Bertram and Billyat the other were talking of the next Thanksgiving, when, according toBertram, the Strata would have the "dearest little mistress that everwas born. " As if, under these circumstances, the tenderness of theturkey or the toothsomeness of the mince pie mattered! To Aunt Hannahand William, in the centre of the table, however, it did matter; so itwas well, of course, that the dinner was a good one. 

"And now, " said Cyril, when dinner was over, "suppose you come up andsee the rug. "

In compliance with this suggestion, the six trailed up the long flightsof stairs then, Billy carrying an extra shawl for Aunt Hannah--Cyril'srooms were always cool. 

"Oh, yes, I knew we should need it, " she nodded to Bertram, as shepicked up the shawl from the hall stand where she had left it when shecame in. "That's why I brought it. "

"Oh, my grief and conscience, Cyril, how _can_ you stand it?--to climbstairs like this, " panted Aunt Hannah, as she reached the top of thelast flight and dropped breathlessly into the nearest chair--from whichMarie had rescued a curtain just in time. 

"Well, I'm not sure I could--if I were always to eat a Thanksgivingdinner just before, " laughed Cyril. "Maybe I ought to have waited andlet you rest an hour or two. "

"But 'twould have been too dark, then, to see the rug, " objected Marie. "It's a genuine Persian--a Kirman, you know; and I'm so proud of it, "she added, turning to the others. "I wanted you to see the colors bydaylight. Cyril likes it better, anyhow, in the daytime. "

"Fancy Cyril _liking_ any sort of a rug at any time, " chuckled Bertram, his eyes on the rich, softly blended colors of the rug before him. "Honestly, Miss Marie, " he added, turning to the little bride elect, "how did you ever manage to get him to buy _any_ rug? He won't have somuch as a ravelling on the floor up here to walk on. "

A startled dismay came into Marie's blue eyes. 

"Why, I thought he wanted rugs, " she faltered. "I'm sure he said--"

"Of course I want rugs, " interrupted Cyril, irritably. "I want themeverywhere except in my own especial den. You don't suppose I want tohear other people clattering over bare floors all day, do you?"

"Of course not!" Bertram's face was preternaturally grave as he turnedto the little music teacher. "I hope, Miss Marie, that you wear rubberheels on your shoes, " he observed solicitously. 

Even Cyril laughed at this, though all he said was:

"Come, come, I got you up here to look at the rug. "

Bertram, however, was not to be silenced. 

"And another thing, Miss Marie, " he resumed, with the air of a true andtried adviser. "Just let me give you a pointer. I've lived with yourfuture husband a good many years, and I know what I'm talking about. "

"Bertram, be still, " growled Cyril. 

Bertram refused to be still. 

"Whenever you want to know anything about Cyril, listen to his playing. For instance: if, after dinner, you hear a dreamy waltz or a sleepynocturne, you may know that all is well. But if on your ears there fallsanything like a dirge, or the wail of a lost spirit gone mad, betterlook to your soup and see if it hasn't been scorched, or taste of yourpudding and see if you didn't put in salt instead of sugar. "

"Bertram, will you be still?" cut in Cyril, testily, again. 

"After all, judging from what Billy tells me, " resumed Bertram, cheerfully, "what I've said won't be so important to you, for you aren'tthe kind that scorches soups or uses salt for sugar. So maybe I'd betterput it to you this way: if you want a new sealskin coat or an extradiamond tiara, tackle him when he plays like this!" And with a swiftturn Bertram dropped himself to the piano stool and dashed into arollicking melody that half the newsboys of Boston were whistling. 

What happened next was a surprise to every one. Bertram, very much asif he were a naughty little boy, was jerked by a wrathful brother's handoff the piano stool. The next moment the wrathful brother himself sat atthe piano, and there burst on five pairs of astonished ears a crashingdissonance which was but the prelude to music such as few of the partyoften heard. 

Spellbound they listened while rippling runs and sonorous harmoniesfilled the room to overflowing, as if under the fingers of the playerthere were--not the keyboard of a piano--but the violins, flutes, cornets, trombones, bass viols and kettledrums of a full orchestra. 

Billy, perhaps, of them all, best understood. She knew that in thosetripping melodies and crashing chords were Cyril's joy at the presenceof Marie, his wrath at the flippancy of Bertram, his ecstasy at that forwhich the rug and curtains stood--the little woman sewing in the radiantcircle of a shaded lamp. Billy knew that all this and more were findingvoice at Cyril's finger tips. The others, too, understood in a way; butthey, unlike Billy, were not in the habit of finding on a few score bitsof wood and ivory a vent for their moods and fancies. 

The music was softer now. The resounding chords and purling runs hadbecome a bell-like melody that wound itself in and out of a maze ofexquisite harmonies, now hiding, now coming out clear and unafraid, likea mountain stream emerging into a sunlit meadow from the leafy shadowsof its forest home. 

In a breathless hush the melody quivered into silence. It was Bertramwho broke the pause with a long-drawn:

"By George!" Then, a little unsteadily: "If it's I that set you goinglike that, old chap, I'll come up and play ragtime every day!"

Cyril shrugged his shoulders and got to his feet. 

"If you've seen all you want of the rug we'll go down-stairs, " he saidnonchalantly. 

"But we haven't!" chorussed several indignant voices. And for the nextfew minutes not even the owner of the beautiful Kirman could find anyfault with the quantity or the quality of the attention bestowed onhis new possession. But Billy, under cover of the chatter, saidreproachfully in his ear:

"Oh, Cyril, to think you can play like that--and won't--on demand!"

"I can't--on demand, " shrugged Cyril again. 

On the way down-stairs they stopped at William's rooms. 

"I want you to see a couple of Batterseas I got last week, " criedthe collector eagerly, as he led the way to the black velvet square. "They're fine--and I think she looks like you, " he finished, turningto Billy, and holding out one of the knobs, on which was a beautifullyexecuted miniature of a young girl with dark, dreamy eyes. 

"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Marie, over Billy's shoulder. "But what arethey?"

The collector turned, his face alight. 

"Mirror knobs. I've got lots of them. Would you like to seethem--really? They're right here. "

The next minute Marie found herself looking into a cabinet where lay ascore or more of round and oval discs of glass, porcelain, and metal, framed in silver, gilt, and brass, and mounted on long spikes. 

"Oh, how pretty, " cried Marie again; "but how--how queer! Tell me aboutthem, please. "

William drew a long breath. His eyes glistened. William loved totalk--when he had a curio and a listener. 

"I will. Our great-grandmothers used them, you know, to support theirmirrors, or to fasten back their curtains, " he explained ardently. "Now here's another Battersea enamel, but it isn't so good as my newones--that face is almost a caricature. "

"But what a beautiful ship--on that round one!" exclaimed Marie. "Andwhat's this one?--glass?"

"Yes; but that's not so rare as the others. Still, it's pretty enough. Did you notice this one, with the bright red and blue and green on thewhite background?--regular Chinese mode of decoration, that is. "

"Er--any time, William, " began Bertram, mischievously; but William didnot seem to hear. 

"Now in this corner, " he went on, warming to his subject, "arethe enamelled porcelains. They were probably made at the Worcesterworks--England, you know; and I think many of them are quite as prettyas the Batterseas. You see it was at Worcester that they inventedthat variation of the transfer printing process that they called batprinting, where they used oil instead of ink, and gelatine instead ofpaper. Now engravings for that kind of printing were usually in stipplework--dots, you know--so the prints on these knobs can easily bedistinguished from those of the transfer printing. See? Now, this oneis--"

"Er, of course, William, any time--" interposed Bertram again, his eyestwinkling. 

William stopped with a laugh. 

"Yes, I know. 'Tis time I talked of something else, Bertram, " heconceded. 

"But 'twas lovely, and I _was_ interested, really, " claimed Marie. "Besides, there are such a lot of things here that I'd like to see, " shefinished, turning slowly about. 

"These are what he was collecting last year, " murmured Billy, hoveringover a small cabinet where were some beautiful specimens of antiquejewelry brooches, necklaces, armlets, Rajah rings, and anklets, gorgeousin color and exquisite in workmanship. 

"Well, here is something you _will_ enjoy, " declared Bertram, with anairy flourish. "Do you see those teapots? Well, we can have tea everyday in the year, and not use one of them but five times. I've counted. There are exactly seventy-three, " he concluded, as he laughingly led theway from the room. 

"How about leap year?" quizzed Billy. 

"Ho! Trust Will to find another 'Old Blue' or a 'perfect treasure of ablack basalt' by that time, " shrugged Bertram. 

Below William's rooms was the floor once Bertram's, but afterwards givenover to the use of Billy and Aunt Hannah. The rooms were open to-day, and were bright with sunshine and roses; but they were very plainlyunoccupied. 

"And you don't use them yet?" remonstrated Billy, as she paused at anopen door. 

"No. These are Mrs. Bertram Henshaw's rooms, " said the youngest Henshawbrother in a voice that made Billy hurry away with a dimpling blush. 

"They were Billy's--and they can never seem any one's but Billy's, now, "declared William to Marie, as they went down the stairs. 

"And now for the den and some good stories before the fire, " proposedBertram, as the six reached the first floor again. 

"But we haven't seen your pictures, yet, " objected Billy. 

Bertram made a deprecatory gesture. 

"There's nothing much--" he began; but he stopped at once, with an oddlaugh. "Well, I sha'n't say _that_, " he finished, flinging open the doorof his studio, and pressing a button that flooded the room with light. The next moment, as they stood before those plaques and panels andcanvases--on each of which was a pictured "Billy"--they understood thechange in his sentence, and they laughed appreciatively. 

"'Much, ' indeed!" exclaimed William. 

"Oh, how lovely!" breathed Marie. 

"My grief and conscience, Bertram! All these--and of Billy? I knew youhad a good many, but--" Aunt Hannah paused impotently, her eyes goingfrom Bertram's face to the pictures again. 

"But how--when did you do them?" queried Marie. 

"Some of them from memory. More of them from life. A lot of them werejust sketches that I did when she was here in the house four or fiveyears ago, " answered Bertram; "like this, for instance. " And he pulledinto a better light a picture of a laughing, dark-eyed girl holdingagainst her cheek a small gray kitten, with alert, bright eyes. "Theoriginal and only Spunk, " he announced. 

"What a dear little cat!" cried Marie. 

"You should have seen it--in the flesh, " remarked Cyril, dryly. "Nopaint nor painter could imprison that untamed bit of Satanic mischief onany canvas that ever grew!"

Everybody laughed--everybody but Billy. Billy, indeed, of them all, hadbeen strangely silent ever since they entered the studio. She stood nowa little apart. Her eyes were wide, and a bit frightened. Her fingerswere twisting the corners of her handkerchief nervously. She was lookingto the right and to the left, and everywhere she saw--herself. 

Sometimes it was her full face, sometimes her profile; sometimes therewere only her eyes peeping from above a fan, or peering from out brownshadows of nothingness. Once it was merely the back of her head showingthe mass of waving hair with its high lights of burnished bronze. Againit was still the back of her head with below it the bare, slenderneck and the scarf-draped shoulders. In this picture the curve of ahalf-turned cheek showed plainly, and in the background was visiblea hand holding four playing cards, at which the pictured girl wasevidently looking. Sometimes it was a merry Billy with dancing eyes;sometimes a demure Billy with long lashes caressing a flushed cheek. Sometimes it was a wistful Billy with eyes that looked straight intoyours with peculiar appeal. But always it was--Billy. 

"There, I think the tilt of this chin is perfect. " It was Bertramspeaking. 

Billy gave a sudden cry. Her face whitened. She stumbled forward. 

"No, no, Bertram, you--you didn't mean the--the tilt of the chin, " shefaltered wildly. 

The man turned in amazement. 

"Why--Billy!" he stammered. "Billy, what is it?"

The girl fell back at once. She tried to laugh lightly. She had seen thedismayed questioning in her lover's eyes, and in the eyes of William andthe others. 

"N-nothing, " she gesticulated hurriedly. "It was nothing at all, truly. "

"But, Billy, it _was_ something. " Bertram's eyes were still troubled. "Was it the picture? I thought you liked this picture. "

Billy laughed again--this time more naturally. 

"Bertram, I'm ashamed of you--expecting me to say I 'like' any of this, "she scolded, with a wave of her hands toward the omnipresent Billy. "Why, I feel as if I were in a room with a thousand mirrors, and thatI'd been discovered putting rouge on my cheeks and lampblack on myeyebrows!"

William laughed fondly. Aunt Hannah and Marie gave an indulgent smile. Cyril actually chuckled. Bertram only still wore a puzzled expression ashe laid aside the canvas in his hands. 

Billy examined intently a sketch she had found with its back to thewall. It was not a pretty sketch; it was not even a finished one, and Billy did not in the least care what it was. But her lips criedinterestedly:

"Oh, Bertram, what is this?"

There was no answer. Bertram was still engaged, apparently, in puttingaway some sketches. Over by the doorway leading to the den Marie andAunt Hannah, followed by William and Cyril, were just disappearingbehind a huge easel. In another minute the merry chatter of their voicescame from the room beyond. Bertram hurried then straight across thestudio to the girl still bending over the sketch in the corner. 

"Bertram!" gasped Billy, as a kiss brushed her cheek. 

"Pooh! They're gone. Besides, what if they did see? Billy, what was thematter with the tilt of that chin?"

Billy gave an hysterical little laugh--at least, Bertram tried to assurehimself that it was a laugh, though it had sounded almost like a sob. 

"Bertram, if you say another word about--about the tilt of that chin, Ishall _scream!_" she panted. 

"Why, Billy!"

With a nervous little movement Billy turned and began to reverse thecanvases nearest her. 

"Come, sir, " she commanded gayly. "Billy has been on exhibitionquite long enough. It is high time she was turned face to the wall tomeditate, and grow more modest. "

Bertram did not answer. Neither did he make a move to assist her. Hisardent gray eyes were following her slim, graceful figure admiringly. 

"Billy, it doesn't seem true, yet, that you're really mine, " he said atlast, in a low voice shaken with emotion. 

Billy turned abruptly. A peculiar radiance shone in her eyes andglorified her face. As she stood, she was close to a picture on an easeland full in the soft glow of the shaded lights above it. 

"Then you _do_ want me, " she began, "--just _me!_--not to--" she stoppedshort. The man opposite had taken an eager step toward her. On hisface was the look she knew so well, the look she had come almost todread--the "painting look. "

"Billy, stand just as you are, " he was saying. "Don't move. Jove! Butthat effect is perfect with those dark shadows beyond, and just yourhair and face and throat showing. I declare, I've half a mind tosketch--" But Billy, with a little cry, was gone. 

CHAPTER X

A JOB FOR PETE--AND FOR BERTRAM

The early days in December were busy ones, certainly, in the littlehouse on Corey Hill. Marie was to be married the twelfth. It was to bea home wedding, and a very simple one--according to Billy, and accordingto what Marie had said it was to be. Billy still serenely spoke of itas a "simple affair, " but Marie was beginning to be fearful. As thedays passed, bringing with them more and more frequent evidences eithertangible or intangible of orders to stationers, caterers, and florists, her fears found voice in a protest. 

"But Billy, it was to be a _simple_ wedding, " she cried. 

"And so it is. "

"But what is this I hear about a breakfast?"

Billy's chin assumed its most stubborn squareness. 

"I don't know, I'm sure, what you did hear, " she retorted calmly. 

"Billy!"

Billy laughed. The chin was just as stubborn, but the smiling lips aboveit graced it with an air of charming concession. 

"There, there, dear, " coaxed the mistress of Hillside, "don't fret. Besides, I'm sure I should think you, of all people, would want yourguests _fed!_"

"But this is so elaborate, from what I hear. "

"Nonsense! Not a bit of it. "

"Rosa says there'll be salads and cakes and ices--and I don't know whatall. "

Billy looked concerned. 

"Well, of course, Marie, if you'd _rather_ have oatmeal and doughnuts, "she began with kind solicitude; but she got no farther. 

"Billy!" besought the bride elect. "Won't you be serious? And there'sthe cake in wedding boxes, too. "

"I know, but boxes are so much easier and cleaner than--just fingers, "apologized an anxiously serious voice. 

Marie answered with an indignant, grieved glance and hurried on. 

"And the flowers--roses, dozens of them, in December! Billy, I can't letyou do all this for me. "

"Nonsense, dear!" laughed Billy. "Why, I love to do it. Besides, whenyou're gone, just think how lonesome I'll be! I shall have to adoptsomebody else then--now that Mary Jane has proved to be nothing but adisappointing man instead of a nice little girl like you, " she finishedwhimsically. 

Marie did not smile. The frown still lay between her delicate brows. 

"And for my trousseau--there were so many things that you simply wouldbuy!"

"I didn't get one of the egg-beaters, " Billy reminded her anxiously. 

Marie smiled now, but she shook her head, too. 

"Billy, I cannot have you do all this for me. "

"Why not?"

At the unexpectedly direct question, Marie fell back a little. 

"Why, because I--I can't, " she stammered. "I can't get them for myself, and--and--"

"Don't you love me?"

A pink flush stole to Marie's face. 

"Indeed I do, dearly. "

"Don't I love you?"

The flush deepened. 

"I--I hope so. "

"Then why won't you let me do what I want to, and be happy in it? Money, just money, isn't any good unless you can exchange it for something youwant. And just now I want pink roses and ice cream and lace flouncesfor you. Marie, "--Billy's voice trembled a little--"I never had a sistertill I had you, and I have had such a good time buying things that Ithought you wanted! But, of course, if you don't want them--" The wordsended in a choking sob, and down went Billy's head into her folded armson the desk before her. 

Marie sprang to her feet and cuddled the bowed head in a loving embrace. 

"But I do want them, dear; I want them all--every single one, " sheurged. "Now promise me--promise me that you'll do them all, just asyou'd planned! You will, won't you?"

There was the briefest of hesitations, then came the muffled reply:

"Yes--if you really want them. "

"I do, dear--indeed I do. I love pretty weddings, and I--I always hopedthat I could have one--if I ever married. So you must know, dear, how Ireally do want all those things, " declared Marie, fervently. "And now Imust go. I promised to meet Cyril at Park Street at three o'clock. "And she hurried from the room--and not until she was half-way to herdestination did it suddenly occur to her that she had been urging, actually urging Miss Billy Neilson to buy for her pink roses, ice cream, and lace flounces. 

Her cheeks burned with shame then. But almost at once she smiled. 

"Now wasn't that just like Billy?" she was saying to herself, with atender glow in her eyes. 

It was early in December that Pete came one day with a package for Mariefrom Cyril. Marie was not at home, and Billy herself went downstairs totake the package from the old man's hands. 

"Mr. Cyril said to give it to Miss Hawthorn, " stammered the old servant, his face lighting up as Billy entered the room; "but I'm sure hewouldn't mind _your_ taking it. "

"I'm afraid I'll have to take it, Pete, unless you want to carry itback with you, " she smiled. "I'll see that Miss Hawthorn has it the veryfirst moment she comes in. "

"Thank you, Miss. It does my old eyes good to see your bright face. " Hehesitated, then turned slowly. "Good day, Miss Billy. "

Billy laid the package on the table. Her eyes were thoughtful as shelooked after the old man, who was now almost to the door. Something inhis bowed form appealed to her strangely. She took a quick step towardhim. 

"You'll miss Mr. Cyril, Pete, " she said pleasantly. 

The old man stopped at once and turned. He lifted his head a littleproudly. 

"Yes, Miss. I--I was there when he was born. Mr. Cyril's a fine man. "

"Indeed he is. Perhaps it's your good care that's helped, some--to makehim so, " smiled the girl, vaguely wishing that she could say somethingthat would drive the wistful look from the dim old eyes before her. 

For a moment Billy thought she had succeeded. The old servant drewhimself stiffly erect. In his eyes shone the loyal pride of more thanfifty years' honest service. Almost at once, however, the pride diedaway, and the wistfulness returned. 

"Thank ye, Miss; but I don't lay no claim to that, of course, " he said. "Mr. Cyril's a fine man, and we shall miss him; but--I cal'late changesmust come--to all of us. "

Billy's brown eyes grew a little misty. 

"I suppose they must, " she admitted. 

The old man hesitated; then, as if impelled by some hidden force, heplunged on:

"Yes; and they'll be comin' to you one of these days, Miss, and that'swhat I was wantin' to speak to ye about. I understand, of course, thatwhen you get there you'll be wantin' younger blood to serve ye. My feetain't so spry as they once was, and my old hands blunder sometimes, in spite of what my head bids 'em do. So I wanted to tell ye--that ofcourse I shouldn't expect to stay. I'd go. "

As he said the words, Pete stood with head and shoulders erect, his eyeslooking straight forward but not at Billy. 

"Don't you _want_ to stay?" The girlish voice was a little reproachful. 

Pete's head drooped. 

"Not if--I'm not wanted, " came the husky reply. 

With an impulsive movement Billy came straight to the old man's side andheld out her hand. 

"Pete!"

Amazement, incredulity, and a look that was almost terror crossed theold man's face; then a flood of dull red blotted them all out and leftonly worshipful rapture. With a choking cry he took the slim little handin both his rough and twisted ones much as if he were possessing himselfof a treasured bit of eggshell china. 

"Miss Billy!"

"Pete, there aren't a pair of feet in Boston, nor a pair of hands, either, that I'd rather have serve me than yours, no matter if theystumble and blunder all day! I shall love stumbles and blunders--if youmake them. Now run home, and don't ever let me hear another syllableabout your leaving!"

They were not the words Billy had intended to say. She had meant tospeak of his long, faithful service, and of how much they appreciatedit; but, to her surprise, Billy found her own eyes wet and her own voicetrembling, and the words that she would have said she found fast shutin her throat. So there was nothing to do but to stammer outsomething--anything, that would help to keep her from yielding to thatabsurd and awful desire to fall on the old servant's neck and cry. 

"Not another syllable!" she repeated sternly. 

"Miss Billy!" choked Pete again. Then he turned and fled with anythingbut his usual dignity. 

Bertram called that evening. When Billy came to him in the living-room, her slender self was almost hidden behind the swirls of damask linen inher arms. 

Bertram's eyes grew mutinous. 

"Do you expect me to hug all that?" he demanded. 

Billy flashed him a mischievous glance. 

"Of course not! You don't _have_ to hug anything, you know. "

For answer he impetuously swept the offending linen into the nearestchair and drew the girl into his arms. 

"Oh! And see how you've crushed poor Marie's table-cloth!" she cried, with reproachful eyes. 

Bertram sniffed imperturbably. 

"I'm not sure but I'd like to crush Marie, " he alleged. 

"Bertram!"

"I can't help it. See here, Billy. " He loosened his clasp and held thegirl off at arm's length, regarding her with stormy eyes. "It's Marie, Marie, Marie--always. If I telephone in the morning, you've goneshopping with Marie. If I want you in the afternoon for something, you're at the dressmaker's with Marie. If I call in the evening--"

"I'm here, " interrupted Billy, with decision. 

"Oh, yes, you're here, " admitted Bertram, aggrievedly, "and so aredozens of napkins, miles of table-cloths, and yards upon yards of laceand flummydiddles you call 'doilies. ' They all belong to Marie, and theyfill your arms and your thoughts full, until there isn't an inch of roomfor me. Billy, when is this thing going to end?"

Billy laughed softly. Her eyes danced. 

"The twelfth;--that is, there'll be a--pause, then. "

"Well, I'm thankful if--eh?" broke off the man, with a sudden change ofmanner. "What do you mean by 'a pause'?"

Billy cast down her eyes demurely. 

"Well, of course _this_ ends the twelfth with Marie's wedding; butI've sort of regarded it as an--understudy for one that's coming nextOctober, you see. "

"Billy, you darling!" breathed a supremely happy voice in a shell-likeear--Billy was not at arm's length now. 

Billy smiled, but she drew away with gentle firmness. 

"And now I must go back to my sewing, " she said. 

Bertram's arms did not loosen. His eyes had grown mutinous again. 

"That is, " she amended, "I must be practising my part of--theunderstudy, you know. "

"You darling!" breathed Bertram again; this time, however, he let hergo. 

"But, honestly, is it all necessary?" he sighed despairingly, as sheseated herself and gathered the table-cloth into her lap. "Do you haveto do so much of it all?"

"I do, " smiled Billy, "unless you want your brother to run the risk ofleading his bride to the altar and finding her robed in a kitchen apronwith an egg-beater in her hand for a bouquet. "

Bertram laughed. 

"Is it so bad as that?"

"No, of course not--quite. But never have I seen a bride so utterlyoblivious to clothes as Marie was till one day in despair I told herthat Cyril never could bear a dowdy woman. "

"As if Cyril, in the old days, ever could bear any sort of woman!"scoffed Bertram, merrily. 

"I know; but I didn't mention that part, " smiled Billy. "I just singledout the dowdy one. "

"Did it work?"

Billy made a gesture of despair. 

"Did it work! It worked too well. Marie gave me one horrified look, then at once and immediately she became possessed with the idea thatshe _was_ a dowdy woman. And from that day to this she has pursued everylurking wrinkle and every fold awry, until her dressmaker's life isn'tworth the living; and I'm beginning to think mine isn't, either, for Ihave to assure her at least four times every day now that she is _not_ adowdy woman. "

"You poor dear, " laughed Bertram. "No wonder you don't have time to giveto me!"

A peculiar expression crossed Billy's face. 

"Oh, but I'm not the _only_ one who, at times, is otherwise engaged, sir, " she reminded him. 

"What do you mean?"

"There was yesterday, and last Monday, and last week Wednesday, and--"

"Oh, but you _let_ me off, then, " argued Bertram, anxiously. "And yousaid--"

"That I didn't wish to interfere with your work--which was quite true, "interrupted Billy in her turn, smoothly. "By the way, "--Billy wasexamining her stitches very closely now--"how is Miss Winthrop'sportrait coming on?"

"Splendidly!--that is, it _was_, until she began to put off the sittingsfor her pink teas and folderols. She's going to Washington next week, too, to be gone nearly a fortnight, " finished Bertram, gloomily. 

"Aren't you putting more work than usual into this one--and moresittings?"

"Well, yes, " laughed Bertram, a little shortly. "You see, she's changedthe pose twice already. "

"Changed it!"

"Yes. Wasn't satisfied. Fancied she wanted it different. "

"But can't you--don't you have something to say about it?"

"Oh, yes, of course; and she claims she'll yield to my judgment, anyhow. But what's the use? She's been a spoiled darling all her life, and inthe habit of having her own way about everything. Naturally, under thosecircumstances, I can't expect to get a satisfactory portrait, if she'sout of tune with the pose. Besides, I will own, so far her suggestionshave made for improvement--probably because she's been happy in makingthem, so her expression has been good. "

Billy wet her lips. 

"I saw her the other night, " she said lightly. (If the lightness wasa little artificial Bertram did not seem to notice it. ) "She iscertainly--very beautiful. "

"Yes. " Bertram got to his feet and began to walk up and down the littleroom. His eyes were alight. On his face the "painting look" was king. "It's going to mean a lot to me--this picture, Billy. In the first placeI'm just at the point in my career where a big success would mean alot--and where a big failure would mean more. And this portrait is boundto be one or the other from the very nature of the thing. "

"I-is it?" Billy's voice was a little faint. 

"Yes. First, because of who the sitter is, and secondly because of whatshe is. She is, of course, the most famous subject I've had, and halfthe artistic world knows by this time that Marguerite Winthrop is beingdone by Henshaw. You can see what it'll be--if I fail. "

"But you won't fail, Bertram!"

The artist lifted his chin and threw back his shoulders. 

"No, of course not; but--" He hesitated, frowned, and dropped himselfinto a chair. His eyes studied the fire moodily. "You see, " he resumed, after a moment, "there's a peculiar, elusive something about herexpression--" (Billy stirred restlessly and gave her thread so savage ajerk that it broke)"--a something that isn't easily caught by the brush. Anderson and Fullam--big fellows, both of them--didn't catch it. Atleast, I've understood that neither her family nor her friends aresatisfied with _their_ portraits. And to succeed where Anderson andFullam failed--Jove! Billy, a chance like that doesn't come to a fellowtwice in a lifetime!" Bertram was out of his chair, again, tramping upand down the little room. 

Billy tossed her work aside and sprang to her feet. Her eyes, too, werealight, now. 

"But you aren't going to fail, dear, " she cried, holding out both herhands. "You're going to succeed!"

Bertram caught the hands and kissed first one then the other of theirsoft little palms. 

"Of course I am, " he agreed passionately, leading her to the sofa, andseating himself at her side. 

"Yes, but you must really _feel_ it, " she urged; "feel the '_sure_' inyourself. You have to!--to doing things. That's what I told Mary Janeyesterday, when he was running on about what _he_ wanted to do--in hissinging, you know. "

Bertram stiffened a little. A quick frown came to his face. 

"Mary Jane, indeed! Of all the absurd names to give a full-grown, six-foot man! Billy, do, for pity's sake, call him by his name--if he'sgot one. "

Billy broke into a rippling laugh. 

"I wish I could, dear, " she sighed ingenuously. 

"Honestly, it bothers me because I _can't_ think of him as anything but'Mary Jane. ' It seems so silly!"

"It certainly does--when one remembers his beard. "

"Oh, he's shaved that off now. He looks rather better, too. "

Bertram turned a little sharply. 

"Do you see the fellow--often?"

Billy laughed merrily. 

"No. He's about as disgruntled as you are over the way the weddingmonopolizes everything. He's been up once or twice to see Aunt Hannahand to get acquainted, as he expresses it, and once he brought up somemusic and we sang; but he declares the wedding hasn't given him half ashow. "

"Indeed! Well, that's a pity, I'm sure, " rejoined Bertram, icily. 

Billy turned in slight surprise. 

"Why, Bertram, don't you like Mary Jane?"

"Billy, for heaven's sake! _Hasn't_ he got any name but that?"

Billy clapped her hands together suddenly. 

"There, that makes me think. He told Aunt Hannah and me to guess whathis name was, and we never hit it once. What do you think it is? Theinitials are M. J. "

"I couldn't say, I'm sure. What is it?"

"Oh, he didn't tell us. You see he left us to guess it. "

"Did he?"

"Yes, " mused Billy, abstractedly, her eyes on the dancing fire. The nextminute she stirred and settled herself more comfortably in the curveof her lover's arm. "But there! who cares what his name is? I'm sure Idon't. "

"Nor I, " echoed Bertram in a voice that he tried to make not toofervent. He had not forgotten Billy's surprised: "Why, Bertram, don'tyou like Mary Jane?" and he did not like to call forth a repetition ofit. Abruptly, therefore, he changed the subject. "By the way, what didyou do to Pete to-day?" he asked laughingly. "He came home in a seventhheaven of happiness babbling of what an angel straight from the sky MissBilly was. Naturally I agreed with him on that point. But what did youdo to him?"

Billy smiled. 

"Nothing--only engaged him for our butler--for life. "

"Oh, I see. That was dear of you, Billy. "

"As if I'd do anything else! And now for Dong Ling, I suppose, someday. "

Bertram chuckled. 

"Well, maybe I can help you there, " he hinted. "You see, his CelestialMajesty came to me himself the other day, and said, after sundry andvarious preliminaries, that he should be 'velly much glad' when the'Little Missee' came to live with me, for then he could go back to Chinawith a heart at rest, as he had money 'velly much plenty' and didn'twish to be 'Melican man' any longer. "

"Dear me, " smiled Billy, "what a happy state of affairs--for him. Butfor you--do you realize, young man, what that means for you? A new wifeand a new cook all at once? And you know I'm not Marie!"

"Ho! I'm not worrying, " retorted Bertram with a contented smile;"besides, as perhaps you noticed, it wasn't Marie that I asked--to marryme!"

CHAPTER XI. A CLOCK AND AUNT HANNAH

Mrs. Kate Hartwell, the Henshaw brothers' sister from the West, wasexpected on the tenth. Her husband could not come, she had written, butshe would bring with her, little Kate, the youngest child. The boys, Paul and Egbert, would stay with their father. 

Billy received the news of little Kate's coming with outspoken delight. 

"The very thing!" she cried. "We'll have her for a flower girl. She wasa dear little creature, as I remember her. "

Aunt Hannah gave a sudden low laugh. 

"Yes, I remember, " she observed. "Kate told me, after you spent thefirst day with her, that you graciously informed her that littleKate was almost as nice as Spunk. Kate did not fully appreciate thecompliment, I fear. "

Billy made a wry face. 

"Did I say that? Dear me! I _was_ a terror in those days, wasn't I?But then, " and she laughed softly, "really, Aunt Hannah, that was theprettiest thing I knew how to say, for I considered Spunk the top-notchof desirability. "

"I think I should have liked to know Spunk, " smiled Marie from the otherside of the sewing table. 

"He was a dear, " declared Billy. "I had another 'most as good when Ifirst came to Hillside, but he got lost. For a time it seemed as if Inever wanted another, but I've about come to the conclusion now that Ido, and I've told Bertram to find one for me if he can. You see Ishall be lonesome after you're gone, Marie, and I'll have to have_something_, " she finished mischievously. 

"Oh, I don't mind the inference--as long as I know your admiration ofcats, " laughed Marie. 

"Let me see; Kate writes she is coming the tenth, " murmured Aunt Hannah, going back to the letter in her hand. 

"Good!" nodded Billy. "That will give time to put little Kate throughher paces as flower girl. "

"Yes, and it will give Big Kate time to _try_ to make your breakfast asupper, and your roses pinks--or sunflowers, " cut in a new voice, dryly. 

"Cyril!" chorussed the three ladies in horror, adoration, andamusement--according to whether the voice belonged to Aunt Hannah, Marie, or Billy. 

Cyril shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

"I beg your pardon, " he apologized; "but Rosa said you were in heresewing, and I told her not to bother. I'd announce myself. Just as Igot to the door I chanced to hear Billy's speech, and I couldn'tresist making the amendment. Maybe you've forgotten Kate's love ofmanaging--but I haven't, " he finished, as he sauntered over to the chairnearest Marie. 

"No, I haven't--forgotten, " observed Billy, meaningly. 

"Nor I--nor anybody else, " declared a severe voice--both the words andthe severity being most extraordinary as coming from the usually gentleAunt Hannah. 

"Oh, well, never mind, " spoke up Billy, quickly. "Everything's all rightnow, so let's forget it. She always meant it for kindness, I'm sure. "

"Even when she told you in the first place what a--er--torment you wereto us?" quizzed Cyril. 

"Yes, " flashed Billy. "She was being kind to _you_, then. "

"Humph!" vouchsafed Cyril. 

For a moment no one spoke. Cyril's eyes were on Marie, who was nervouslytrying to smooth back a few fluffy wisps of hair that had escaped fromrestraining combs and pins. 

"What's the matter with the hair, little girl?" asked Cyril in avoice that was caressingly irritable. "You've been fussing with thatlong-suffering curl for the last five minutes!"

Marie's delicate face flushed painfully. 

"It's got loose--my hair, " she stammered, "and it looks so dowdy thatway!"

Billy dropped her thread suddenly. She sprang for it at once, beforeCyril could make a move to get it. She had to dive far under a chairto capture it--which may explain why her face was so very red when shefinally reached her seat again. 

On the morning of the tenth, Billy, Marie, and Aunt Hannah were oncemore sewing together, this time in the little sitting-room at the end ofthe hall up-stairs. 

Billy's fingers, in particular, were flying very fast. 

"I told John to have Peggy at the door at eleven, " she said, after atime; "but I think I can finish running in this ribbon before then. Ihaven't much to do to get ready to go. "

"I hope Kate's train won't be late, " worried Aunt Hannah. 

"I hope not, " replied Billy; "but I told Rosa to delay luncheon, anyway, till we get here. I--" She stopped abruptly and turned a listeningear toward the door of Aunt Hannah's room, which was open. A clock wasstriking. "Mercy! that can't be eleven now, " she cried. "But it mustbe--it was ten before I came up-stairs. " She got to her feet hurriedly. 

Aunt Hannah put out a restraining hand. 

"No, no, dear, that's half-past ten. "

"But it struck eleven. "

"Yes, I know. It does--at half-past ten. "

"Why, the little wretch, " laughed Billy, dropping back into her chairand picking up her work again. "The idea of its telling fibs like thatand frightening people half out of their lives! I'll have it fixed rightaway. Maybe John can do it--he's always so handy about such things. "

"But I don't want it fixed, " demurred Aunt Hannah. 

Billy stared a little. 

"You don't want it fixed! Maybe you like to have it strike eleven whenit's half-past ten!" Billy's voice was merrily sarcastic. 

"Y-yes, I do, " stammered the lady, apologetically. "You see, I--I workedvery hard to fix it so it would strike that way. "

"_Aunt Hannah!_"

"Well, I did, " retorted the lady, with unexpected spirit. "I wanted toknow what time it was in the night--I'm awake such a lot. "

"But I don't see. " Billy's eyes were perplexed. "Why must you make ittell fibs in order to--to find out the truth?" she laughed. 

Aunt Hannah elevated her chin a little. 

"Because that clock was always striking one. "

"One!"

"Yes--half-past, you know; and I never knew which half-past it was. "

"But it must strike half-past now, just the same!"

"It does. " There was the triumphant ring of the conqueror in AuntHannah's voice. "But now it strikes half-past _on the hour_, and theclock in the hall tells me _then_ what time it is, so I don't care. "

For one more brief minute Billy stared, before a sudden light ofunderstanding illumined her face. Then her laugh rang out gleefully. 

"Oh, Aunt Hannah, Aunt Hannah, " she gurgled. "If Bertram wouldn'tcall you the limit--making a clock strike eleven so you'll know it'shalf-past ten!"

Aunt Hannah colored a little, but she stood her ground. 

"Well, there's only half an hour, anyway, now, that I don't know whattime it is, " she maintained, "for one or the other of those clocksstrikes the hour every thirty minutes. Even during those never-endingthree ones that strike one after the other in the middle of the night, I can tell now, for the hall clock has a different sound for thehalf-hours, you know, so I can tell whether it's one or a half-past. "

"Of course, " chuckled Billy. 

"I'm sure I think it's a splendid idea, " chimed in Marie, valiantly;"and I'm going to write it to mother's Cousin Jane right away. She's aninvalid, and she's always lying awake nights wondering what time it is. The doctor says actually he believes she'd get well if he could findsome way of letting her know the time at night, so she'd get some sleep;for she simply can't go to sleep till she knows. She can't bear a lightin the room, and it wakes her all up to turn an electric switch, oranything of that kind. "

"Why doesn't she have one of those phosphorous things?" questionedBilly. 

Marie laughed quietly. 

"She did. I sent her one, --and she stood it just one night. "

"Stood it!"

"Yes. She declared it gave her the creeps, and that she wouldn't havethe spooky thing staring at her all night like that. So it's got to besomething she can hear, and I'm going to tell her Mrs. Stetson's planright away. "

"Well, I'm sure I wish you would, " cried that lady, with promptinterest; "and she'll like it, I'm sure. And tell her if she can heara _town_ clock strike, it's just the same, and even better; for therearen't any half-hours at all to think of there. "

"I will--and I think it's lovely, " declared Marie. 

"Of course it's lovely, " smiled Billy, rising; "but I fancy I'd bettergo and get ready to meet Mrs. Hartwell, or the 'lovely' thing will betelling me that it's half-past eleven!" And she tripped laughingly fromthe room. 

Promptly at the appointed time John with Peggy drew up before thedoor, and Billy, muffled in furs, stepped into the car, which, with itsprotecting top and sides and glass wind-shield, was in its winter dress. 

"Yes'm, 'tis a little chilly, Miss, " said John, in answer to hergreeting, as he tucked the heavy robes about her. 

"Oh, well, I shall be very comfortable, I'm sure, " smiled Billy. "Justdon't drive too rapidly, specially coming home. I shall have to get alimousine, I think, when my ship comes in, John. "

John's grizzled old face twitched. So evident were the words that werenot spoken that Billy asked laughingly:

"Well, John, what is it?"

John reddened furiously. 

"Nothing, Miss. I was only thinkin' that if you didn't 'tend ter haulin'in so many other folks's ships, yours might get in sooner. "

"Why, John! Nonsense! I--I love to haul in other folks's ships, " laughedthe girl, embarrassedly. 

"Yes, Miss; I know you do, " grunted John. 

Billy colored. 

"No, no--that is, I mean--I don't do it--very much, " she stammered. 

John did not answer apparently; but Billy was sure she caught alow-muttered, indignant "much!" as he snapped the door shut and took hisplace at the wheel. 

To herself she laughed softly. She thought she possessed the secret nowof some of John's disapproving glances toward her humble guests of thesummer before. 

CHAPTER XII. SISTER KATE

At the station Mrs. Hartwell's train was found to be gratifyingly ontime; and in due course Billy was extending a cordial welcome to a tall, handsome woman who carried herself with an unmistakable air of assuredcompetence. Accompanying her was a little girl with big blue eyes andyellow curls. 

"I am very glad to see you both, " smiled Billy, holding out a friendlyhand to Mrs. Hartwell, and stooping to kiss the round cheek of thelittle girl. 

"Thank you, you are very kind, " murmured the lady; "but--are you alone, Billy? Where are the boys?"

"Uncle William is out of town, and Cyril is rushed to death and sent hisexcuses. Bertram did mean to come, but he telephoned this morning thathe couldn't, after all. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to makethe best of just me, " condoled Billy. "They'll be out to the housethis evening, of course--all but Uncle William. He doesn't return untilto-morrow. "

"Oh, doesn't he?" murmured the lady, reaching for her daughter's hand. 

Billy looked down with a smile. 

"And this is little Kate, I suppose, " she said, "whom I haven't seen forsuch a long, long time. Let me see, you are how old now?"

"I'm eight. I've been eight six weeks. "

Billy's eyes twinkled. 

"And you don't remember me, I suppose. "

The little girl shook her head. 

"No; but I know who you are, " she added, with shy eagerness. "You'regoing to be my Aunt Billy, and you're going to marry my Uncle William--Imean, my Uncle Bertram. "

Billy's face changed color. Mrs. Hartwell gave a despairing gesture. 

"Kate, my dear, I told you to be sure and remember that it was yourUncle Bertram now. You see, " she added in a discouraged aside to Billy, "she can't seem to forget the first one. But then, what can you expect?"laughed Mrs. Hartwell, a little disagreeably. "Such abrupt changes fromone brother to another are somewhat disconcerting, you know. "

Billy bit her lip. For a moment she said nothing, then, a littleconstrainedly, she rejoined:

"Perhaps. Still--let us hope we have the right one, now. "

Mrs. Hartwell raised her eyebrows. 

"Well, my dear, I'm not so confident of that. _My_ choice has been andalways will be--William. "

Billy bit her lip again. This time her brown eyes flashed a little. 

"Is that so? But you see, after all, _you_ aren't making the--thechoice. " Billy spoke lightly, gayly; and she ended with a bright littlelaugh, as if to hide any intended impertinence. 

It was Mrs. Hartwell's turn to bite her lip--and she did it. 

"So it seems, " she rejoined frigidly, after the briefest of pauses. 

It was not until they were on their way to Corey Hill some time laterthat Mrs. Hartwell turned with the question:

"Cyril is to be married in church, I suppose?"

"No. They both preferred a home wedding. "

"Oh, what a pity! Church weddings are so attractive!"

"To those who like them, " amended Billy in spite of herself. 

"To every one, I think, " corrected Mrs. Hartwell, positively. 

Billy laughed. She was beginning to discern that it did not do muchharm--nor much good--to disagree with her guest. 

"It's in the evening, then, of course?" pursued Mrs. Hartwell. 

"No; at noon. "

"Oh, how could you let them?"

"But they preferred it, Mrs. Hartwell. "

"What if they did?" retorted the lady, sharply. "Can't you do as youplease in your own home? Evening weddings are so much prettier! We can'tchange now, of course, with the guests all invited. That is, I supposeyou do have guests!"

Mrs. Hartwell's voice was aggrievedly despairing. 

"Oh, yes, " smiled Billy, demurely. "We have guests invited--and I'mafraid we can't change the time. "

"No, of course not; but it's too bad. I conclude there are announcementsonly, as I got no cards. 

"Announcements only, " bowed Billy. 

"I wish Cyril had consulted _me_, a little, about this affair. "

Billy did not answer. She could not trust herself to speak just then. Cyril's words of two days before were in her ears: "Yes, and it willgive Big Kate time to try to make your breakfast supper, and your rosespinks--or sunflowers. "

In a moment Mrs. Hartwell spoke again. 

"Of course a noon wedding is quite pretty if you darken the rooms andhave lights--you're going to do that, I suppose?"

Billy shook her head slowly. 

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Hartwell. That isn't the plan, now. "

"Not darken the rooms!" exclaimed Mrs. Hartwell. "Why, it won't--"She stopped suddenly, and fell back in her seat. The look of annoyeddisappointment gave way to one of confident relief. "But then, _thatcan_ be changed, " she finished serenely. 

Billy opened her lips, but she shut them without speaking. After aminute she opened them again. 

"You might consult--Cyril--about that, " she said in a quiet voice. 

"Yes, I will, " nodded Mrs. Hartwell, brightly. She was looking pleasedand happy again. "I love weddings. Don't you? You can _do_ so much withthem!"

"Can you?" laughed Billy, irrepressibly. 

"Yes. Cyril is happy, of course. Still, I can't imagine _him_ in lovewith any woman. "

"I think Marie can. "

"I suppose so. I don't seem to remember her much; still, I think I sawher once or twice when I was on last June. Music teacher, wasn't she?"

"Yes. She is a very sweet girl. "

"Hm-m; I suppose so. Still, I think 'twould have been better if Cyrilcould have selected some one that _wasn't_ musical--say a more domesticwife. He's so terribly unpractical himself about household matters. "

Billy gave a ringing laugh and stood up. The car had come to a stopbefore her own door. 

"Do you? Just you wait till you see Marie's trousseau of--egg-beatersand cake tins, " she chuckled. 

Mrs. Hartwell looked blank. 

"Whatever in the world do you mean, Billy?" she demanded fretfully, asshe followed her hostess from the car. "I declare! aren't you ever goingto grow beyond making those absurd remarks of yours?"

"Maybe--sometime, " laughed Billy, as she took little Kate's hand and ledthe way up the steps. 

Luncheon in the cozy dining-room at Hillside that day was not entirelya success. At least there were not present exactly the harmony andtranquillity that are conceded to be the best sauce for one's food. Thewedding, of course, was the all-absorbing topic of conversation; andBilly, between Aunt Hannah's attempts to be polite, Marie's to besweet-tempered, Mrs. Hartwell's to be dictatorial, and her own to bepacifying as well as firm, had a hard time of it. If it had not beenfor two or three diversions created by little Kate, the meal would havebeen, indeed, a dismal failure. 

But little Kate--most of the time the personification of properlittle-girlhood--had a disconcerting faculty of occasionally dropping aword here, or a question there, with startling effect. As, for instance, when she asked Billy "Who's going to boss your wedding?" and again whenshe calmly informed her mother that when _she_ was married she was notgoing to have any wedding at all to bother with, anyhow. She was goingto elope, and she should choose somebody's chauffeur, because he'd knowhow to go the farthest and fastest so her mother couldn't catch up withher and tell her how she ought to have done it. 

After luncheon Aunt Hannah went up-stairs for rest and recuperation. Marie took little Kate and went for a brisk walk--for the same purpose. This left Billy alone with her guest. 

"Perhaps you would like a nap, too, Mrs. Hartwell, " suggested Billy, as they passed into the living-room. There was a curious note of almosthopefulness in her voice. 

Mrs. Hartwell scorned naps, and she said so very emphatically. She saidsomething else, too. 

"Billy, why do you always call me 'Mrs. Hartwell' in that stiff, formalfashion? You used to call me 'Aunt Kate. '"

"But I was very young then. " Billy's voice was troubled. Billy hadbeen trying so hard for the last two hours to be the graciously cordialhostess to this woman--Bertram's sister. 

"Very true. Then why not 'Kate' now?"

Billy hesitated. She was wondering why it seemed so hard to call Mrs. Hartwell "Kate. "

"Of course, " resumed the lady, "when you're Bertram's wife and mysister--"

"Why, of course, " cried Billy, in a sudden flood of understanding. Curiously enough, she had never before thought of Mrs. Hartwell as _her_sister. "I shall be glad to call you 'Kate'--if you like. "

"Thank you. I shall like it very much, Billy, " nodded the othercordially. "Indeed, my dear, I'm very fond of you, and I was delightedto hear you were to be my sister. If only--it could have stayed Williaminstead of Bertram. "

"But it couldn't, " smiled Billy. "It wasn't William--that I loved. "

"But _Bertram!_--it's so absurd. "

"Absurd!" The smile was gone now. 

"Yes. Forgive me, Billy, but I was about as much surprised to hear ofBertram's engagement as I was of Cyril's. "

Billy grew a little white. 

"But Bertram was never an avowed--woman-hater, like Cyril, was he?"

"'Woman-hater'--dear me, no! He was a woman-lover, always. As if hiseternal 'Face of a Girl' didn't prove that! Bertram has always lovedwomen--to paint. But as for his ever taking them seriously--why, Billy, what's the matter?"

Billy had risen suddenly. 

"If you'll excuse me, please, just a few minutes, " Billy said veryquietly. "I want to speak to Rosa in the kitchen. I'll be back--soon. "

In the kitchen Billy spoke to Rosa--she wondered afterwards what shesaid. Certainly she did not stay in the kitchen long enough to say much. In her own room a minute later, with the door fast closed, she tookfrom her table the photograph of Bertram and held it in her two hands, talking to it softly, but a little wildly. 

"I didn't listen! I didn't stay! Do you hear? I came to you. Sheshall not say anything that will make trouble between you and me. I'vesuffered enough through her already! And she doesn't _know_--she didn'tknow before, and she doesn't now. She's only imagining. I will notnot--_not_ believe that you love me--just to paint. No matter what theysay--all of them! I _will not!_"

Billy put the photograph back on the table then, and went down-stairs toher guest. She smiled brightly, though her face was a little pale. 

"I wondered if perhaps you wouldn't like some music, " she saidpleasantly, going straight to the piano. 

"Indeed I would!" agreed Mrs. Hartwell. 

Billy sat down then and played--played as Mrs. Hartwell had never heardher play before. 

"Why, Billy, you amaze me, " she cried, when the pianist stopped andwhirled about. "I had no idea you could play like that!"

Billy smiled enigmatically. Billy was thinking that Mrs. Hartwell would, indeed, have been surprised if she had known that in that playingwere herself, the ride home, the luncheon, Bertram, and the girl--whomBertram _did not love only to paint!_

CHAPTER XIII. CYRIL AND A WEDDING

The twelfth was a beautiful day. Clear, frosty air set the blood totingling and the eyes to sparkling, even if it were not your weddingday; while if it were--

It _was_ Marie Hawthorn's wedding day, and certainly her eyes sparkledand her blood tingled as she threw open the window of her room andbreathed long and deep of the fresh morning air before going down tobreakfast. 

"They say 'Happy is the bride that the sun shines on, '" she whisperedsoftly to an English sparrow that cocked his eye at her from aneighboring tree branch. "As if a bride wouldn't be happy, sun or nosun, " she scoffed tenderly, as she turned to go down-stairs. 

As it happens, however, tingling blood and sparkling eyes are a matterof more than weather, or even weddings, as was proved a little laterwhen the telephone bell rang. 

Kate answered the ring. 

"Hullo, is that you, Kate?" called a despairing voice. 

"Yes. Good morning, Bertram. Isn't this a fine day for the wedding?"

"Fine! Oh, yes, I suppose so, though I must confess I haven't noticedit--and you wouldn't, if you had a lunatic on your hands. "

"A lunatic!"

"Yes. Maybe you have, though. Is Marie rampaging around the house like awild creature, and asking ten questions and making twenty threats to theminute?"

"Certainly not! Don't be absurd, Bertram. What do you mean?"

"See here, Kate, that show comes off at twelve sharp, doesn't it?"

"Show, indeed!" retorted Kate, indignantly. "The _wedding_ is at noonsharp--as the best man should know very well. "

"All right; then tell Billy, please, to see that it is sharp, or I won'tanswer for the consequences. "

"What do you mean? What is the matter?"

"Cyril. He's broken loose at last. I've been expecting it all along. I've simply marvelled at the meekness with which he has submittedhimself to be tied up with white ribbons and topped with roses. "

"Nonsense, Bertram!"

"Well, it amounts to that. Anyhow, he thinks it does, and he's wild. Iwish you could have heard the thunderous performance on his piano withwhich he woke me up this morning. Billy says he plays everything--hispast, present, and future. All is, if he was playing his future thismorning, I pity the girl who's got to live it with him. "

"Bertram!"

Bertram chuckled remorselessly. 

"Well, I do. But I'll warrant he wasn't playing his future this morning. He was playing his present--the wedding. You see, he's just waked up tothe fact that it'll be a perfect orgy of women and other confusion, and he doesn't like it. All the samee, {sic} I've had to assure him justfourteen times this morning that the ring, the license, the carriage, the minister's fee, and my sanity are all O. K. When he isn't askingquestions he's making threats to snake the parson up there an hour aheadof time and be off with Marie before a soul comes. "

"What an absurd idea!"

"Cyril doesn't think so. Indeed, Kate, I've had a hard struggle toconvince him that the guests wouldn't think it the most delightfulexperience of their lives if they should come and find the ceremony overwith and the bride gone. "

"Well, you remind Cyril, please, that there are other people besideshimself concerned in this wedding, " observed Kate, icily. 

"I have, " purred Bertram, "and he says all right, let them have it, then. He's gone now to look up proxy marriages, I believe. "

"Proxy marriages, indeed! Come, come, Bertram, I've got something to dothis morning besides to stand here listening to your nonsense. Seethat you and Cyril get here on time--that's all!" And she hung up thereceiver with an impatient jerk. 

She turned to confront the startled eyes of the bride elect. 

"What is it? Is anything wrong--with Cyril?" faltered Marie. 

Kate laughed and raised her eyebrows slightly. 

"Nothing but a little stage fright, my dear. "

"Stage fright!"

"Yes. Bertram says he's trying to find some one to play his rôle, Ibelieve, in the ceremony. "

"_Mrs. Hartwell!_"

At the look of dismayed terror that came into Marie's face, Mrs. Hartwell laughed reassuringly. 

"There, there, dear child, don't look so horror-stricken. There probablynever was a man yet who wouldn't have fled from the wedding part of hismarriage if he could; and you know how Cyril hates fuss and feathers. The wonder to me is that he's stood it as long as he has. I thought Isaw it coming, last night at the rehearsal--and now I know I did. "

Marie still looked distressed. 

"But he never said--I thought--" She stopped helplessly. 

"Of course he didn't, child. He never said anything but that he lovedyou, and he never thought anything but that you were going to be his. Men never do--till the wedding day. Then they never think of anythingbut a place to run, " she finished laughingly, as she began to arrange ona stand the quantity of little white boxes waiting for her. 

"But if he'd told me--in time, I wouldn't have had a thing--but theminister, " faltered Marie. 

"And when you think so much of a pretty wedding, too? Nonsense! It isn'tgood for a man, to give up to his whims like that!"

Marie's cheeks grew a deeper pink. Her nostrils dilated a little. 

"It wouldn't be a 'whim, ' Mrs. Hartwell, and I should be _glad_ to giveup, " she said with decision. 

Mrs. Hartwell laughed again, her amused eyes on Marie's face. 

"Dear me, child! don't you know that if men had their way, they'd--well, if men married men there'd never be such a thing in the world as ashower bouquet or a piece of wedding cake!"

There was no reply. A little precipitately Marie turned and hurriedaway. A moment later she was laying a restraining hand on Billy, who wasfilling tall vases with superb long-stemmed roses in the kitchen. 

"Billy, please, " she panted, "couldn't we do without those? Couldn't wesend them to some--some hospital?--and the wedding cake, too, and--"

"The wedding cake--to some _hospital!_"

"No, of course not--to the hospital. It would make them sick to eat it, wouldn't it?" That there was no shadow of a smile on Marie's face showedhow desperate, indeed, was her state of mind. "I only meant that Ididn't want them myself, nor the shower bouquet, nor the rooms darkened, nor little Kate as the flower girl--and would you mind very much if Iasked you not to be my maid of honor?"

"_Marie!_"

Marie covered her face with her hands then and began to sob brokenly;so there was nothing for Billy to do but to take her into her arms withsoothing little murmurs and pettings. By degrees, then, the whole storycame out. 

Billy almost laughed--but she almost cried, too. Then she said:

"Dearie, I don't believe Cyril feels or acts half so bad as Bertram andKate make out, and, anyhow, if he did, it's too late now to--to send thewedding cake to the hospital, or make any other of the little changesyou suggest. " Billy's lips puckered into a half-smile, but her eyes weregrave. "Besides, there are your music pupils trimming the living-roomthis minute with evergreen, there's little Kate making her flower-girlwreath, and Mrs. Hartwell stacking cake boxes in the hall, to saynothing of Rosa gloating over the best china in the dining-room, andAunt Hannah putting purple bows into the new lace cap she's countingon wearing. Only think how disappointed they'd all be if I should say:'Never mind--stop that. Marie's just going to have a minister. No fuss, no feathers!' Why, dearie, even the roses are hanging their heads forgrief, " she went on mistily, lifting with gentle fingers one of thefull-petalled pink beauties near her. "Besides, there's your--guests. "

"Oh, of course, I knew I couldn't--really, " sighed Marie, as she turnedto go up-stairs, all the light and joy gone from her face. 

Billy, once assured that Marie was out of hearing, ran to the telephone. 

Bertram answered. 

"Bertram, tell Cyril I want to speak to him, please. "

"All right, dear, but go easy. Better strike up your tuning fork to findhis pitch to-day. You'll discover it's a high one, all right. "

A moment later Cyril's tersely nervous "Good morning, Billy, " cameacross the line. 

Billy drew in her breath and cast a hurriedly apprehensive glance overher shoulder to make sure Marie was not near. 

"Cyril, " she called in a low voice, "if you care a shred for Marie, forheaven's sake call her up and tell her that you dote on pink roses, andpink ribbons, and pink breakfasts--and pink wedding cake!"

"But I don't. "

"Oh, yes, you do--to-day! You would--if you could see Marie now. "

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, only she overheard part of Bertram's nonsensical talk withKate a little while ago, and she's ready to cast the last ravellingof white satin and conventionality behind her, and go with you to thejustice of the peace. "

"Sensible girl!"

"Yes, but she can't, you know, with fifty guests coming to the wedding, and twice as many more to the reception. Honestly, Cyril, she'sbroken-hearted. You must do something. She's--coming!" And the receiverclicked sharply into place. 

Five minutes later Marie was called to the telephone. Dejectedly, wistful-eyed, she went. Just what were the words that hummed across thewire into the pink little ear of the bride-to-be, Billy never knew;but a Marie that was anything but wistful-eyed and dejected left thetelephone a little later, and was heard very soon in the room abovetrilling merry snatches of a little song. Contentedly, then, Billy wentback to her roses. 

It was a pretty wedding, a very pretty wedding. Every one said that. Thepink and green of the decorations, the soft lights (Kate had had her wayabout darkening the rooms), the pretty frocks and smiling faces of theguests all helped. Then there were the dainty flower girl, little Kate, the charming maid of honor, Billy, the stalwart, handsome best man, Bertram, to say nothing of the delicately beautiful bride, who lookedlike some fairy visitor from another world in the floating shimmer ofher gossamer silk and tulle. There was, too, not quite unnoticed, thebridegroom; tall, of distinguished bearing, and with features that wereclear cut and-to-day-rather pale. 

Then came the reception--the "women and confusion" of Cyril'sfears--followed by the going away of the bride and groom with its merrywarfare of confetti and old shoes. 

At four o'clock, however, with only William and Bertram remaining forguests, something like quiet descended at last on the little house. 

"Well, it's over, " sighed Billy, dropping exhaustedly into a big chairin the living-room. 

"And _well_ over, " supplemented Aunt Hannah, covering her white shawlwith a warmer blue one. 

"Yes, I think it was, " nodded Kate. "It was really a very prettywedding. "

"With your help, Kate--eh?" teased William. 

"Well, I flatter myself I did do some good, " bridled Kate, as she turnedto help little Kate take the flower wreath from her head. 

"Even if you did hurry into my room and scare me into conniption fitstelling me I'd be late, " laughed Billy. 

Kate tossed her head. 

"Well, how was I to know that Aunt Hannah's clock only meant half-pasteleven when it struck twelve?" she retorted. 

Everybody laughed. 

"Oh, well, it was a pretty wedding, " declared William, with a long sigh. 

"It'll do--for an understudy, " said Bertram softly, for Billy's earsalone. 

Only the added color and the swift glance showed that Billy heard, forwhen she spoke she said:

"And didn't Cyril behave beautifully? 'Most every time I looked at himhe was talking to some woman. "

"Oh, no, he wasn't--begging your pardon, my dear, " objected Bertram. "Iwatched him, too, even more closely than you did, and it was always the_woman_ who was talking to _Cyril!_"

Billy laughed. 

"Well, anyhow, " she maintained, "he listened. He didn't run away. "

"As if a bridegroom could!" cried Kate. 

"I'm going to, " avowed Bertram, his nose in the air. 

"Pooh!" scoffed Kate. Then she added eagerly: "You must be married inchurch, Billy, and in the evening. "

Bertram's nose came suddenly out of the air. His eyes met Kate'ssquarely. 

"Billy hasn't decided yet how _she_ does want to be married, " he saidwith unnecessary emphasis. 

Billy laughed and interposed a quick change of subject. 

"I think people had a pretty good time, too, for a wedding, don't you?"she asked. "I was sorry Mary Jane couldn't be here--'twould have beensuch a good chance for him to meet our friends. "

"As--_Mary Jane?_" asked Bertram, a little stiffly. 

"Really, my dear, " murmured Aunt Hannah, "I think it _would_ be morerespectful to call him by his name. "

"By the way, what is his name?" questioned William. 

"That's what we don't know, " laughed Billy. 

"Well, you know the 'Arkwright, ' don't you?" put in Bertram. Bertram, too, laughed, but it was a little forcedly. "I suppose if you knew hisname was 'Methuselah, ' you wouldn't call him that--yet, would you?"

Billy clapped her hands, and threw a merry glance at Aunt Hannah. 

"There! we never thought of 'Methuselah, '" she gurgled gleefully. "Maybeit _is_ 'Methuselah, ' now--'Methuselah John'! You see, he's told us totry to guess it, " she explained, turning to William; "but, honestly, Idon't believe, whatever it is, I'll ever think of him as anything but'Mary Jane. '"

"Well, as far as I can judge, he has nobody but himself to thank forthat, so he can't do any complaining, " smiled William, as he rose to go. "Well, how about it, Bertram? I suppose you're going to stay a while tocomfort the lonely--eh, boy?"

"Of course he is--and so are you, too, Uncle William, " spoke up Billy, with affectionate cordiality. "As if I'd let you go back to a forlorndinner in that great house to-night! Indeed, no!"

William smiled, hesitated, and sat down. 

"Well, of course--" he began. 

"Yes, of course, " finished Billy, quickly. "I'll telephone Pete thatyou'll stay here--both of you. "

It was at this point that little Kate, who had been turning interestedeyes from one brother to the other, interposed a clear, high-pitchedquestion. 

"Uncle William, didn't you _want_ to marry my going-to-be-Aunt Billy?"

"Kate!" gasped her mother, "didn't I tell you--" Her voice trailed intoan incoherent murmur of remonstrance. 

Billy blushed. Bertram said a low word under his breath. Aunt Hannah's"Oh, my grief and conscience!" was almost a groan. 

William laughed lightly. 

"Well, my little lady, " he suggested, "let us put it the other way andsay that quite probably she didn't want to marry me. "

"Does she want to marry Uncle Bertram?" "Kate!" gasped Billy and Mrs. Hartwell together this time, fearful of what might be coming next. 

"We'll hope so, " nodded Uncle William, speaking in a cheerfullymatter-of-fact voice, intended to discourage curiosity. 

The little girl frowned and pondered. Her elders cast about in theirminds for a speedy change of subject; but their somewhat scattered witswere not quick enough. It was little Kate who spoke next. 

"Uncle William, would she have got Uncle Cyril if Aunt Marie hadn'tnabbed him first?"

"Kate!" The word was a chorus of dismay this time. 

Mrs. Hartwell struggled to her feet. 

"Come, come, Kate, we must go up-stairs--to bed, " she stammered. 

The little girl drew back indignantly. 

"To bed? Why, mama, I haven't had my supper yet!"

"What? Oh, sure enough--the lights! I forgot. Well, then, come up--tochange your dress, " finished Mrs. Hartwell, as with a despairing lookand gesture she led her young daughter from the room. 

CHAPTER XIV. M. J. MAKES ANOTHER MOVE

Billy came down-stairs on the thirteenth of December to find everywherethe peculiar flatness that always follows a day which for weeks has beenthe focus of one's aims and thoughts and labor. 

"It's just as if everything had stopped at Marie's wedding, and therewasn't anything more to do, " she complained to Aunt Hannah at thebreakfast table. "Everything seems so--queer!"

"It won't--long, dear, " smiled Aunt Hannah, tranquilly, as she butteredher roll, "specially after Bertram comes back. How long does he stay inNew York?"

"Only three days; but I'm just sure it's going to seem three weeks, now, " sighed Billy. "But he simply had to go--else he wouldn't havegone. "

"I've no doubt of it, " observed Aunt Hannah. And at the meaningemphasis of her words, Billy laughed a little. After a minute she saidaggrievedly:

"I had supposed that I could at least have a sort of 'after the ball'celebration this morning picking up and straightening things around. But John and Rosa have done it all. There isn't so much as a roseleaf anywhere on the floor. Of course most of the flowers went tothe hospital last night, anyway. As for Marie's room--it looks asspick-and-span as if it had never seen a scrap of ribbon or an inch oftulle. "

"But--the wedding presents?"

"All carried down to the kitchen and half packed now, ready to go overto the new home. John says he'll take them over in Peggy this afternoon, after he takes Mrs. Hartwell's trunk to Uncle William's. "

"Well, you can at least go over to the apartment and work, " suggestedAunt Hannah, hopefully. 

"Humph! Can I?" scoffed Billy. "As if I could--when Marie left strictorders that not one thing was to be touched till she got here. Theyarranged everything but the presents before the wedding, anyway; andMarie wants to fix those herself after she gets back. Mercy! AuntHannah, if I should so much as move a plate one inch in the chinacloset, Marie would know it--and change it when she got home, " laughedBilly, as she rose from the table. "No, I can't go to work over there. "

"But there's your music, my dear. You said you were going to write somenew songs after the wedding. "

"I was, " sighed Billy, walking to the window, and looking listlesslyat the bare, brown world outside; "but I can't write songs--when therearen't any songs in my head to write. "

"No, of course not; but they'll come, dear, in time. You're tired, now, "soothed Aunt Hannah, as she turned to leave the room. 

"It's the reaction, of course, " murmured Aunt Hannah to herself, on theway up-stairs. "She's had the whole thing on her hands--dear child!"

A few minutes later, from the living-room, came a plaintive little minormelody. Billy was at the piano. 

Kate and little Kate had, the night before, gone home with William. It had been a sudden decision, brought about by the realization thatBertram's trip to New York would leave William alone. Her trunk was tobe carried there to-day, and she would leave for home from there, at theend of a two or three days' visit. 

It began to snow at twelve o'clock. All the morning the sky had beengray and threatening; and the threats took visible shape at noon inmyriads of white snow feathers that filled the air to the blindingpoint, and turned the brown, bare world into a thing of fairylikebeauty. Billy, however, with a rare frown upon her face, looked out uponit with disapproving eyes. 

"I _was_ going in town--and I believe I'll go now, " she cried. 

"Don't, dear, please don't, " begged Aunt Hannah. "See, the flakes aresmaller now, and the wind is coming up. We're in for a blizzard--I'msure we are. And you know you have some cold, already. "

"All right, " sighed Billy. "Then it's me for the knitting work and thefire, I suppose, " she finished, with a whimsicality that did not hidethe wistful disappointment of her voice. 

She was not knitting, however, she was sewing with Aunt Hannah when atfour o'clock Rosa brought in the card. 

Billy glanced at the name, then sprang to her feet with a glad littlecry. 

"It's Mary Jane!" she exclaimed, as Rosa disappeared. "Now wasn't he adear to think to come to-day? You'll be down, won't you?"

Aunt Hannah smiled even while she frowned. 

"Oh, Billy!" she remonstrated. "Yes, I'll come down, of course, a littlelater, and I'm glad _Mr. Arkwright_ came, " she said with reprovingemphasis. 

Billy laughed and threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder. 

"All right, " she nodded. "I'll go and tell _Mr. Arkwright_ you'll bedown directly. "

In the living-room Billy greeted her visitor with a frankly cordialhand. 

"How did you know, Mr. Arkwright, that I was feeling specially restlessand lonesome to-day?" she demanded. 

A glad light sprang to the man's dark eyes. 

"I didn't know it, " he rejoined. "I only knew that I was speciallyrestless and lonesome myself. "

Arkwright's voice was not quite steady. The unmistakable friendliness inthe girl's words and manner had sent a quick throb of joy to his heart. Her evident delight in his coming had filled him with rapture. He couldnot know that it was only the chill of the snowstorm that had givenwarmth to her handclasp, the dreariness of the day that had made hergreeting so cordial, the loneliness of a maiden whose lover is away thathad made his presence so welcome. 

"Well, I'm glad you came, anyway, " sighed Billy, contentedly; "though Isuppose I ought to be sorry that you were lonesome--but I'm afraid I'mnot, for now you'll know just how I felt, so you won't mind if I'm alittle wild and erratic. You see, the tension has snapped, " she addedlaughingly, as she seated herself. 

"Tension?"

"The wedding, you know. For so many weeks we've been seeing justDecember twelfth, that we'd apparently forgotten all about thethirteenth that came after it; so when I got up this morning I feltjust as you do when the clock has stopped ticking. But it was a lovelywedding, Mr. Arkwright. I'm sorry you could not be here. "

"Thank you; so am I--though usually, I will confess, I'm not muchgood at attending 'functions' and meeting strangers. As perhaps you'veguessed, Miss Neilson, I'm not particularly a society chap. "

"Of course you aren't! People who are doing things--real things--seldomare. But we aren't the society kind ourselves, you know--not the capitalS kind. We like sociability, which is vastly different from likingSociety. Oh, we have friends, to be sure, who dote on 'pink teasand purple pageants, ' as Cyril calls them; and we even go ourselvessometimes. But if you had been here yesterday, Mr. Arkwright, you'd havemet lots like yourself, men and women who are doing things: singing, playing, painting, illustrating, writing. Why, we even had a poet, sir--only he didn't have long hair, so he didn't look the part a bit, "she finished laughingly. 

"Is long hair--necessary--for poets?" Arkwright's smile was quizzical. 

"Dear me, no; not now. But it used to be, didn't it? And for painters, too. But now they look just like--folks. "

Arkwright laughed. 

"It isn't possible that you are sighing for the velvet coats and flowingties of the past, is it, Miss Neilson?"

"I'm afraid it is, " dimpled Billy. "I _love_ velvet coats and flowingties!"

"May singers wear them? I shall don them at once, anyhow, at a venture, "declared the man, promptly. 

Billy smiled and shook her head. 

"I don't think you will. You all like your horrid fuzzy tweeds andworsteds too well!"

"You speak with feeling. One would almost suspect that you already hadtried to bring about a reform--and failed. Perhaps Mr. Cyril, now, orMr. Bertram--" Arkwright stopped with a whimsical smile. 

Billy flushed a little. As it happened, she had, indeed, had a merrytilt with Bertram on that very subject, and he had laughingly promisedthat his wedding present to her would be a velvet house coat forhimself. It was on the point of Billy's tongue now to say this toArkwright; but another glance at the provoking smile on his lips drovethe words back in angry confusion. For the second time, in the presenceof this man, Billy found herself unable to refer to her engagement toBertram Henshaw--though this time she did not in the least doubt thatArkwright already knew of it. 

With a little gesture of playful scorn she rose and went to the piano. 

"Come, let us try some duets, " she suggested. "That's lots nicer thanquarrelling over velvet coats; and Aunt Hannah will be down presently tohear us sing. "

Before she had ceased speaking, Arkwright was at her side with anexclamation of eager acquiescence. 

It was after the second duet that Arkwright asked, a little diffidently. 

"Have you written any new songs lately?"

"No. "

"You're going to?"

"Perhaps--if I find one to write. "

"You mean--you have no words?"

"Yes--and no. I have some words, both of my own and other people's; butI haven't found in any one of them, yet--a melody. "

Arkwright hesitated. His right hand went almost to his inner coatpocket--then fell back at his side. The next moment he picked up a sheetof music. 

"Are you too tired to try this?" he asked. 

A puzzled frown appeared on Billy's face. 

"Why, no, but--"

"Well, children, I've come down to hear the music, " announced AuntHannah, smilingly, from the doorway; "only--Billy, _will_ you run upand get my pink shawl, too? This room _is_ colder than I thought, andthere's only the white one down here. "

"Of course, " cried Billy, rising at once. "You shall have a dozenshawls, if you like, " she laughed, as she left the room. 

What a cozy time it was--the hour that followed, after Billy returnedwith the pink shawl! Outside, the wind howled at the windows and flungthe snow against the glass in sleety crashes. Inside, the man and thegirl sang duets until they were tired; then, with Aunt Hannah, theyfeasted royally on the buttered toast, tea, and frosted cakes thatRosa served on a little table before the roaring fire. It was then thatArkwright talked of himself, telling them something of his studies, andof the life he was living. 

"After all, you see there's just this difference between my friendsand yours, " he said, at last. "Your friends _are_ doing things. They'vesucceeded. Mine haven't, yet--they're only _trying_. "

"But they will succeed, " cried Billy. 

"Some of them, " amended the man. 

"Not--all of them?" Billy looked a little troubled. 

Arkwright shook his head slowly. 

"No. They couldn't--all of them, you know. Some haven't the talent, somehaven't the perseverance, and some haven't the money. "

"But all that seems such a pity-when they've tried, " grieved Billy. 

"It is a pity, Miss Neilson. Disappointed hopes are always a pity, aren't they?"

"Y-yes, " sighed the girl. "But--if there were only something one coulddo to--help!"

Arkwright's eyes grew deep with feeling, but his voice, when he spoke, was purposely light. 

"I'm afraid that would be quite too big a contract for even yourgenerosity, Miss Neilson--to mend all the broken hopes in the world, " heprophesied. 

"I have known great good to come from great disappointments, " remarkedAunt Hannah, a bit didactically. 

"So have I, " laughed Arkwright, still determined to drive the troubledshadow from the face he was watching so intently. "For instance: afellow I know was feeling all cut up last Friday because he was just toolate to get into Symphony Hall on the twenty-five-cent admission. Halfan hour afterwards his disappointment was turned to joy--a friend whohad an orchestra chair couldn't use his ticket that day, and so handedit over to him. "

Billy turned interestedly. 

"What are those twenty-five-cent tickets to the Symphony?"

"Then--you don't know?"

"Not exactly. I've heard of them, in a vague fashion. "

"Then you've missed one of the sights of Boston if you haven't everseen that long line of patient waiters at the door of Symphony Hall of aFriday morning. "

"Morning! But the concert isn't till afternoon!"

"No, but the waiting is, " retorted Arkwright. "You see, those admissionsare limited--five hundred and five, I believe--and they're rush seats, at that. First come, first served; and if you're too late you aren'tserved at all. So the first arrival comes bright and early. I've heardthat he has been known to come at peep of day when there's a Paderewskior a Melba for a drawing card. But I've got my doubts of that. Anyhow, I never saw them there much before half-past eight. But many's the cold, stormy day I've seen those steps in front of the Hall packed for hours, and a long line reaching away up the avenue. "

Billy's eyes widened. 

"And they'll stand all that time and wait?"

"To be sure they will. You see, each pays twenty-five cents at the door, until the limit is reached, then the rest are turned away. Naturallythey don't want to be turned away, so they try to get there early enoughto be among the fortunate five hundred and five. Besides, the earlieryou are, the better seat you are likely to get. "

"But only think of _standing_ all that time!"

"Oh, they bring camp chairs, sometimes, I've heard, and then there arethe steps. You don't know what a really fine seat a stone step is--ifyou have a _big_ enough bundle of newspapers to cushion it with! Theybring their luncheons, too, with books, papers, and knitting work forfine days, I've been told--some of them. All the comforts of home, yousee, " smiled Arkwright. 

"Why, how--how dreadful!" stammered Billy. 

"Oh, but they don't think it's dreadful at all, " corrected Arkwright, quickly. "For twenty-five cents they can hear all that you hear down inyour orchestra chair, for which you've paid so high a premium. "

"But who--who are they? Where do they come from? Who _would_ go andstand hours like that to get a twenty-five-cent seat?" questioned Billy. 

"Who are they? Anybody, everybody, from anywhere? everywhere; peoplewho have the music hunger but not the money to satisfy it, " he rejoined. "Students, teachers, a little milliner from South Boston, a littledressmaker from Chelsea, a housewife from Cambridge, a stranger from theuttermost parts of the earth; maybe a widow who used to sit down-stairs, or a professor who has seen better days. Really to know that line, you should see it for yourself, Miss Neilson, " smiled Arkwright, ashe reluctantly rose to go. "Some Friday, however, before you take yourseat, just glance up at that packed top balcony and judge by thefaces you see there whether their owners think they're getting theirtwenty-five-cents' worth, or not. "

"I will, " nodded Billy, with a smile; but the smile came from her lipsonly, not her eyes: Billy was wishing, at that moment, that she ownedthe whole of Symphony Hall--to give away. But that was like Billy. Whenshe was seven years old she had proposed to her Aunt Ella that they takeall the thirty-five orphans from the Hampden Falls Orphan Asylum to livewith them, so that little Sallie Cook and the other orphans might haveice cream every day, if they wanted it. Since then Billy had always beentrying--in a way--to give ice cream to some one who wanted it. 

Arkwright was almost at the door when he turned abruptly. His face wasan abashed red. From his pocket he had taken a small folded paper. 

"Do you suppose--in this--you might find--that melody?" he stammered ina low voice. The next moment he was gone, having left in Billy's fingersa paper upon which was written in a clear-cut, masculine hand sixfour-line stanzas. 

Billy read them at once, hurriedly, then more carefully. 

"Why, they're beautiful, " she breathed, "just beautiful! Where did heget them, I wonder? It's a love song--and such a pretty one! I believethere _is_ a melody in it, " she exulted, pausing to hum a line ortwo. "There is--I know there is; and I'll write it--for Bertram, " shefinished, crossing joyously to the piano. 

Half-way down Corey Hill at that moment, Arkwright was buffetingthe wind and snow. He, too, was thinking joyously of thosestanzas--joyously, yet at the same time fearfully. Arkwright himself hadwritten those lines--though not for Bertram. 

CHAPTER XV. "MR. BILLY" AND "MISS MARY JANE"

On the fourteenth of December Billy came down-stairs alert, interested, and happy. She had received a dear letter from Bertram (mailed on theway to New York), the sun was shining, and her fingers were fairlytingling to put on paper the little melody that was now surgingriotously through her brain. Emphatically, the restlessness of the daybefore was gone now. Once more Billy's "clock" had "begun to tick. "

After breakfast Billy went straight to the telephone and called upArkwright. Even one side of the conversation Aunt Hannah did not hearvery clearly; but in five minutes a radiant-faced Billy danced into theroom. 

"Aunt Hannah, just listen! Only think--Mary Jane wrote the wordshimself, so of course I can use them!"

"Billy, dear, _can't_ you say 'Mr. Arkwright'?" pleaded Aunt Hannah. 

Billy laughed and gave the anxious-eyed little old lady an impulsivehug. 

"Of course! I'll say 'His Majesty' if you like, dear, " she chuckled. "But did you hear--did you realize? They're his own words, so there's noquestion of rights or permission, or anything. And he's coming up thisafternoon to hear my melody, and to make a few little changes in thewords, maybe. Oh, Aunt Hannah, you don't know how good it seems to getinto my music again!"

"Yes, yes, dear, of course; but--" Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in avaguely troubled pause. 

Billy turned in surprise. 

"Why, Aunt Hannah, aren't you glad? You _said_ you'd be glad!"

"Yes, dear; and I am--very glad. It's only--if it doesn't take too muchtime--and if Bertram doesn't mind. "

Billy flushed. She laughed a little bitterly. 

"No, it won't take too much time, I fancy, and--so far as Bertram isconcerned--if what Sister Kate says is true, Aunt Hannah, he'll be gladto have me occupy a little of my time with something besides himself. "

"Fiddlededee!" bristled Aunt Hannah. 

"What did she mean by that?"

Billy smiled ruefully. 

"Well, probably I did need it. She said it night before last just beforeshe went home with Uncle William. She declared that I seemed to forgetentirely that Bertram belonged to his Art first, before he belonged tome; and that it was exactly as she had supposed it would be--a perfectabsurdity for Bertram to think of marrying anybody. "

"Fiddlededee!" ejaculated the irate Aunt Hannah, even more sharply. "Ihope you have too much good sense to mind what Kate says, Billy. "

"Yes, I know, " sighed the girl; "but of course I can see some things formyself, and I suppose I did make--a little fuss about his going to NewYork the other night. And I will own that I've had a real struggle withmyself sometimes, lately, not to mind--his giving so much time tohis portrait painting. And of course both of those are veryreprehensible--in an artist's wife, " she finished, a little tremulously. 

"Humph! Well, I don't think I should worry about that, " observed AuntHannah with grim positiveness. 

"No, I don't mean to, " smiled Billy, wistfully. "I only told you soyou'd understand that it was just as well if I did have something totake up my mind--besides Bertram. And of course music would be the mostnatural thing. "

"Yes, of course, " agreed Aunt Hannah. 

"And it seems actually almost providential that Mary--I mean Mr. Arkwright is here to help me, now that Cyril is gone, " went on Billy, still a little wistfully. 

"Yes, of course. He isn't like--a stranger, " murmured Aunt Hannah. AuntHannah's voice sounded as if she were trying to convince herself--ofsomething. 

"No, indeed! He seems just like one of the family to me, almost as if hewere really--your niece, Mary Jane, " laughed Billy. 

Aunt Hannah moved restlessly. 

"Billy, " she hazarded, "he knows, of course, of your engagement?"

"Why, of course he does, Aunt Hannah everybody does!" Billy's eyes wereplainly surprised. 

"Yes, yes, of course--he must, " subsided Aunt Hannah, confusedly, hopingthat Billy would not divine the hidden reason behind her question. Shewas relieved when Billy's next words showed that she had not divined it. 

"I told you, didn't I? He's coming up this afternoon. He can't get heretill five, though; but he's so interested! He's about as crazy over thething as I am. And it's going to be fine, Aunt Hannah, when it's done. You just wait and see!" she finished gayly, as she tripped from theroom. 

Left to herself, Aunt Hannah drew a long breath. 

"I'm glad she didn't suspect, " she was thinking. "I believe she'dconsider even the _question_ disloyal to Bertram--dear child! And ofcourse Mary"--Aunt Hannah corrected herself with cheeks aflame--"I meanMr. Arkwright does--know. "

It was just here, however, that Aunt Hannah was mistaken. Mr. Arkwrightdid not--know. He had not reached Boston when the engagement wasannounced. He knew none of Billy's friends in town save the Henshawbrothers. He had not heard from Calderwell since he came to Boston. Thevery evident intimacy of Billy with the Henshaw brothers he accepted asa matter of course, knowing the history of their acquaintance, and thefact that Billy was Mr. William Henshaw's namesake. As to Bertrambeing Billy's lover--that idea had long ago been killed at birth byCalderwell's emphatic assertion that the artist would never care for anygirl--except to paint. Since coming to Boston, Arkwright had seen littleof the two together. His work, his friends, and his general mode of lifeprecluded that. Because of all this, therefore, Arkwright did not--know;which was a pity--for Arkwright, and for some others. 

Promptly at five o'clock that afternoon, Arkwright rang Billy'sdoorbell, and was admitted by Rosa to the living-room, where Billy wasat the piano. 

Billy sprang to her feet with a joyous word of greeting. 

"I'm so glad you've come, " she sighed happily. "I want you to hear themelody your pretty words have sung to me. Though, maybe, after all, youwon't like it, you know, " she finished with arch wistfulness. 

"As if I could help liking it, " smiled the man, trying to keep from hisvoice the ecstatic delight that the touch of her hand had brought him. 

Billy shook her head and seated herself again at the piano. 

"The words are lovely, " she declared, sorting out two or three sheets ofmanuscript music from the quantity on the rack before her. "But there'sone place--the rhythm, you know--if you could change it. There!--butlisten. First I'm going to play it straight through to you. " And shedropped her fingers to the keyboard. The next moment a tenderly sweetmelody--with only a chord now and then for accompaniment--filledArkwright's soul with rapture. Then Billy began to sing, very softly, the words!

No wonder Arkwright's soul was filled with rapture. They were his words, wrung straight from his heart; and they were being sung by the girlfor whom they were written. They were being sung with feeling, too--soevident a feeling that the man's pulse quickened, and his eyes flashed asudden fire. Arkwright could not know, of course, that Billy, in her ownmind, was singing that song--to Bertram Henshaw. 

The fire was still in Arkwright's eyes when the song was ended; butBilly very plainly did not see it. With a frowning sigh and a murmured"There!" she began to talk of "rhythm" and "accent" and "cadence"; andto point out with anxious care why three syllables instead of two wereneeded at the end of a certain line. From this she passed eagerly tothe accompaniment, and Arkwright at once found himself lost in a mazeof "minor thirds" and "diminished sevenths, " until he was forced toturn from the singer to the song. Still, watching her a little later, henoticed her absorbed face and eager enthusiasm, her earnest pursuance ofan elusive harmony, and he wondered: did she, or did she not sing thatsong with feeling a little while before?

Arkwright had not settled this question to his own satisfaction whenAunt Hannah came in at half-past five, and he was conscious of a vaguedisappointment as he rose to greet her. Billy, however, turned anuntroubled face to the newcomer. 

"We're doing finely, Aunt Hannah, " she cried. Then, suddenly, she flunga laughing question to the man. "How about it, sir? Are we going to puton the title-page: 'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright'--or will you unveilthe mystery for us now?"

"Have you guessed it?" he bantered. 

"No--unless it's 'Methuselah John. ' We did think of that the other day. "

"Wrong again!" he laughed. 

"Then it'll have to be 'Mary Jane, '" retorted Billy, with calmnaughtiness, refusing to meet Aunt Hannah's beseechingly reproving eyes. Then suddenly she chuckled. "It would be a combination, wouldn't it?'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright. Music by Billy Neilson'! We'd havesighing swains writing to 'Dear Miss Arkwright, ' telling how touchingwere _her_ words; and lovelorn damsels thanking _Mr_. Neilson for _his_soul-inspiring music!"

"Billy, my dear!" remonstrated Aunt Hannah, faintly. 

"Yes, yes, I know; that was bad--and I won't again, truly, " promisedBilly. But her eyes danced, and the next moment she had whirled about onthe piano stool and dashed into a Chopin waltz. The room itself, then, seemed to be full of the twinkling feet of elves. 

CHAPTER XVI. A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Billy was summoned to thetelephone. 

"Oh, good morning, Uncle William, " she called, in answer to themasculine voice that replied to her "Hullo. "

"Billy, are you very busy this morning?"

"No, indeed--not if you want me. "

"Well, I do, my dear. " Uncle William's voice was troubled. "I want youto go with me, if you can, to see a Mrs. Greggory. She's got a teapot Iwant. It's a genuine Lowestoft, Harlow says. Will you go?"

"Of course I will! What time?"

"Eleven if you can, at Park Street. She's at the West End. I don't dareto put it off for fear I'll lose it. Harlow says others will have toknow of it, of course. You see, she's just made up her mind to sell it, and asked him to find a customer. I wouldn't trouble you, but he saysthey're peculiar--the daughter, especially--and may need some carefulhandling. That's why I wanted you--though I wanted you to see thetea-pot, too, --it'll be yours some day, you know. "

Billy, all alone at her end of the line, blushed. That she was one dayto be mistress of the Strata and all it contained was still anything but"common" to her. 

"I'd love to see it, and I'll come gladly; but I'm afraid I won't bemuch help, Uncle William, " she worried. 

"I'll take the risk of that. You see, Harlow says that about half thetime she isn't sure she wants to sell it, after all. "

"Why, how funny! Well, I'll come. At eleven, you say, at Park Street?"

"Yes; and thank you, my dear. I tried to get Kate to go, too; but shewouldn't. By the way, I'm going to bring you home to luncheon. Kateleaves this afternoon, you know, and it's been so snowy she hasn'tthought best to try to get over to the house. Maybe Aunt Hannah wouldcome, too, for luncheon. Would she?"

"I'm afraid not, " returned Billy, with a rueful laugh. "She's got_three_ shawls on this morning, and you know that always means thatshe's felt a draft somewhere--poor dear. I'll tell her, though, and I'llsee you at eleven, " finished Billy, as she hung up the receiver. 

Promptly at the appointed time Billy met Uncle William at Park Street, and together they set out for the West End street named on the paper inhis pocket. But when the shabby house on the narrow little street wasreached, the man looked about him with a troubled frown. 

"I declare, Billy, I'm not sure but we'd better turn back, " he fretted. "I didn't mean to take you to such a place as this. "

Billy shivered a little; but after one glance at the man's disappointedface she lifted a determined chin. 

"Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don'tmind--for myself; but only think of the people whose _homes_ are here, "she finished, just above her breath. 

Mrs. Greggory was found to be living in two back rooms at the top offour flights of stairs, up which William Henshaw toiled with increasingweariness and dismay, punctuating each flight with a despairing: "Billy, really, I think we should turn back!"

But Billy would not turn back, and at last they found themselves in thepresence of a white-haired, sweet-faced woman who said yes, she wasMrs. Greggory; yes, she was. Even as she uttered the words, however, she looked fearfully over her shoulders as if expecting to hear from thehall behind them a voice denying her assertion. 

Mrs. Greggory was a cripple. Her slender little body was poised on twoonce-costly crutches. Both the worn places on the crutches, and theskill with which the little woman swung herself about the room testifiedthat the crippled condition was not a new one. 

Billy's eyes were brimming with pity and dismay. Mechanically she hadtaken the chair toward which Mrs. Greggory had motioned her. She hadtried not to seem to look about her; but there was not one detail ofthe bare little room, from its faded rug to the patched but spotlesstablecloth, that was not stamped on her brain. 

Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had clearedhis throat nervously. Billy did not know whether she herself were themore distressed or the more relieved to hear him stammer:

"We--er--I came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to understandyou had an--er--teapot that--er--" With his eyes on the cracked whitecrockery pitcher on the table, William Henshaw came to a helpless pause. 

A curious expression, or rather, series of expressions crossed Mrs. Greggory's face. Terror, joy, dismay, and relief seemed, one after theother to fight for supremacy. Relief in the end conquered, though evenyet there was a second hurriedly apprehensive glance toward the doorbefore she spoke. 

"The Lowestoft! Yes, I'm so glad!--that is, of course I must be glad. I'll get it. " Her voice broke as she pulled herself from her chair. There was only despairing sorrow on her face now. 

The man rose at once. 

"But, madam, perhaps--don't let me--" I he began stammeringly. "Ofcourse--Billy!" he broke off in an entirely different voice. "Jove! Whata beauty!"

Mrs. Greggory had thrown open the door of a small cupboard near thecollector's chair, disclosing on one of the shelves a beautifully shapedteapot, creamy in tint, and exquisitely decorated in a rose design. Nearit set a tray-like plate of the same ware and decoration. 

"If you'll lift it down, please, yourself, " motioned Mrs. Greggory. "Idon't like to--with these, " she explained, tapping the crutches at herside. 

With fingers that were almost reverent in their appreciation, thecollector reached for the teapot. His eyes sparkled. 

"Billy, look, what a beauty! And it's a Lowestoft, too, the realthing--the genuine, true soft paste! And there's the tray--did younotice?" he exulted, turning back to the shelf. "You _don't_ see thatevery day! They get separated, most generally, you know. "

"These pieces have been in our family for generations, " said Mrs. Greggory with an accent of pride. "You'll find them quite perfect, Ithink. "

"Perfect! I should say they were, " cried the man. 

"They are, then--valuable?" Mrs. Greggory's voice shook. 

"Indeed they are! But you must know that. "

"I have been told so. Yet to me their chief value, of course, lies intheir association. My mother and my grandmother owned that teapot, sir. "Again her voice broke. 

William Henshaw cleared his throat. 

"But, madam, if you do not wish to sell--" He stopped abruptly. Hislonging eyes had gone back to the enticing bit of china. 

Mrs. Greggory gave a low cry. 

"But I do--that is, I must. Mr. Harlow says that it is valuable, andthat it will bring in money; and we need--money. " She threw a quickglance toward the hall door, though she did not pause in her remarks. "Ican't do much at work that pays. I sew"--she nodded toward the machineby the window--"but with only one foot to make it go--You see, theother is--is inclined to shirk a little, " she finished with a wistfulwhimsicality. 

Billy turned away sharply. There was a lump in her throat and a smart inher eyes. She was conscious suddenly of a fierce anger against--she didnot know what, exactly; but she fancied it was against the teapot, or against Uncle William for wanting the teapot, or for _not_ wantingit--if he did not buy it. 

"And so you see, I do very much wish to sell. "

Mrs. Greggory said then. "Perhaps you will tell me what it would beworth to you, " she concluded tremulously. 

The collector's eyes glowed. He picked up the teapot with carefulrapture and examined it. Then he turned to the tray. After a moment hespoke. 

"I have only one other in my collection as rare, " he said. "I paid ahundred dollars for that. I shall be glad to give you the same for this, madam. "

Mrs. Greggory started visibly. 

"A hundred dollars? So much as that?" she cried almost joyously. "Why, nothing else that we've had has brought--Of course, if it's worth thatto you--" She paused suddenly. A quick step had sounded in the halloutside. The next moment the door flew open and a young woman, wholooked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, burst into theroom. 

"Mother, only think, I've--" She stopped, and drew back a little. Her startled eyes went from one face to another, then dropped to theLowestoft teapot in the man's hands. Her expression changed at once. Sheshut the door quickly and hurried forward. 

"Mother, what is it? Who are these people?" she asked sharply. 

Billy lifted her chin the least bit. She was conscious of a feelingwhich she could not name: Billy was not used to being called "thesepeople" in precisely that tone of voice. William Henshaw, too, raisedhis chin. He, also, was not in the habit of being referred to as "thesepeople. "

"My name is Henshaw, Miss--Greggory, I presume, " he said quietly. "I wassent here by Mr. Harlow. "

"About the teapot, my dear, you know, " stammered Mrs. Greggory, wetting her lips with an air of hurried apology and conciliation. "Thisgentleman says he will be glad to buy it. Er--my daughter, Alice, Mr. Henshaw, " she hastened on, in embarrassed introduction; "and Miss--"

"Neilson, " supplied the man, as she looked at Billy, and hesitated. 

A swift red stained Alice Greggory's face. With barely an acknowledgmentof the introductions she turned to her mother. 

"Yes, dear, but that won't be necessary now. As I started to tell youwhen I came in, I have two new pupils; and so"--turning to the man again"I thank you for your offer, but we have decided not to sell the teapotat present. " As she finished her sentence she stepped one side as if tomake room for the strangers to reach the door. 

William Henshaw frowned angrily--that was the man; but his eyes--thecollector's eyes--sought the teapot longingly. Before either the man orthe collector could speak, however; Mrs. Greggory interposed quick wordsof remonstrance. 

"But, Alice, my dear, " she almost sobbed. "You didn't wait to let metell you. Mr. Henshaw says it is worth a hundred dollars to him. He willgive us--a hundred dollars. "

"A hundred dollars!" echoed the girl, faintly. 

It was plain to be seen that she was wavering. Billy, watching thelittle scene, with mingled emotions, saw the glance with which the girlswept the bare little room; and she knew that there was not a patch ordarn or poverty spot in sight, or out of sight, which that glance didnot encompass. 

Billy was wondering which she herself desired more--that Uncle Williamshould buy the Lowestoft, or that he should not. She knew she wishedMrs. Greggory to have the hundred dollars. There was no doubt onthat point. Then Uncle William spoke. His words carried the righteousindignation of the man who thinks he has been unjustly treated, and thefinal plea of the collector who sees a coveted treasure slipping fromhis grasp. 

"I am very sorry, of course, if my offer has annoyed you, " he saidstiffly. "I certainly should not have made it had I not had Mrs. Greggory's assurance that she wished to sell the teapot. "

Alice Greggory turned as if stung. 

"_Wished to sell!_" She repeated the words with superb disdain. She wasplainly very angry. Her blue-gray eyes gleamed with scorn, and her wholeface was suffused with a red that had swept to the roots of hersoft hair. "Do you think a woman _wishes_ to sell a thing that she'streasured all her life, a thing that is perhaps the last visiblereminder of the days when she was living--not merely existing?"

"Alice, Alice, my love!" protested the sweet-faced cripple, agitatedly. 

"I can't help it, " stormed the girl, hotly. "I know how much you thinkof that teapot that was grandmother's. I know what it cost you to makeup your mind to sell it at all. And then to hear these people talk aboutyour _wishing_ to sell it! Perhaps they think, too, we _wish_ to livein a place like this; that we _wish_ to have rugs that are darned, and chairs that are broken, and garments that are patches instead ofclothes!"

"Alice!" gasped Mrs. Greggory in dismayed horror. 

With a little outward fling of her two hands Alice Greggory steppedback. Her face had grown white again. 

"I beg your pardon, of course, " she said in a voice that was bitterlyquiet. "I should not have spoken so. You are very kind, Mr. Henshaw, butI do not think we care to sell the Lowestoft to-day. "

Both words and manner were obviously a dismissal; and with a puzzledsigh William Henshaw picked up his hat. His face showed very clearlythat he did not know what to do, or what to say; but it showed, too, asclearly, that he longed to do something, or say something. During thebrief minute that he hesitated, however, Billy sprang forward. 

"Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let _me_ buy the teapot? Andthen--won't you keep it for me--here? I haven't the hundred dollars withme, but I'll send it right away. You will let me do it, won't you?"

It was an impulsive speech, and a foolish one, of course, from thestandpoint of sense and logic and reasonableness; but it was one thatmight be expected, perhaps, from Billy. 

Mrs. Greggory must have divined, in a way, the spirit that prompted it, for her eyes grew wet, and with a choking "Dear child!" she reached outand caught Billy's hand in both her own--even while she shook her headin denial. 

Not so her daughter. Alice Greggory flushed scarlet. She drew herselfproudly erect. 

"Thank you, " she said with crisp coldness; "but, distasteful as darnsand patches are to us, we prefer them, infinitely, to--charity!"

"Oh, but, please, I didn't mean--you didn't understand, " faltered Billy. 

For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately to the door and held itopen. 

"Oh, Alice, my dear, " pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly. 

"Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies, " said WilliamHenshaw then, decisively. And Billy, with a little wistful pat on Mrs. Greggory's clasped hands, went. 

Once down the long four flights of stairs and out on the sidewalk, William Henshaw drew a long breath. 

"Well, by Jove! Billy, the next time I take you curio hunting, it won'tbe to this place, " he fumed. 

"Wasn't it awful!" choked Billy. 

"Awful! The girl was the most stubborn, unreasonable, vixenish littlepuss I ever saw. I didn't want her old Lowestoft if she didn't wantto sell it! But to practically invite me there, and then treat me likethat!" scolded the collector, his face growing red with anger. "Still, Iwas sorry for the poor little old lady. I wish, somehow, she could havethat hundred dollars!" It was the man who said this, not the collector. 

"So do I, " rejoined Billy, dolefully. "But that girl was so--so queer!"she sighed, with a frown. Billy was puzzled. For the first time, perhaps, in her life, she knew what it was to have her proffered "icecream" disdainfully refused. 

CHAPTER XVII. ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT--

Kate and little Kate left for the West on the afternoon ofthe fifteenth, and Bertram arrived from New York that evening. Notwithstanding the confusion of all this, Billy still had time to givesome thought to her experience of the morning with Uncle William. The forlorn little room with its poverty-stricken furnishings and itscrippled mistress was very vivid in Billy's memory. Equally vivid werethe flashing eyes of Alice Greggory as she had opened the door at thelast. 

"For, " as Billy explained to Bertram that evening, after she had toldhim the story of the morning's adventure, "you see, dear, I had neverbeen really _turned out_ of a house before!"

"I should think not, " scowled her lover, indignantly; "and it's safe tosay you never will again. The impertinence of it! But then, you won'tsee them any more, sweetheart, so we'll just forget it. "

"Forget it! Why, Bertram, I couldn't! You couldn't, if you'd been there. Besides, of course I shall see them again!"

Bertram's jaw dropped. 

"Why, Billy, you don't mean that Will, or you either, would try againfor that trumpery teapot!"

"Of course not, " flashed Billy, heatedly. "It isn't the teapot--it'sthat dear little Mrs. Greggory. Why, dearie, you don't know how poorthey are! Everything in sight is so old and thin and worn it's enough tobreak your heart. The rug isn't anything but darns, nor the tablecloth, either--except patches. It's awful, Bertram!"

"I know, darling; but _you_ don't expect to buy them new rugs and newtablecloths, do you?"

Billy gave one of her unexpected laughs. 

"Mercy!" she chuckled. "Only picture Miss Alice's face if I _should_ tryto buy them rugs and tablecloths! No, dear, " she went on more seriously, "I sha'n't do that, of course--though I'd like to; but I shall try tosee Mrs. Greggory again, if it's nothing more than a rose or a book or anew magazine that I can take to her. "

"Or a smile--which I fancy will be the best gift of the lot, " amendedBertram, fondly. 

Billy dimpled and shook her head. 

"Smiles--my smiles--are not so valuable, I'm afraid--except to you, perhaps, " she laughed. 

"Self-evident facts need no proving, " retorted Bertram. "Well, and whatelse has happened in all these ages I've been away?"

Billy brought her hands together with a sudden cry. 

"Oh, and I haven't told you!" she exclaimed. "I'm writing a new song--alove song. Mary Jane wrote the words. They're beautiful. "

Bertram stiffened. 

"Indeed! And is--Mary Jane a poet, with all the rest?" he asked, withaffected lightness. 

"Oh, no, of course not, " smiled Billy; "but these words _are_ pretty. And they just sang themselves into the dearest little melody right away. So I'm writing the music for them. "

"Lucky Mary Jane!" murmured Bertram, still with a lightness that hehoped would pass for indifference. (Bertram was ashamed of himself, butdeep within him was a growing consciousness that he knew the meaningof the vague irritation that he always felt at the mere mention ofArkwright's name. ) "And will the title-page say, 'Words by Mary JaneArkwright'?" he finished. 

"That's what I asked him, " laughed Billy. 

"I even suggested 'Methuselah John' for a change. Oh, but, dearie, " shebroke off with shy eagerness, "I just want you to hear a little of whatI've done with it. You see, really, all the time, I suspect, I've beensinging it--to you, " she confessed with an endearing blush, as shesprang lightly to her feet and hurried to the piano. 

It was a bad ten minutes that Bertram Henshaw spent then. How he couldlove a song and hate it at the same time he did not understand; but heknew that he was doing exactly that. To hear Billy carol "Sweetheart, mysweetheart!" with that joyous tenderness was bliss unspeakable--until heremembered that Arkwright wrote the "Sweetheart, my sweetheart!" then itwas--(Even in his thoughts Bertram bit the word off short. He was not aswearing man. ) When he looked at Billy now at the piano, and thought ofher singing--as she said she had sung--that song to him all through thelast three days, his heart glowed. But when he looked at her and thoughtof Arkwright, who had made possible that singing, his heart froze withterror. 

From the very first it had been music that Bertram had feared. He couldnot forget that Billy herself had once told him that never would shelove any man better than she loved her music; that she was not goingto marry. All this had been at the first--the very first. He had boldlyscorned the idea then, and had said:

"So it's music--a cold, senseless thing of spidery marks on clean whitepaper--that is my only rival!"

He had said, too, that he was going to win. And he had won--butnot until after long weeks of fearing, hoping, striving, anddespairing--this last when Kate's blundering had nearly made herWilliam's wife. Then, on that memorable day in September, Billy hadwalked straight into his arms; and he knew that he had, indeed, won. That is, he had supposed that he knew--until Arkwright came. 

Very sharply now, as he listened to Billy's singing, Bertram toldhimself to be reasonable, to be sensible; that Billy did, indeed, lovehim. Was she not, according to her own dear assertion, singing that songto him? But it was Arkwright's song. He remembered that, too--and grewfaint at the thought. True, he had won when his rival, music, had beena "cold, senseless thing of spidery marks" on paper; but would thatwinning stand when "music" had become a thing of flesh and blood--a manof undeniable charm, good looks, and winsomeness; a man whose thoughts, aims, and words were the personification of the thing Billy, in the longago, had declared she loved best of all--music?

Bertram shivered as with a sudden chill; then Billy rose from the piano. 

"There!" she breathed, her face shyly radiant with the glory of thesong. "Did you--like it?"

Bertram did his best; but, in his state of mind, the very radiance ofher face was only an added torture, and his tongue stumbled over thewords of praise and appreciation that he tried to say. He saw, then, thehappy light in Billy's eyes change to troubled questioning and grieveddisappointment; and he hated himself for a jealous brute. More earnestlythan ever, now, he tried to force the ring of sincerity into his voice;but he knew that he had miserably failed when he heard her falter:

"Of course, dear, I--I haven't got it nearly perfected yet. It'll bemuch better, later. "

"But it s{sic} fine, now, sweetheart--indeed it is, " protested Bertram, hurriedly. 

"Well, of course I'm glad--if you like it, " murmured Billy; but the glowdid not come back to her face. 

CHAPTER XVIII. SUGARPLUMS

Those short December days after Bertram's return from New York were busyones for everybody. Miss Winthrop was not in town to give sittings forher portrait, it is true; but her absence only afforded Bertram time andopportunity to attend to other work that had been more or less delayedand neglected. He was often at Hillside, however, and the lovers managedto snatch many an hour of quiet happiness from the rush and confusion ofthe Christmas preparations. 

Bertram was assuring himself now that his jealous fears of Arkwrightwere groundless. Billy seldom mentioned the man, and, as the dayspassed, she spoke only once of his being at the house. The song, too, she said little of; and Bertram--though he was ashamed to own it tohimself--breathed more freely. 

The real facts of the case were that Billy had told Arkwright that sheshould have no time to give attention to the song until after Christmas;and her manner had so plainly shown him that she considered himselfsynonymous with the song, that he had reluctantly taken the hint andkept away. 

"I'll make her care for me sometime--for something besides a song, " hetold himself with fierce consolation--but Billy did not know this. 

Aside from Bertram, Christmas filled all of Billy's thoughts these days. There were such a lot of things she wished to do. 

"But, after all, they're only sugarplums, you know, that I'm giving, dear, " she declared to Bertram one day, when he had remonstrated withwith her for so taxing her time and strength. "I can't really do much. "

"Much!" scoffed Bertram. 

"But it isn't much, honestly--compared to what there is to do, " arguedBilly. "You see, dear, it's just this, " she went on, her bright facesobering a little. "There are such a lot of people in the world whoaren't really poor. That is, they have bread, and probably meat, to eat, and enough clothes to keep them warm. But when you've said that, you'vesaid it all. Books, music, fun, and frosting on their cake they knownothing about--except to long for them. "

"But there are the churches and the charities, and all those long-namedSocieties--I thought that was what they were for, " declared Bertram, still a little aggrievedly, his worried eyes on Billy's tired face. 

"Oh, but the churches and charities don't frost cakes nor givesugarplums, " smiled Billy. "And it's right that they shouldn't, too, "she added quickly. "They have more than they can do now with the roastbeef and coal and flannel petticoats that are really necessary. "

"And so it's just frosting and sugarplums, is it--these books andmagazines and concert tickets and lace collars for the crippled boy, thespinster lady, the little widow, and all the rest of those people whowere here last summer?"

Billy turned in confused surprise. 

"Why, Bertram, however in the world did you find out about all--that?"

"I didn't. I just guessed it--and it seems 'the boy guessed right thevery first time, '" laughed Bertram, teasingly, but with a tender lightin his eyes. "Oh, and I suppose you'll be sending a frosted cake to theLowestoft lady, too, eh?"

Billy's chin rose to a defiant stubbornness. 

"I'm going to try to--if I can find out what kind of frosting shelikes. "

"How about the Alice lady--or perhaps I should say, the Lady Alice?"smiled the man. 

Billy relaxed visibly. 

"Yes, I know, " she sighed. "There is--the Lady Alice. But, anyhow, shecan't call a Christmas present 'charity'--not if it's only a little bitof frosting!" Billy's chin came up again. 

"And you're going to, really, dare to send her something?"

"Yes, " avowed Billy. "I'm going down there one of these days, in themorning--"

"You're going down there! Billy--not alone?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"But, dearie, you mustn't. It was a horrid place, Will says. "

"So it was horrid--to live in. It was everything that was cheap and meanand forlorn. But it was quiet and respectable. 'Tisn't as if I didn'tknow the way, Bertram; and I'm sure that where that poor crippled womanand daughter are safe, I shall be. Mrs. Greggory is a lady, Bertram, well-born and well-bred, I'm sure--and that's the pity of it, to haveto live in a place like that! They have seen better days, I know. Thosepitiful little worn crutches of hers were mahogany, I'm sure, Bertram, and they were silver mounted. "

Bertram made a restless movement. 

"I know, dear; but if you had some one with you! It wouldn't do forWill, of course, nor me--under the circumstances. But there's AuntHannah--" He paused hopefully. 

Billy chuckled. 

"Bless your dear heart! Aunt Hannah would call for a dozen shawls inthat place--if she had breath enough to call for any after she got tothe top of those four flights!"

"Yes, I suppose so, " rejoined Bertram, with an unwilling smile. "Still--well, you _can_ take Rosa, " he concluded decisively. 

"How Miss Alice would like that--to catch me going 'slumming' withmy maid!" cried Billy, righteous indignation in her voice. "Honestly, Bertram, I think even gentle Mrs. Greggory wouldn't stand for that. "

"Then leave Rosa outside in the hall, " planned Bertram, promptly; andafter a few more arguments, Billy finally agreed to this. 

It was with Rosa, therefore, that she set out the next morning for thelittle room up four flights on the narrow West End street. 

Leaving the maid on the top stair of the fourth flight, Billy tappedat Mrs. Greggory's door. To her joy Mrs. Greggory herself answered theknock. 

"Oh! Why--why, good morning, " murmured the lady, in evidentembarrassment. "Won't you--come m?"

"Thank you. May I?--just a minute?" smiled Billy, brightly. 

As she entered the room, Billy threw a hasty look about her. There wasno one but themselves present. With a sigh of satisfaction, therefore, the girl took the chair Mrs. Greggory offered, and began to speak. 

"I was down this way--that is, I came this way this morning, " she begana little hastily; "and I wanted just to come up and tell you how sorryI was about--about that teapot the other day. We didn't want it, ofcourse--if you didn't want us to have it. "

A swift change crossed Mrs. Greggory's perturbed face. 

"Oh, then you didn't come for it again--to-day, " she said. "I'm so glad!I didn't want to refuse--_you_. "

"Indeed I didn't come for it--and we sha'n't again. Don't worry aboutthat, please. "

Mrs. Greggory sighed. 

"I'm afraid you thought me very rude and--and impossible the other day, "she stammered. "And please let me take this opportunity right now toapologize for my daughter. She was overwrought and excited. She didn'tknow what she was saying or doing, I'm sure. She was ashamed, I thinkafter you left. "

Billy raised a quick hand of protest. 

"Don't, please don't, Mrs. Greggory, " she begged. 

"But it was our fault that you came. We _asked_ you to come--through Mr. Harlow, " rejoined the other, hurriedly. "And Mr. Henshaw--was that hisname?--was so kind in every way. I'm glad of this chance to tell you howmuch we really did appreciate it--and _your_ offer, too, which we couldnot, of course, accept, " she finished, the bright color flooding herdelicate face. 

Again Billy raised a protesting hand; but the little woman in theopposite chair hurried on. There was still more, evidently, that shewished to say. 

"I hope Mr. Henshaw did not feel too disappointed--about the Lowestoft. We didn't want to let it go if we could help it; and we hope now to keepit. "

"Of course, " murmured Billy, sympathetically. 

"My daughter knew, you see, how much I have always thought of it, andshe was determined that I should not give it up. She said I shouldhave that much left, anyway. You see--my daughter is very unreconciled, still, to things as they are; and no wonder, perhaps. They are sodifferent--from what they were!" Her voice broke a little. 

"Of course, " said Billy again, and this time the words were tinged withimpatient indignation. "If only there were something one could do tohelp!"

"Thank you, my dear, but there isn't--indeed there isn't, " rejoinedthe other, quickly; and Billy, looking into the proudly lifted face, realized suddenly that daughter Alice had perhaps inherited some traitsfrom mother. "We shall get along very well, I am sure. My daughterhas still another pupil. She will be home soon to tell you herself, perhaps. "

Billy rose with a haste so marked it was almost impolite, as shemurmured:

"Will she? I'm afraid, though, that I sha'n't see her, after all, for Imust go. And may I leave these, please?" she added, hurriedly unpinningthe bunch of white carnations from her coat. "It seems a pity to letthem wilt, when you can put them in water right here. " Her studiouslycasual voice gave no hint that those particular pinks had been boughtless than half an hour before of a Park Street florist so that Mrs. Greggory _might_ put them in water--right there. 

"Oh, oh, how lovely!" breathed Mrs. Greggory, her face deep in thefeathery bed of sweetness. Before she could half say "Thank you, "however? she found herself alone. 

CHAPTER XIX. ALICE GREGGORY

Christmas came and went; and in a flurry of snow and sleet Januaryarrived. The holidays over, matters and things seemed to settle down tothe winter routine. 

Miss Winthrop had prolonged her visit in Washington until afterChristmas, but she had returned to Boston now--and with her she hadbrought a brand-new idea for her portrait; an idea that caused her tosweep aside with superb disdain all poses and costumes and sketches todate, and announce herself with disarming winsomeness as "all ready nowto really begin!"

Bertram Henshaw was vexed, but helpless. Decidedly he wished to paintMiss Marguerite Winthrop's portrait; but to attempt to paint it when allmatters were not to the lady's liking were worse than useless, unlesshe wished to hang this portrait in the gallery of failures along withAnderson's and Fullam's--and that was not the goal he had set for it. Asto the sordid money part of the affair--the great J. G. Winthrop himselfhad come to the artist, and in one terse sentence had doubled theoriginal price and expressed himself as hopeful that Henshaw would putup with "the child's notions. " It was the old financier's next sentence, however, that put the zest of real determination into Bertram, forbecause of it, the artist saw what this portrait was going to mean tothe stern old man, and how dear was the original of it to a heart thatwas commonly reported "on the street" to be made of stone. 

Obviously, then, indeed, there was nothing for Bertram Henshaw to dobut to begin the new portrait. And he began it--though still, it must beconfessed, with inward questionings. Before a week had passed, however, every trace of irritation had fled, and he was once again the absorbedartist who sees the vision of his desire taking palpable shape at theend of his brush. 

"It's all right, " he said to Billy then, one evening. "I'm glad shechanged. It's going to be the best, the very best thing I've everdone--I think! by the sketches. "

"I'm so glad!" exclaimed Billy. "I'm so glad!" The repetition wasso vehement that it sounded almost as if she were trying to convinceherself as well as Bertram of something that was not true. 

But it was true--Billy told herself very indignantly that it was; indeedit was! Yet the very fact that she had to tell herself this, caused herto know how perilously near she was to being actually jealous of thatportrait of Marguerite Winthrop. And it shamed her. 

Very sternly these days Billy reminded herself of what Kate hadsaid about Bertram's belonging first to his Art. She thought withmortification, too, that it _did_ look as if she were not the properwife for an artist if she were going to feel like this--always. Veryresolutely, then, Billy turned to her music. This was all the moreeasily done, for, not only did she have her usual concerts and the operato enjoy, but she had become interested in an operetta her club wasabout to give; also she had taken up the new song again. Christmas beingover, Mr. Arkwright had been to the house several times. He had changedsome of the words and she had improved the melody. The work on theaccompaniment was progressing finely now, and Billy was so glad!--whenshe was absorbed in her music she forgot sometimes that she was ever sounfit an artist's sweetheart as to be--jealous of a portrait. 

It was quite early in the month that the usually expected "January thaw"came, and it was on a comparatively mild Friday at this time that amatter of business took Billy into the neighborhood of Symphony Hall atabout eleven o'clock in the morning. Dismissing John and the car uponher arrival, she said that she would later walk to the home of a friendnear by, where she would remain until it was time for the SymphonyConcert. 

This friend was a girl whom Billy had known at school. She was studyingnow at the Conservatory of Music; and she had often urged Billy to comeand have luncheon with her in her tiny apartment, which she shared withthree other girls and a widowed aunt for housekeeper. On this particularFriday it had occurred to Billy that, owing to her business appointmentat eleven and the Symphony Concert at half-past two, the interveningtime would give her just the opportunity she had been seeking toenable her to accept her friend's invitation. A question asked, andenthusiastically answered in the affirmative, over the telephone thatmorning, therefore, had speedily completed arrangements, and she hadagreed to be at her friend's door by twelve o'clock, or before. 

As it happened, business did not take quite so long as she had expected, and half-past eleven found her well on her way to Miss Henderson's home. 

In spite of the warm sunshine and the slushy snow in the streets, therewas a cold, raw wind, and Billy was beginning to feel thankful that shehad not far to go when she rounded a corner and came upon a long line ofhumanity that curved itself back and forth on the wide expanse of stepsbefore Symphony Hall and then stretched itself far up the Avenue. 

"Why, what--" she began under her breath; then suddenly she understood. It was Friday. A world-famous pianist was to play with the SymphonyOrchestra that afternoon. This must be the line of patient waiters forthe twenty-five-cent balcony seats that Mr. Arkwright had told about. With sympathetic, interested eyes, then, Billy stepped one side to watchthe line, for a moment. 

Almost at once two girls brushed by her, and one was saying:

"What a shame!--and after all our struggles to get here! If only wehadn't lost that other train!"

"We're too late--you no need to hurry!" the other wailed shrilly to athird girl who was hastening toward them. "The line is 'way beyondthe Children's Hospital and around the corner now--and the ones there_never_ get in!"

At the look of tragic disappointment that crossed the third girl's face, Billy's heart ached. Her first impulse, of course, was to pull herown symphony ticket from her muff and hurry forward with a "Here, takemine!" But that _would_ hardly do, she knew--though she would like tosee Aunt Hannah's aghast face if this girl in the red sweater and whitetam-o'-shanter should suddenly emerge from among the sumptuous satinsand furs and plumes that afternoon and claim the adjacent orchestrachair. But it was out of the question, of course. There was only oneseat, and there were three girls, besides all those others. With a sigh, then, Billy turned her eyes back to those others--those many others thatmade up the long line stretching its weary length up the Avenue. 

There were more women than men, yet the men were there: jolly young menwho were plainly students; older men whose refined faces and threadbareovercoats hinted at cultured minds and starved bodies; other men whoshowed no hollows in their cheeks nor near-holes in their garments. Itseemed to Billy that women of almost all sorts were there, young, old, and middle-aged; students in tailored suits, widows in crape and veil;girls that were members of a merry party, women that were plainlyforlorn and alone. 

Some in the line shuffled restlessly; some stood rigidly quiet. One hadbrought a camp stool; many were seated on the steps. Beyond, where theline passed an open lot, a wooden fence afforded a convenient prop. Oneread a book, another a paper. Three were studying what was probablythe score of the symphony or of the concerto they expected to hear thatafternoon. 

A few did not appear to mind the biting wind, but most of them, byturned-up coat-collars or bent heads, testified to the contrary. Notfar from Billy a woman nibbled a sandwich furtively, while beyond her agroup of girls were hilariously merry over four triangles of pie whichthey held up where all might see. 

Many of the faces were youthful, happy, and alert with anticipation;but others carried a wistfulness and a weariness that made Billy's heartache. Her eyes, indeed, filled with quick tears. Later she turned to go, and it was then that she saw in the line a face that she knew--a facethat drooped with such a white misery of spent strength that she hurriedstraight toward it with a low cry. 

"Miss Greggory!" she exclaimed, when she reached the girl. "You lookactually ill. Are you ill?"

For a brief second only dazed questioning stared from the girl'sblue-gray eyes. Billy knew when the recognition came, for she saw thepainful color stain the white face red. 

"Thank you, no. I am not ill, Miss Neilson, " said the girl, coldly. 

"But you look so tired out!"

"I have been standing here some time; that is all. "

Billy threw a hurried glance down the far-reaching line that sheknew had formed since the girl's two tired feet had taken their firstposition. 

"But you must have come--so early! It isn't twelve o'clock yet, " shefaltered. 

A slight smile curved Alice Greggory's lips. 

"Yes, it was early, " she rejoined a little bitterly; "but it had to be, you know. I wanted to hear the music; and with this soloist, and thisweather, I knew that many others--would want to hear the music, too. "

"But you look so white! How much longer--when will they let you in?"demanded Billy, raising indignant eyes to the huge, gray-pillaredbuilding before her, much as if she would pull down the walls if shecould, and make way for this tired girl at her side. 

Miss Greggory's thin shoulders rose and fell in an expressive shrug. 

"Half-past one. "

Billy gave a dismayed cry. 

"Half-past one--almost two hours more! But, Miss Greggory, youcan't--how can you stand it till then? You've shivered three times sinceI came, and you look as if you were going to faint away. "

Miss Greggory shook her head. 

"It is nothing, really, " she insisted. "I am quite well. It is only--Ididn't happen to feel like eating much breakfast this morning; and that, with no luncheon--" She let a gesture finish her sentence. 

"No luncheon! Why--oh, you couldn't leave your place, of course, "frowned Billy. 

"No, and"--Alice Greggory lifted her head a little proudly--"I do notcare to eat--here. " Her scornful eyes were on one of the pieces of piedown the line--no longer a triangle. 

"Of course not, " agreed Billy, promptly. She paused, frowned, andbit her lip. Suddenly her face cleared. "There! the very thing, " sheexulted. "You shall have my ticket this afternoon, Miss Greggory, thenyou won't have to stay here another minute. Meanwhile, there is anexcellent restaurant--"

"Thank you--no. I couldn't do that, " cut in the other, sharply, but in alow voice. 

"But you'll take my ticket, " begged Billy. 

Miss Greggory shook her head. 

"Certainly not. "

"But I want you to, please. I shall be very unhappy if you don't, "grieved Billy. 

The other made a peremptory gesture. 

"_I_ should be very unhappy if I did, " she said with cold emphasis. "Really, Miss Neilson, " she went on in a low voice, throwing anapprehensive glance at the man ahead, who was apparently absorbed in hisnewspaper, "I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to let me go on in my ownway. You are very kind, but there is nothing you can do; nothing. Youwere very kind, too, of course, to send the book and the flowers tomother at Christmas; but--"

"Never mind that, please, " interrupted Billy, hurriedly. Billy's headwas lifted now. Her eyes were no longer pleading. Her round little chinlooked square and determined. "If you simply will not take my ticketthis afternoon, you _must_ do this. Go to some restaurant near here andget a good luncheon--something that will sustain you. I will take yourplace here. "

"_Miss Neilson!_"

Billy smiled radiantly. It was the first time she had ever seenAlice Greggory's haughtily cold reserve break into anything likenaturalness--the astonished incredulity of that "Miss Neilson!" wasplainly straight from the heart; so, too, were the amazed words thatfollowed. 

"_You_--will stand _here?_"

"Certainly; I will keep your place. Don't worry. You sha'n't lose it. "Billy spoke with a smiling indifference that was meant to convey theimpression that standing in line for a twenty-five-cent seat was adaily habit of hers. "There's a restaurant only a little way--right downthere, " she finished. And before the dazed Alice Greggory knew quitewhat was happening she found herself outside the line, and the other inher place. 

"But, Miss Neilson, I can't--you mustn't--" she stammered; then, becauseof something in the unyieldingness of the square young chin above thesealskin coat, and because she could not (she knew) use actual forceto drag the owner of that chin out of the line, she bowed her head inacquiescence. 

"Well, then--I will, long enough for some coffee and maybe a sandwich. And--thank you, " she choked, as she turned and hurried away. 

Billy drew the deep breath of one who has triumphed after longstruggles--but the breath broke off short in a gasp of dismay: comingstraight up the Avenue toward her was the one person in the world Billywished least to see at that moment--Bertram Henshaw. Billy rememberedthen that she had twice lately heard her lover speak of calling at theBoston Opera House concerning a commission to paint an ideal head torepresent "Music" for some decorative purpose. The Opera House was onlya short distance up the Avenue. Doubtless he was on his way there now. 

He was very near by this time, and Billy held her breath suspended. There was a chance, of course, that he might not notice her; and Billywas counting on that chance--until a gust of wind whirled a loosehalf-sheet of newspaper from the hands of the man in front of her, andnaturally attracted Bertram's eyes to its vicinity--and to hers. Thenext moment he was at her side and his dumfounded but softly-breathed"_Billy!_" was in her ears. 

Billy bubbled into low laughter--there were such a lot of funnysituations in the world, and of them all this one was about thedrollest, she thought. 

"Yes, I know, " she gurgled. "You don't have to say it-your face issaying even more than your tongue _could!_ This is just for a girl Iknow. I'm keeping her place. "

Bertram frowned. He looked as if he were meditating picking Billy up andwalking off with her. 

"But, Billy, " he protested just above his breath, "this isn't sugarplumsnor frosting; it's plain suicide--standing out in this wind likethis! Besides--" He stopped with an angrily despairing glance at hersurroundings. 

"Yes, I know, " she nodded, a little soberly, understanding the look andanswering that first; "it isn't pleasant nor comfortable, in lots ofways--but _she's_ had it all the morning. As for the cold--I'm as warmas toast. It won't be long, anyway; she's just gone to get something toeat. Then I'm going to May Henderson's for luncheon. "

Bertram sighed impatiently and opened his lips--only to close them withthe words unsaid. There was nothing he could do, and he had already saidtoo much, he thought, with a savage glance at the man ahead who stillhad enough of his paper left to serve for a pretence at reading. AsBertram could see, however, the man was not reading a word--he was tooacutely conscious of the handsome young woman in the long sealskincoat behind him. Billy was already the cynosure of dozens of eyes, andBertram knew that his own arrival on the scene had not lessened theinterest of the owners of those eyes. He only hoped devoutly that noone in the line knew him ar Billy, and that no one quite knew what hadhappened. He did not wish to see himself and his fiancée the subjectof inch-high headlines in some evening paper figuring as:

"Talented young composer and her famous artist lover take poor girl'splace in a twenty-five-cent ticket line. "

He shivered at the thought. 

"Are you cold?" worried Billy. "If you are, don't stand here, please!"

He shook his head silently. His eyes were searching the street for theonly one whose coming could bring him relief. 

It must have been but a coffee-and-sandwich luncheon for the girl, forsoon she came. The man surmised that it was she, as soon as he saw her, and stepped back at once. He had no wish for introductions. A momentlater the girl was in Billy's place, and Billy herself was at his side. 

"That was Alice Greggory, Bertram, " she told him, as they walked onswiftly; "and Bertram, she was actually almost _crying_ when she took myplace. "

"Humph! Well, I should think she'd better be, " growled Bertram, perversely. 

"Pooh! It didn't hurt me any, dearie, " laughed Billy with a conciliatorypat on his arm as they turned down the street upon which her friendlived. "And now can you come in and see May a minute?"

"I'm afraid not, " regretted Bertram. "I wish I could, but I'm busierthan busy to-day--and I was _supposed_ to be already late when I sawyou. Jove, Billy, I just couldn't believe my eyes!"

"You looked it, " twinkled Billy. "It was worth a farm just to see yourface!"

"I'd want the farm--if I was going through that again, " retorted theman, grimly--Bertram was still seeing that newspaper heading. 

But Billy only laughed again. 

CHAPTER XX. ARKWRIGHT TELLS A STORY

Arkwright called Monday afternoon by appointment; and together he andBilly put the finishing touches to the new song. 

It was when, with Aunt Hannah, they were having tea before the firea little later, that Billy told of her adventure the preceding Fridayafternoon in front of Symphony Hall. 

"You knew the girl, of course--I think you said you knew the girl, "ventured Arkwright. 

"Oh, yes. She was Alice Greggory. I met her with Uncle William first, over a Lowestoft teapot. Maybe you'd like to know _how_ I met her, "smiled Billy. 

"Alice Greggory?" Arkwright's eyes showed a sudden interest. "I used toknow an Alice Greggory, but it isn't the same one, probably. Her motherwas a cripple. "

Billy gave a little cry. 

"Why, it is--it must be! _My_ Alice Greggory's mother is a cripple. Oh, do you know them, really?"

"Well, it does look like it, " rejoined Arkwright, showing even deeperinterest. "I haven't seen them for four or five years. They used to livein our town. The mother was a little sweet-faced woman with young eyesand prematurely white hair. "

"That describes my Mrs. Greggory exactly, " cried Billy's eager voice. "And the daughter?"

"Alice? Why--as I said, it's been four years since I've seen her. " Atouch of constraint had come into Arkwright's voice which Billy's keenear was quick to detect. "She was nineteen then and very pretty. "

"About my height, and with light-brown hair and big blue-gray eyes thatlook steely cold when she's angry?" questioned Billy. 

"I reckon that's about it, " acknowledged the man, with a faint smile. 

"Then they _are_ the ones, " declared the girl, plainly excited. "Isn'tthat splendid? Now we can know them, and perhaps do something forthem. I love that dear little mother already, and I think I should thedaughter--if she didn't put out so many prickers that I couldn't getnear her! But tell us about them. How did they come here? Why didn't youknow they were here?"

"Are you good at answering a dozen questions at once?" asked AuntHannah, turning smiling eyes from Billy to the man at her side. 

"Well, I can try, " he offered. "To begin with, they are Judge Greggory'swidow and daughter. They belong to fine families on both sides, and theyused to be well off--really wealthy, for a small town. But the judge wasbetter at money-making than he was at money-keeping, and when he came todie his income stopped, of course, and his estate was found to be in badshape through reckless loans and worthless investments. That was eightyears ago. Things went from bad to worse then, until there was almostnothing left. "

"I knew there was some such story as that back of them, " declared Billy. "But how do you suppose they came here?"

"To get away from--everybody, I suspect, " replied Arkwright. "That wouldbe like them. They were very proud; and it isn't easy, you know, to benobody where you've been somebody. It doesn't hurt quite so hard--to benobody where you've never been anything but nobody. "

"I suppose so, " sighed Billy. "Still--they must have had friends. "

"They did, of course; but when the love of one's friends becomes _too_highly seasoned with pity, it doesn't make a pleasant morsel to swallow, specially if you don't like the taste of the pity--and there are peoplewho don't, you know. The Greggorys were that kind. They were morbidlyso. From their cheap little cottage, where they did their own work, theystepped out in their shabby garments and old-fashioned hats with headseven more proudly erect than in the old days when their home and theirgowns and their doings were the admiration and envy of the town. Yousee, they didn't want--that pity. "

"I _do_ see, " cried Billy, her face aglow with sudden understanding;"and I don't believe pity would be--nice!" Her own chin was held high asshe spoke. 

"It must have been hard, indeed, " murmured Aunt Hannah with a sigh, asshe set down her teacup. 

"It was, " nodded Arkwright. "Of course Mrs. Greggory, with her crippledfoot, could do nothing to bring in any money except to sew a little. Itall depended on Alice; and when matters got to their worst she beganto teach. She was fond of music, and could play the piano well; and ofcourse she had had the best instruction she could get from city teachersonly twenty miles away from our home town. Young as she was--aboutseventeen when she began to teach, I think--she got a few beginnersright away, and in two years she had worked up quite a class, meanwhilekeeping on with her own studies, herself. 

"They might have carried the thing through, maybe, " continued Arkwright, "and never _apparently_ known that the 'pity' existed, if it hadn't beenfor some ugly rumors that suddenly arose attacking the Judge's honestyin an old matter that somebody raked up. That was too much. Under thislast straw their courage broke utterly. Alice dismissed every pupil, sold almost all their remaining goods--they had lots of quite valuableheirlooms; I suspect that's where your Lowestoft teapot came in--andwith the money thus gained they left town. Until they could go, theyscarcely showed themselves once on the street, they were never at hometo callers, and they left without telling one soul where they weregoing, so far as we could ever learn. "

"Why, the poor dears!" cried Billy. "How they must have suffered! Butthings will be different now. You'll go to see them, of course, and--"At the look that came into Arkwright's face, she stopped in surprise. 

"You forget; they wouldn't wish to see me, " demurred the man. And againBilly noticed the odd constraint in his voice. 

"But they wouldn't mind _you--here_, " argued Billy. 

"I'm afraid they would. In fact, I'm sure they'd refuse entirely to seeme. "

Billy's eyes grew determined. 

"But they can't refuse--if I bring about a meeting just casually, youknow, " she challenged. 

Arkwright laughed. 

"Well, I won't pretend to say as to the consequences of that, " herejoined, rising to his feet; "but they might be disastrous. Wasn't ityou yourself who were telling me a few minutes ago how steely cold MissAlice's eyes got when she was angry?"

Billy knew by the way the man spoke that, for some reason, he did notwish to prolong the subject of his meeting the Greggorys. She made aquick shift, therefore, to another phase of the matter. 

"But tell me, please, before you go, how did those rumors comeout--about Judge Greggory's honesty, I mean?"

"Why, I never knew, exactly, " frowned Arkwright, musingly. "Yet itseems, too, that mother did say in one letter, while I was in Paris, that some of the accusations had been found to be false, and that therewas a prospect that the Judge's good name might be saved, after all. "

"Oh, I wish it might, " sighed Billy. "Think what it would mean to thosewomen!"

"'Twould mean everything, " cried Arkwright, warmly; "and I'll writeto mother to-night, I will, and find out just what there is to it-ifanything. Then you can tell them, " he finished a little stiffly. 

"Yes--or you, " nodded Billy, lightly. And because she began at once tospeak of something else, the first part of her sentence passed withoutcomment. 

The door had scarcely closed behind Arkwright when Billy turned to AuntHannah a beaming face. 

"Aunt Hannah, did you notice?" she cried, "how Mary Jane looked andacted whenever Alice Greggory was spoken of? There was something betweenthem--I'm sure there was; and they quarrelled, probably. "

"Why, no, dear; I didn't see anything unusual, " murmured the elder lady. 

"Well, I did. And I'm going to be the fairy godmother that straightenseverything all out, too. See if I'm not! They'd make a splendid couple, Aunt Hannah. I'm going right down there to-morrow. "

"Billy, my dear!" exclaimed the more conservative old lady, "aren'tyou taking things a little too much for granted? Maybe they don't wishfor--for a fairy godmother!"

"Oh, _they_ won't know I'm a fairy godmother--not one of them; and ofcourse I wouldn't mention even a hint to anybody, " laughed Billy. "I'mjust going down to get acquainted with the Greggorys; that's all. Onlythink, Aunt Hannah, what they must have suffered! And look at the placethey're living in now--gentlewomen like them!"

"Yes, yes, poor things, poor things!" sighed Aunt Hannah. 

"I hope I'll find out that she's really good--at teaching, I mean--thedaughter, " resumed Billy, after a moment's pause. "If she is, there'sone thing I can do to help, anyhow. I can get some of Marie's old pupilsfor her. I _know_ some of them haven't begun with a new teacher, yet;and Mrs. Carleton told me last Friday that neither she nor her sisterwas at all satisfied with the one their girls _have_ taken. They'dchange, I know, in a minute, at my recommendation--that is, of course, if I can _give_ the recommendation, " continued Billy, with a troubledfrown. "Anyhow, I'm going down to begin operations to-morrow. "

CHAPTER XXI. A MATTER OF STRAIGHT BUSINESS

True to her assertion, Billy went down to the Greggorys' the next day. This time she did not take Rosa with her. Even Aunt Hannah conceded thatit would not be necessary. She had not been gone ten minutes, however, when the telephone bell rang, and Rosa came to say that Mr. BertramHenshaw wanted to speak with Mrs. Stetson. 

"Rosa says that Billy's not there, " called Bertram's aggrieved voice, when Aunt Hannah had said, "Good morning, my boy. "

"Dear me, no, Bertram. She's in a fever of excitement this morning. She'll probably tell you all about it when you come out here to-night. You _are_ coming out to-night, aren't you?"

"Yes; oh, yes! But what is it? Where's she gone?"

Aunt Hannah laughed softly. 

"Well, she's gone down to the Greggorys'. "

"The Greggorys'! What--again?"

"Oh, you might as well get used to it, Bertram, " bantered Aunt Hannah, "for there'll be a good many 'agains, ' I fancy. "

"Why, Aunt Hannah, what do you mean?" Bertram's voice was not quitepleased. 

"Oh, she'll tell you. It's only that the Greggorys have turned out to beold friends of Mr. Arkwright's. "

"_Friends_ of Arkwright's!" Bertram's voice was decidedly displeasednow. 

"Yes; and there's quite a story to it all, as well. Billy is wildlyexcited, as you'd know she would be. You'll hear all about it to-night, of course. "

"Yes, of course, " echoed Bertram. But there was no ring of enthusiasm inhis voice, neither then, nor when he said good-by a moment later. 

Billy, meanwhile, on her way to the Greggory home, was, as Aunt Hannahhad said, "wildly excited. " It seemed so strange and wonderful anddelightful--the whole affair: that she should have found them becauseof a Lowestoft teapot, that Arkwright should know them, and that thereshould be the chance now that she might help them--in some way; thoughthis last, she knew, could be accomplished only through the exercise ofthe greatest tact and delicacy. She had not forgotten that Arkwright hadtold her of their hatred of pity. 

In the sober second thought of the morning, Billy was not sure now of apossible romance in connection with Arkwright and the daughter, Alice;but she had by no means abandoned the idea, and she meant to keepher eyes open--and if there should be a chance to bring such a thingabout--! Meanwhile, of course, she should not mention the matter, evento Bertram. 

Just what would be her method of procedure this first morning, Billy hadnot determined. The pretty potted azalea in her hand would be excuse forher entrance into the room. After that, circumstances must decide forthemselves. 

Mrs. Greggory was found to be alone at home as before, and Billy wasglad. She would rather begin with one than two, she thought. The littlewoman greeted her cordially, gave misty-eyed thanks for the beautifulplant, and also for Billy's kind thoughtfulness Friday afternoon. Fromthat she was very skilfully led to talk more of the daughter; andsoon Billy was getting just the information she wanted--informationconcerning the character, aims, and daily life of Alice Greggory. 

"You see, we have some money--a very little, " explained Mrs. Greggory, after a time; "though to get it we have had to sell all ourtreasures--but the Lowestoft, " with a quick glance into Billy'seyes. "We need not, perhaps, live in quite so poor a place; but weprefer--just now--to spend the little money we have for somethingother than imitation comfort--lessons, for instance, and an occasionalconcert. My daughter is studying even while she is teaching. She hopesto train herself for an accompanist, and for a teacher. She does notaspire to concert solo work. She understands her limitations. "

"But she is probably--very good--at teaching. " Billy hesitated a little. 

"She is; very good. She has the best of recommendations. " A littleproudly Mrs. Greggory gave the names of two Boston pianists--names thatwould carry weight anywhere. 

Unconsciously Billy relaxed. She did not know until that moment howshe had worried for fear she could not, conscientiously, recommend thisAlice Greggory. 

"Of course, " resumed the mother, "Alice's pupils are few, and they paylow prices; but she is gaining. She goes to the houses, of course. Sheherself practises two hours a day at a house up on Pinckney Street. Shegives lessons to a little girl in return. "

"I see, " nodded Billy, brightly; "and I've been thinking, Mrs. Greggory--maybe I know of some pupils she could get. I have a friend whohas just given hers up, owing to her marriage. Sometime, soon, I'm goingto talk to your daughter, if I may, and--"

"And here she is right now, " interposed Mrs. Greggory, as the dooropened under a hurried hand. 

Billy flushed and bit her lip. She was disturbed and disappointed. Shedid not particularly wish to see Alice Greggory just then. She wishedeven less to see her when she noted the swift change that came to thegirl's face at sight of herself. 

"Oh! Why-good morning, Miss Neilson, " murmured Miss Greggory with asmile so forced that her mother hurriedly looked to the azalea in searchof a possible peacemaker. 

"My dear, see, " she stammered, "what Miss Neilson has brought me. Andit's so full of blossoms, too! And she says it'll remain so for a long, long time--if we'll only keep it wet. "

Alice Greggory murmured a low something--a something that she tried, evidently, very hard to make politely appropriate and appreciative. Yether manner, as she took off her hat and coat and sat down, so plainlysaid: "You are very kind, of course, but I wish you would keep yourselfand your plants at home!" that Mrs. Greggory began a hurried apology, much as if the words had indeed been spoken. 

"My daughter is really ill this morning. You mustn't mind--that is, I'mafraid you'll think--you see, she took cold last week; a bad cold--andshe isn't over it, yet, " finished the little woman in painfulembarrassment. 

"Of course she took cold--standing all those hours in that horrid wind, Friday!" cried Billy, indignantly. 

A quick red flew to Alice Greggory's face. Billy saw it at once andfervently wished she had spoken of anything but that Friday afternoon. It looked almost as if she were _reminding_ them of what she haddone that day. In her confusion, and in her anxiety to saysomething--anything that would get their minds off that idea--sheuttered now the first words that came into her head. As it happened, they were the last words that sober second thought would have told herto say. 

"Never mind, Mrs. Greggory. We'll have her all well and strong soon;never fear! Just wait till I send Peggy and Mary Jane to take her outfor a drive one of these mild, sunny days. You have no idea how muchgood it will do her!"

Alice Greggory got suddenly to her feet. Her face was very white now. Her eyes had the steely coldness that Billy knew so well. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and sternly controlled. 

"Miss Neilson, you will think me rude, of course, especially after yourgreat kindness to me the other day; but I can't help it. It seems to mebest to speak now before it goes any further. "

"Alice, dear, " remonstrated Mrs. Greggory, extending a frightened hand. 

The girl did not turn her head nor hesitate; but she caught the extendedhand and held it warmly in both her own, with gentle little pats, whileshe went on speaking. 

"I'm sure mother agrees with me that it is best, for the present, thatwe keep quite to ourselves. I cannot question your kindness, of course, after your somewhat unusual favor the other day; but I am very sure thatyour friends, Miss Peggy, and Miss Mary Jane, have no real desireto make my acquaintance, nor--if you'll pardon me--have I, under thecircumstances, any wish to make theirs. "

"Oh, Alice, Alice, " began the little mother, in dismay; but a ripplinglaugh from their visitor brought an angry flush even to her gentle face. 

Billy understood the flush, and struggled for self-control. 

"Please--please, forgive me!" she choked. "But you see--you couldn't, ofcourse, know that Mary Jane and Peggy aren't _girls_. They're just a manand an automobile!"

An unwilling smile trembled on Alice Greggory's lips; but she stillstood her ground. 

"After all, girls, or men and automobiles, Miss Neilson--it makes littledifference. They're--charity. And it's not so long that we've beenobjects of charity that we quite really enjoy it--yet. "

There was a moment's hush. Billy's eyes had filled with tears. 

"I never even _thought_--charity, " said Billy, so gently that a faintred stole into the white cheeks opposite. 

For a tense minute Alice Greggory held herself erect; then, with acomplete change of manner and voice, she released her mother's hand, dropped into her own chair again, and said wearily:

"I know you didn't, Miss Neilson. It's all my foolish pride, of course. It's only that I was thinking how dearly I would love to meet girlsagain--just as _girls!_ But--I no longer have any business with pride, of course. I shall be pleased, I'm sure, " she went on dully, "to acceptanything you may do for us, from automobile rides to--to red flannelpetticoats. "

Billy almost--but not quite--laughed. Still, the laugh would have beennear to a sob, had it been given. Surprising as was the quick transitionin the girl's manner, and absurd as was the juxtaposition of automobilesand red flannel petticoats, the white misery of Alice Greggory's faceand the weary despair of her attitude were tragic--specially to one whoknew her story as did Billy Neilson. And it was because Billy didknow her story that she did not make the mistake now of offering pity. Instead, she said with a bright smile, and a casual manner that gave nohint of studied labor:

"Well, as it happens, Miss Greggory, what I want to-day has nothingwhatever to do with automobiles or red flannel petticoats. It's amatter of straight business. " (How Billy blessed the thought that hadso suddenly come to her!) "Your mother tells me you play accompaniments. Now a girls' club, of which I am a member, is getting up an operetta forcharity, and we need an accompanist. There is no one in the club whois able, and at the same time willing, to spend the amount of timenecessary for practice and rehearsals. So we had decided to hire oneoutside, and I have been given the task of finding one. It has occurredto me that perhaps you would be willing to undertake it for us. Wouldyou?"

Billy knew, at once, from the quick change in the other's face andmanner, that she had taken exactly the right course to relieve thestrain of the situation. Despair and lassitude fell away from AliceGreggory almost like a garment. Her countenance became alert andinterested. 

"Indeed I would! I should be glad to do it. "

"Good! Then can you come out to my home sometime to-morrow, and go overthe music with me? Rehearsals will not begin until next week; but I cangive you the music, and tell you something of what we are planning todo. "

"Yes. I could come at ten in the morning for an hour, or at three inthe afternoon for two hours or more, " replied Miss Greggory, after amoment's hesitation. 

"Suppose we call it in the afternoon, then, " smiled Billy, as she roseto her feet. "And now I must go--and here's my address, " she finished, taking out her card and laying it on the table near her. 

For reasons of her own Billy went away that morning without sayinganything more about the proposed new pupils. New pupils were notautomobile rides nor petticoats, to be sure--but she did not care torisk disturbing the present interested happiness of Alice Greggory'sface by mentioning anything that might be construed as too officious anassistance. 

On the whole, Billy felt well pleased with her morning's work. To AuntHannah, upon her return, she expressed herself thus:

"It's splendid--even better than I hoped. I shall have a chanceto-morrow, of course, to see for myself just how well she plays, and allthat. I'm pretty sure, though, from what I hear, that that part will beall right. Then the operetta will give us a chance to see a good deal ofher, and to bring about a natural meeting between her and Mary Jane. Oh, Aunt Hannah, I couldn't have _planned_ it better--and there the wholething just tumbled into my hands! I knew it had the minute I rememberedabout the operetta. You know I'm chairman, and they left me to get theaccompanist; and like a flash it came to me, when I was wondering _what_to say or do to get her out of that awful state she was in--'Ask her tobe your accompanist. ' And I did. And I'm so glad I did! Oh, Aunt Hannah, it's coming out lovely!--I know it is. "

CHAPTER XXII. PLANS AND PLOTTINGS

To Billy, Alice Greggory's first visit to Hillside was in every way adelight and a satisfaction. To Alice, it was even more than that. For the first time in years she found herself welcomed into a home ofwealth, culture, and refinement as an equal; and the frank cordialityand naturalness of her hostess's evident expectation of meeting acongenial companion was like balm to a sensitive soul rendered morbid bylong years of superciliousness and snubbing. 

No wonder that under the cheery friendliness of it all, Alice Greggory'scold reserve vanished, and that in its place came something very likeher old ease and charm of manner. By the time Aunt Hannah--according toprevious agreement--came into the room, the two girls were laughing andchatting over the operetta as if they had known each other for years. 

Much to Billy's delight, Alice Greggory, as a musician, proved to beeminently satisfactory. She was quick at sight reading, and accurate. She played easily, and with good expression. Particularly was she agood accompanist, possessing to a marked degree that happy faculty of_accompanying_ a singer: which means that she neither led the way norlagged behind, being always exactly in sympathetic step--than whichnothing is more soul-satisfying to the singer. 

It was after the music for the operetta had been well-practised anddiscussed that Alice Greggory chanced to see one of Billy's own songslying near her. With a pleased smile she picked it up. 

"Oh, you know this, too!" she cried. "I played it for a lady only theother day. It's so pretty, I think--all of hers are, that I have seen. Billy Neilson is a girl, you know, they say, in spite of--" She stoppedabruptly. Her eyes grew wide and questioning. "Miss Neilson--it can'tbe--you don't mean--is your name--it _is--you!_" she finished joyously, as the telltale color dyed Billy's face. The next moment her own cheeksburned scarlet. "And to think of my letting _you_ stand in line for atwenty-five-cent admission!" she scorned. 

"Nonsense!" laughed Billy. "It didn't hurt me any more than it didyou. Come!"--in looking about for a quick something to take her guest'sattention, Billy's eyes fell on the manuscript copy of her new song, bearing Arkwright's name. Yielding to a daring impulse, she drew ithastily forward. "Here's a new one--a brand-new one, not even printedyet. Don't you think the words are pretty?" she asked. 

As she had hoped, Alice Greggory's eyes, after they had glanced half-waythrough the first page, sought the name at the left side below thetitle. 

"'Words by M. J. --'"--there was a visible start, and a pause before the"'Arkwright'" was uttered in a slightly different tone. 

Billy noted both the start and the pause--and gloried in them. 

"Yes; the words are by M. J. Arkwright, " she said with smooth unconcern, but with a covert glance at the other's face. "Ever hear of him?"

Alice Greggory gave a short little laugh. 

"Probably not--this one. I used to know an M. J. Arkwright, long ago;but he wasn't--a poet, so far as I know, " she finished, with a littlecatch in her breath that made Billy long to take her into a warmembrace. 

Alice Greggory turned then to the music. She had much to say ofthis--very much; but she had nothing more whatever to say of Mr. M. J. Arkwright in spite of the tempting conversation bait that Billy droppedso freely. After that, Rosa brought in tea and toast, and the littlefrosted cakes that were always such a favorite with Billy's guests. ThenAlice Greggory said good-by--her eyes full of tears that Billy pretendednot to see. 

"There!" breathed Billy, as soon as she had Aunt Hannah to herselfagain. "What did I tell you? Did you see Miss Greggory's start and blushand hear her sigh just over the _name_ of M. J. Arkwright? Just as if--!Now I want them to meet; only it must be casual, Aunt Hannah--casual!And I'd rather wait till Mary Jane hears from his mother, if possible, so if there _is_ anything good to tell the poor girl, he can tell it. "

"Yes, of course. Dear child!--I hope he can, " murmured Aunt Hannah. (Aunt Hannah had ceased now trying to make Billy refrain from thereprehensible "Mary Jane. " In fact, if the truth were known, Aunt Hannahherself in her thoughts--and sometimes in her words--called him "MaryJane. ") "But, indeed, my dear, I didn't see anything stiff, or--orrepelling about Miss Greggory, as you said there was. "

"There wasn't--to-day, " smiled Billy. "Honestly, Aunt Hannah, I shouldnever have known her for the same girl--who showed me the door thatfirst morning, " she finished merrily, as she turned to go up-stairs. 

It was the next day that Cyril and Marie came home from their honeymoon. They went directly to their pretty little apartment on Beacon Street, Brookline, within easy walking distance of Billy's own cozy home. 

Cyril intended to build in a year or two. Meanwhile they had a verypretty, convenient home which was, according to Bertram, "electrifiedto within an inch of its life, and equipped with everything thatwas fireless, smokeless, dustless, and laborless. " In it Marie had aspotlessly white kitchen where she might make puddings to her heart'scontent. 

Marie had--again according to Bertram--"a visiting acquaintance with amaid. " In other words, a stout woman was engaged to come two days in theweek to wash, iron, and scrub; also to come in each night to wash thedinner dishes, thus leaving Marie's evenings free--"for the shadedlamp, " Billy said. 

Marie had not arrived at this--to her, delightful--arrangement of a"visiting acquaintance" without some opposition from her friends. EvenBilly had stood somewhat aghast. 

"But, my dear, won't it be hard for you, to do so much?" she argued oneday. "You know you aren't very strong. "

"I know; but it won't be hard, as I've planned it, " replied Marie, "specially when I've been longing for years to do this very thing. Why, Billy, if I had to stand by and watch a maid do all these things Iwant to do myself, I should feel just like--like a hungry man who seesanother man eating up his dinner! Oh, of course, " she added plaintively, after Billy's laughter had subsided, "I sha'n't do it always. I don'texpect to. Of course, when we have a house--I'm not sure, then, though, that I sha'n't dress up the maid and order her to receive the calls andgo to the pink teas, while I make her puddings, " she finished saucily, as Billy began to laugh again. 

The bride and groom, as was proper, were, soon after their arrival, invited to dine at both William's and Billy's. Then, until Marie's "AtHomes" should begin, the devoted couple settled down to quiet daysby themselves, with only occasional visits from the family tointerrupt--"interrupt" was Bertram's word, not Marie's. Though it issafe to say it was not far different from the one Cyril used--in histhoughts. 

Bertram himself, these days, was more than busy. Besides working onMiss Winthrop's portrait, and on two or three other commissions, he wasputting the finishing touches to four pictures which he was to show inthe exhibition soon to be held by a prominent Art Club of which he wasthe acknowledged "star" member. Naturally, therefore, his time waswell occupied. Naturally, too, Billy, knowing this, lashed herself moresternly than ever into a daily reminder of Kate's assertion that hebelonged first to his Art. 

In pursuance of this idea, Billy was careful to see that no engagementwith herself should in any way interfere with the artist's work, andthat no word of hers should attempt to keep him at her side when ARTcalled. (Billy always spelled that word now in her mind with tall, blackletters--the way it had sounded when it fell from Kate's lips. ) Thatthese tactics on her part were beginning to fill her lover with vaguealarm and a very definite unrest, she did not once suspect. Eagerly, therefore, --even with conscientious delight--she welcomed the newsong-words that Arkwright brought--they would give her something elseto take up her time and attention. She welcomed them, also, for anotherreason: they would bring Arkwright more often to the house, and thiswould, of course, lead to that "casual meeting" between him and AliceGreggory when the rehearsals for the operetta should commence--whichwould be very soon now. And Billy did so long to bring about thatmeeting!

To Billy, all this was but "occupying her mind, " and playing Cupid'sassistant to a worthy young couple torn cruelly apart by an unfeelingfate. To Bertram--to Bertram it was terror, and woe, and all manner oftorture; for in it Bertram saw only a growing fondness on the partof Billy for Arkwright, Arkwright's music, Arkwright's words, andArkwright's friends. 

The first rehearsal for the operetta came on Wednesday evening. Therewould be another on Thursday afternoon. Billy had told Alice Greggory toarrange her pupils so that she could stay Wednesday night at Hillside, if the crippled mother could get along alone--and she could, Alicehad said. Thursday forenoon, therefore, Alice Greggory would, in allprobability, be at Hillside, specially as there would doubtless be anappointment or two for private rehearsal with some nervous soloist whosepart was not progressing well. Such being the case, Billy had a planshe meant to carry out. She was highly pleased, therefore, when Thursdaymorning came, and everything, apparently, was working exactly to hermind. 

Alice was there. She had an appointment at quarter of eleven withthe leading tenor, and another later with the alto. After breakfast, therefore, Billy said decisively:

"Now, if you please, Miss Greggory, I'm going to put you up-stairs onthe couch in the sewing-room for a nap. "

"But I've just got up, " remonstrated Miss Greggory. 

"I know you have, " smiled Billy; "but you were very late to bed lastnight, and you've got a hard day before you. I insist upon your resting. You will be absolutely undisturbed there, and you must shut the doorand not come down-stairs till I send for you. Mr. Johnson isn't due tillquarter of eleven, is he?"

"N-no. "

"Then come with me, " directed Billy, leading the way up-stairs. "There, now, don't come down till I call you, " she went on, when they hadreached the little room at the end of the hall. "I'm going to leave AuntHannah's door open, so you'll have good air--she isn't in there. She'swriting letters in my room, Now here's a book, and you _may_ read, butI should prefer you to sleep, " she nodded brightly as she went out andshut the door quietly. Then, like the guilty conspirator she was, shewent down-stairs to wait for Arkwright. 

It was a fine plan. Arkwright was due at ten o'clock--Billy hadspecially asked him to come at that hour. He would not know, of course, that Alice Greggory was in the house; but soon after his arrival Billymeant to excuse herself for a moment, slip up-stairs and send AliceGreggory down for a book, a pair of scissors, a shawl for AuntHannah--anything would do for a pretext, anything so that the girl mightwalk into the living-room and find Arkwright waiting for her alone. And then--What happened next was, in Billy's mind, very vague, but veryattractive as a nucleus for one's thoughts, nevertheless. 

All this was, indeed, a fine plan; but--(If only fine plans would not sooften have a "but"!) In Billy's case the "but" had to do with thingsso apparently unrelated as were Aunt Hannah's clock and a negro's coalwagon. The clock struck eleven at half-past ten, and the wagon dumpeditself to destruction directly in front of a trolley car in which satMr. M. J. Arkwright, hurrying to keep his appointment with Miss BillyNeilson. It was almost half-past ten when Arkwright finally rang thebell at Hillside. Billy greeted him so eagerly, and at the same timewith such evident disappointment at his late arrival, that Arkwright'sheart sang with joy. 

"But there's a rehearsal at quarter of eleven, " exclaimed Billy, inanswer to his hurried explanation of the delay; "and this gives solittle time for--for--so little time, you know, " she finished inconfusion, casting frantically about in her mind for an excuse to hurryup-stairs and send Alice Greggory down before it should be quite toolate. 

No wonder that Arkwright, noting the sparkle in her eye, the agitationin her manner, and the embarrassed red in her cheek, took new courage. For so long had this girl held him at the end of a major third or adiminished seventh; for so long had she blithely accepted his every wordand act as devotion to music, not herself--for so long had she done allthis that he had come to fear that never would she do anything else. Nowonder then, that now, in the soft radiance of the strange, new light onher face, his own face glowed ardently, and that he leaned forward withan impetuous rush of eager words. 

"But there is time, Miss Billy--if you'd give me leave--to say--"

"I'm afraid I kept you waiting, " interrupted the hurried voice of AliceGreggory from the hall doorway. "I was asleep, I think, when a clocksomewhere, striking eleven--Why, Mr. --Arkwright!"

Not until Alice Greggory had nearly crossed the room did she see thatthe man standing by her hostess was--not the tenor she had expectedto find--but an old acquaintance. Then it was that the tremulous"Mr. -Arkwright!" fell from her lips. 

Billy and Arkwright had turned at her first words. At her last, Arkwright, with a half-despairing, half-reproachful glance at Billy, stepped forward. 

"Miss Greggory!--you _are_ Miss Alice Greggory, I am sure, " he saidpleasantly. 

At the first opportunity Billy murmured a hasty excuse and left theroom. To Aunt Hannah she flew with a woebegone face. 

"Oh, Aunt Hannah, Aunt Hannah, " she wailed, half laughing, half crying;"that wretched little fib-teller of a clock of yours spoiled it all!"

"Spoiled it! Spoiled what, child?"

"My first meeting between Mary Jane and Miss Greggory. I had it allarranged that they were to have it _alone_; but that miserable littlefibber up-stairs struck eleven at half-past ten, and Miss Greggory heardit and thought she was fifteen minutes late. So down she hurried, halfawake, and spoiled all my plans. Now she's sitting in there with him, inchairs the length of the room apart, discussing the snowstorm last nightor the moonrise this morning--or some other such silly thing. And I hadit so beautifully planned!"

"Well, well, dear, I'm sorry, I'm sure, " smiled Aunt Hannah; "but Ican't think any real harm is done. Did Mary Jane have anything to tellher--about her father, I mean?"

Only the faintest flicker of Billy's eyelid testified that the everydayaccustomedness of that "Mary Jane" on Aunt Hannah's lips had not escapedher. 

"No, nothing definite. Yet there was a little. Friends are still tryingto clear his name, and I believe are meeting with increasing success. I don't know, of course, whether he'll say anything about itto-day--_now_. To think I had to be right round under foot like thatwhen they met!" went on Billy, indignantly. "I shouldn't have been, in aminute more, though. I was just trying to think up an excuse to comeup and send down Miss Greggory, when Mary Jane began to tell mesomething--I haven't the faintest idea what--then _she_ appeared, and itwas all over. And there's the doorbell, and the tenor, I suppose; so ofcourse it's all over now, " she sighed, rising to go down-stairs. 

As it chanced, however, it was not the tenor, but a message from him--amessage that brought dire consternation to the Chairman of the Committeeof Arrangements. The tenor had thrown up his part. He could not take it;it was too difficult. He felt that this should be told--at once ratherthan to worry along for another week or two, and then give up. So he hadtold it. 

"But what shall we do, Miss Greggory?" appealed Billy. "It _is_ a hardpart, you know; but if Mr. Tobey can't take it, I don't know who can. Wedon't want to hire a singer for it, if we can help it. The profitsare to go to the Home for Crippled Children, you know, " she explained, turning to Arkwright, "and we decided to hire only the accompanist. "

An odd expression flitted across Miss Greggory's face. 

"Mr. Arkwright used to sing--tenor, " she observed quietly. 

"As if he didn't now--a perfectly glorious tenor, " retorted Billy. "Butas if _he_ would take _this!_"

For only a brief moment did Arkwright hesitate; then blandly hesuggested:

"Suppose you try him, and see. "

Billy sat suddenly erect. 

"Would you, really? _Could_ you--take the time, and all?" she cried. 

"Yes, I think I would--under the circumstances, " he smiled. "I thinkI could, too, though I might not be able to attend all the rehearsals. Still, if I find I have to ask permission, I'll endeavor to convincethe powers-that-be that singing in this operetta will be just thestepping-stone I need to success in Grand Opera. "

"Oh, if you only would take it, " breathed Billy, "we'd be so glad!"

"Well, " said Arkwright, his eyes on Billy's frankly delighted face, "asI said before--under the circumstances I think I would. "

"Thank you! Then it's all beautifully settled, " rejoiced Billy, with ahappy sigh; and unconsciously she gave Alice Greggory's hand near her alittle pat. 

In Billy's mind the "circumstances" of Arkwright's acceptance of thepart were Alice Greggory and her position as accompanist, of course. Billy would have been surprised indeed--and dismayed--had she known thatin Arkwright's mind the "circumstances" were herself, and the fact thatshe, too, had a part in the operetta, necessitating her presence atrehearsals, and hinting at a delightful comradeship impossible, perhaps, otherwise. 

CHAPTER XXIII. THE CAUSE AND BERTRAM

February came The operetta, for which Billy was working so hard, wasto be given the twentieth. The Art Exhibition, for which Bertram waspreparing his four pictures, was to open the sixteenth, with a privateview for specially invited friends the evening before. 

On the eleventh day of February Mrs. Greggory and her daughter arrivedat Hillside for a ten-days' visit. Not until after a great deal ofpleading and argument, however, had Billy been able to bring this about. 

"But, my dears, both of you, " Billy had at last said to them; "justlisten. We shall have numberless rehearsals during those last tendays before the thing comes off. They will be at all hours, and of alllengths. You, Miss Greggory, will have to be on hand for them all, ofcourse, and will have to stay all night several times, probably. You, Mrs. Greggory, ought not to be alone down here. There is no sensible, valid reason why you should not both come out to the house for those tendays; and I shall feel seriously hurt and offended if you do not consentto do it. "

"But--my pupils, " Alice Greggory had demurred. 

"You can go in town from my home at any time to give your lessons, anda little shifting about and arranging for those ten days will enable youto set the hours conveniently one after another, I am sure, so you canattend to several on one trip. Meanwhile your mother will be having alovely time teaching Aunt Hannah how to knit a new shawl; so you won'thave to be worrying about her. "

After all, it had been the great good and pleasure which the visit wouldbring to Mrs. Greggory that had been the final straw to tip the scales. On the eleventh of February, therefore, in the company of the oncescorned "Peggy and Mary Jane, " Alice Greggory and her mother had arrivedat Hillside. 

Ever since the first meeting of Alice Greggory and Arkwright, Billy hadbeen sorely troubled by the conduct of the two young people. She had, as she mournfully told herself, been able to make nothing of it. The twowere civility itself to each other, but very plainly they were not atease in each other's company; and Billy, much to her surprise, had toadmit that Arkwright did not appear to appreciate the "circumstances"now that he had them. The pair called each other, ceremoniously, "Mr. Arkwright, " and "Miss Greggory"--but then, that, of course, did not"signify, " Billy declared to herself. 

"I suppose you don't ever call him 'Mary Jane, '" she said to the girl, alittle mischievously, one day. 

"'Mary Jane'? Mr. Arkwright? No, I don't, " rejoined Miss Greggory, withan odd smile. Then, after a moment, she added: "I believe his brothersand sisters used to, however. "

"Yes, I know, " laughed Billy. "We thought he was a real Mary Jane, once. " And she told the story of his arrival. "So you see, " shefinished, when Alice Greggory had done laughing over the tale, "healways will be 'Mary Jane' to us. By the way, what is his name?"

Miss Greggory looked up in surprise. 

"Why, it's--" She stopped short, her eyes questioning. "Why, hasn't heever told you?" she queried. 

Billy lifted her chin. 

"No. He told us to guess it, and we have guessed everything we can thinkof, even up to 'Methuselah John'; but he says we haven't hit it yet. "

"'Methuselah John, ' indeed!" laughed the other, merrily. 

"Well, I'm sure that's a nice, solid name, " defended Billy, her chinstill at a challenging tilt. "If it isn't 'Methuselah John, ' what is it, then?"

But Alice Greggory shook her head. She, too, it seemed, could be firm, on occasion. And though she smiled brightly, all she would say, was:

"If he hasn't told you, I sha'n't. You'll have to go to him. "

"Oh, well, I can still call him 'Mary Jane, '" retorted Billy, with airydisdain. 

All this, however, so far as Billy could see, was not in the leasthelping along the cause that had become so dear to her--the reuniting ofa pair of lovers. It occurred to her then, one day, that perhaps, afterall, they were not lovers, and did not wish to be reunited. Atthis disquieting thought Billy decided, suddenly, to go almost toheadquarters. She would speak to Mrs. Greggory if ever the opportunityoffered. Great was her joy, therefore, when, a day or two after theGreggorys arrived at the house, Mrs. Greggory's chance reference toArkwright and her daughter gave Billy the opportunity she sought. 

"They used to know each other long ago, Mr. Arkwright tells me, " Billybegan warily. 

"Yes. "

The quietly polite monosyllable was not very encouraging, to be sure;but Billy, secure in her conviction that her cause was a righteous one, refused to be daunted. 

"I think it was so romantic--their running across each other like this, Mrs. Greggory, " she murmured. "And there _was_ a romance, wasn't there?I have just felt in my bones that there was--a romance!"

Billy held her breath. It was what she had meant to say, but now thatshe had said it, the words seemed very fearsome indeed--to say to Mrs. Greggory. Then Billy remembered her Cause, and took heart--Billy wasspelling it now with a capital C. 

For a long minute Mrs. Greggory did not answer--for so long a minutethat Billy's breath dropped into a fluttering sigh, and her Cause becamesuddenly "IMPERTINENCE" spelled in black capitals. Then Mrs. Greggoryspoke slowly, a little sadly. 

"I don't mind saying to you that I did hope, once, that there would be aromance there. They were the best of friends, and they were well-suitedto each other in tastes and temperament. I think, indeed, that theromance was well under way (though there was never an engagement)when--" Mrs. Greggory paused and wet her lips. Her voice, when sheresumed, carried the stern note so familiar to Billy in her firstacquaintance with this woman and her daughter. "As I presumeMr. Arkwright has told you, we have met with many changes in ourlife--changes which necessitated a new home and a new mode ofliving. Naturally, under those circumstances, old friends--and oldromances--must change, too. "

"But, Mrs. Greggory, " stammered Billy, "I'm sure Mr. Arkwright wouldwant--" An up-lifted hand silenced her peremptorily. 

"Mr. Arkwright was very kind, and a gentleman, always, " interposed thelady, coldly; "but Judge Greggory's daughter would not allow herselfto be placed where apologies for her father would be necessary--_ever!_There, please, dear Miss Neilson, let us not talk of it any more, "begged Mrs. Greggory, brokenly. 

"No, indeed, of course not!" cried Billy; but her heart rejoiced. 

She understood it all now. Arkwright and Alice Greggory had been almostlovers when the charges against the Judge's honor had plunged the familyinto despairing humiliation. Then had come the time when, accordingto Arkwright's own story, the two women had shut themselves indoors, refused to see their friends, and left town as soon as possible. Thushad come the breaking of whatever tie there was between Alice Greggoryand Arkwright. Not to have broken it would have meant, for Alice, theplacing of herself in a position where, sometime, apologies must be madefor her father. This was what Mrs. Greggory had meant--and again, asBilly thought of it, Billy's heart rejoiced. 

Was not her way clear now before her? Did she not have it in her power, possibly--even probably--to bring happiness where only sadness wasbefore? As if it would not be a simple thing to rekindle the oldflame--to make these two estranged hearts beat as one again!

Not now was the Cause an IMPERTINENCE in tall black letters. It was, instead, a shining beacon in letters of flame guiding straight tovictory. 

Billy went to sleep that night making plans for Alice Greggory andArkwright to be thrown together naturally--"just as a matter of course, you know, " she said drowsily to herself, all in the dark. 

Some three or four miles away down Beacon Street at that moment BertramHenshaw, in the Strata, was, as it happened, not falling asleep. He waslying broadly and unhappily awake Bertram very frequently lay broadlyand unhappily awake these days--or rather nights. He told himself, onthese occasions, that it was perfectly natural--indeed it was!--thatBilly should be with Arkwright and his friends, the Greggorys, so much. There were the new songs, and the operetta with its rehearsals as acause for it all. At the same time, deep within his fearful soul was theconsciousness that Arkwright, the Greggorys, and the operetta were butMusic--Music, the spectre that from the first had dogged his footsteps. 

With Billy's behavior toward himself, Bertram could find no fault. Shewas always her sweet, loyal, lovable self, eager to hear of his work, earnestly solicitous that it should be a success. She even--as hesometimes half-irritably remembered--had once told him that she realizedhe belonged to Art before he did to himself; and when he had indignantlydenied this, she had only laughed and thrown a kiss at him, with theremark that he ought to hear his sister Kate's opinion of that matter. As if he wanted Kate's opinion on that or anything else that concernedhim and Billy!

Once, torn by jealousy, and exasperated at the frequent interruptions oftheir quiet hours together, he had complained openly. 

"Actually, Billy, it's worse than Marie's wedding, " he declared, "_Then_it was tablecloths and napkins that could be dumped in a chair. _Now_it's a girl who wants to rehearse, or a woman that wants a differentwig, or a telephone message that the sopranos have quarrelled again. Iloathe that operetta!"

Billy laughed, but she frowned, too. 

"I know, dear; I don't like that part. I wish they _would_ let me alonewhen I'm with you! But as for the operetta, it is really a good thing, dear, and you'll say so when you see it. It's going to be a greatsuccess--I can say that because my part is only a small one, you know. We shall make lots of money for the Home, too, I'm sure. "

"But you're wearing yourself all out with it, dear, " scowled Bertram. 

"Nonsense! I like it; besides, when I'm doing this I'm not telephoningyou to come and amuse me. Just think what a lot of extra time you havefor your work!"

"Don't want it, " avowed Bertram. 

"But the _work_ may, " retorted Billy, showing all her dimples. "Nevermind, though; it'll all be over after the twentieth. _This_ isn't anunderstudy like Marie's wedding, you know, " she finished demurely. 

"Thank heaven for that!" Bertram had breathed fervently. But even as hesaid the words he grew sick with fear. What if, after all, this _were_an understudy to what was to come later when Music, his rival, hadreally conquered?

Bertram knew that however secure might seem Billy's affection forhimself, there was still in his own mind a horrid fear lest underneaththat security were an unconscious, growing fondness for something hecould not give, for some one that he was not--a fondness that would oneday cause Billy to awake. As Bertram, in his morbid fancy pictured it, he realized only too well what that awakening would mean to himself. 

CHAPTER XXIV. THE ARTIST AND HIS ART

The private view of the paintings and drawings of the Brush and PencilClub on the evening of the fifteenth was a great success. Society sentits fairest women in frocks that were pictures in themselves. Artsent its severest critics and its most ardent devotees. The Press sentreporters that the World might know what Art and Society were doing, andhow they did it. 

Before the canvases signed with Bertram Henshaw's name there was alwaysto be found an admiring group representing both Art and Society withthe Press on the outskirts to report. William Henshaw, coming unobservedupon one such group, paused a moment to smile at the various more orless disconnected comments. 

"What a lovely blue!"

"Marvellous color sense!"

"Now those shadows are--"

"He gets his high lights so--"

"I declare, she looks just like Blanche Payton!"

"Every line there is full of meaning. "

"I suppose it's very fine, but--"

"Now, I say, Henshaw is--"

"Is this by the man that's painting Margy Winthrop's portrait?"

"It's idealism, man, idealism!"

"I'm going to have a dress just that shade of blue. "

"Isn't that just too sweet!"

"Now for realism, I consider Henshaw--"

"There aren't many with his sensitive, brilliant touch. "

"Oh, what a pretty picture!"

William moved on then. 

Billy was rapturously proud of Bertram that evening. He was, of course, the centre of congratulations and hearty praise. At his side, Billy, with sparkling eyes, welcomed each smiling congratulation and gloried inevery commendatory word she heard. 

"Oh, Bertram, isn't it splendid! I'm so proud of you, " she whisperedsoftly, when a moment's lull gave her opportunity. 

"They're all words, words, idle words, " he laughed; but his eyes shone. 

"Just as if they weren't all true!" she bridled, turning to greetWilliam, who came up at that moment. "Isn't it fine, Uncle William?" shebeamed. "And aren't we proud of him?"

"We are, indeed, " smiled the man. "But if you and Bertram want to getthe real opinion of this crowd, you should go and stand near one of hispictures five minutes. As a sort of crazy--quilt criticism it can't bebeat. "

"I know, " laughed Bertram. "I've done it, in days long gone. "

"Bertram, not really?" cried Billy. 

"Sure! As if every young artist at the first didn't don goggles or afalse mustache and study the pictures on either side of his own till hecould paint them with his eyes shut!"

"And what did you hear?" demanded the girl. 

"What didn't I hear?" laughed her lover. "But I didn't do it but onceor twice. I lost my head one day and began to argue the question ofperspective with a couple of old codgers who were criticizing a bit offoreshortening that was my special pet. I forgot my goggles and sailedin. The game was up then, of course; and I never put them on again. Butit was worth a farm to see their faces when I stood 'discovered' as thestage-folk say. "

"Serves you right, sir--listening like that, " scolded Billy. 

Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders. 

"Well, it cured me, anyhow. I haven't done it since, " he declared. 

It was some time later, on the way home, that Bertram said:

"It was gratifying, of course, Billy, and I liked it. It would be absurdto say I didn't like the many pleasant words of apparently sincereappreciation I heard to-night. But I couldn't help thinking of the nexttime--always the next time. "

"The next time?" Billy's eyes were slightly puzzled. 

"That I exhibit, I mean. The Bohemian Ten hold their exhibition nextmonth, you know. I shall show just one picture--the portrait of MissWinthrop. "

"Oh, Bertram!"

"It'll be 'Oh, Bertram!' then, dear, if it isn't a success, " he sighed. "I don't believe you realize yet what that thing is going to mean forme. "

"Well, I should think I might, " retorted Billy, a little tremulously, "after all I've heard about it. I should think _everybody_ knew you weredoing it, Bertram. Actually, I'm not sure Marie's scrub-lady won't askme some day how Mr. Bertram's picture is coming on!"

"That's the dickens of it, in a way, " sighed Bertram, with a faintsmile. "I am amazed--and a little frightened, I'll admit--at theuniversality of the interest. You see, the Winthrops have been pleasedto spread it, for one reason or another, and of course many already knowof the failures of Anderson and Fullam. That's why, if I should fail--"

"But you aren't going to fail, " interposed the girl, resolutely. 

"No, I know I'm not. I only said 'if, '" fenced the man, his voice notquite steady. 

"There isn't going to be any 'if, '" settled Billy. "Now tell me, when isthe exhibition?"

"March twentieth--the private view. Mr. Winthrop is not only willing, but anxious, that I show it. I wasn't sure that he'd want me to--inan exhibition. But it seems he does. His daughter says he has everyconfidence in the portrait and wants everybody to see it. "

"That's where he shows his good sense, " declared Billy. Then, withjust a touch of constraint, she asked: "And how is the new, latest posecoming on?"

"Very well, I think, " answered Bertram, a little hesitatingly. "We'vehad so many, many interruptions, though, that it is surprising how slowit is moving. In the first place, Miss Winthrop is gone more than halfthe time (she goes again to-morrow for a week!), and in this portraitI'm not painting a stroke without my model before me. I mean to take nochances, you see; and Miss Winthrop is perfectly willing to give me allthe sittings I wish for. Of course, if she hadn't changed the pose andcostume so many times, it would have been done long ago--and she knowsit. "

"Of course--she knows it, " murmured Billy, a little faintly, but with apeculiar intonation in her voice. 

"And so you see, " sighed Bertram, "what the twentieth of March is goingto mean for me. "

"It's going to mean a splendid triumph!" asserted Billy; and this timeher voice was not faint, and it carried only a ring of loyal confidence. 

"You blessed comforter!" murmured Bertram, giving with his eyes thecaress that his lips would so much have preferred to give--under morepropitious circumstances. 

CHAPTER XXV. THE OPERETTA

The sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth of February were, for Billy, and for all concerned in the success of the operetta, days of hurry, worry, and feverish excitement, as was to be expected, of course. Eachafternoon and every evening saw rehearsals in whole, or in parts. Afriend of the Club-president's sister-in-law-a woman whose husband wasstage manager of a Boston theatre--had consented to come and "coach"the performers. At her appearance the performers--promptly thrown intonervous spasms by this fearsome nearness to the "real thing"--forgothalf their cues, and conducted themselves generally like frightenedschool children on "piece day, " much to their own and every one else'sdespair. Then, on the evening of the nineteenth, came the final dressrehearsal on the stage of the pretty little hall that had been engagedfor the performance of the operetta. 

The dress rehearsal, like most of its kind, was, for every one, nothingbut a nightmare of discord, discouragement, and disaster. Everybody'snerves were on edge, everybody was sure the thing would be a "flatfailure. " The soprano sang off the key, the alto forgot to shriek"Beware, beware!" until it was so late there was nothing to beware of;the basso stepped on Billy's trailing frock and tore it; even the tenor, Arkwright himself, seemed to have lost every bit of vim from his acting. The chorus sang "Oh, be joyful!" with dirge-like solemnity, and dancedas if legs and feet were made of wood. The lovers, after the fashion ofamateur actors from time immemorial, "made love like sticks. "

Billy, when the dismal thing had dragged its way through the finalnote, sat "down front, " crying softly in the semi-darkness while shewas waiting for Alice Greggory to "run it through just once more" with apair of tired-faced, fluffy-skirted fairies who could _not_ learn that aduet meant a _duet_--not two solos, independently hurried or retarded asone's fancy for the moment dictated. 

To Billy, just then, life did not look to be even half worth the living. Her head ached, her throat was going-to-be-sore, her shoe hurt, and herdress--the trailing frock that had been under the basso's foot--couldnot possibly be decently repaired before to-morrow night, she was sure. 

Bad as these things were, however, they were only the intimate, immediate woes. Beyond and around them lay others many others. To besure, Bertram and happiness were supposed to be somewhere in the dimand uncertain future; but between her and them lay all these other woes, chief of which was the unutterable tragedy of to-morrow night. 

It was to be a failure, of course. Billy had calmly made up her mind tothat, now. But then, she was used to failures, she told herself. Was shenot plainly failing every day of her life to bring about even friendshipbetween Alice Greggory and Arkwright? Did they not emphatically andsystematically refuse to be "thrown together, " either naturally, orunnaturally? And yet--whenever again could she expect such opportunitiesto further her Cause as had been hers the past few weeks, through theoperetta and its rehearsals? Certainly, never again! It had been afailure like all the rest; like the operetta, in particular. 

Billy did not mean that any one should know she was crying. She supposedthat all the performers except herself and the two earth-bound fairiesby the piano with Alice Greggory were gone. She knew that John withPeggy was probably waiting at the door outside, and she hoped that soonthe fairies would decide to go home and go to bed, and let other peopledo the same. For her part, she did not see why they were struggling sohard, anyway. Why needn't they go ahead and sing their duet like twosolos if they wanted to? As if a little thing like that could make afeather's weight of difference in the grand total of to-morrow night'swretchedness when the final curtain should have been rung down on theirshame!

"Miss Neilson, you aren't--crying!" exclaimed a low voice; and Billyturned to find Arkwright standing by her side in the dim light. 

"Oh, no--yes--well, maybe I was, a little, " stammered Billy, trying tospeak very unconcernedly. "How warm it is in here! Do you think it'sgoing to rain?--that is, outdoors, of course, I mean. "

Arkwright dropped into the seat behind Billy and leaned forward, hiseyes striving to read the girl's half-averted face. If Billy had turned, she would have seen that Arkwright's own face showed white and a littledrawn-looking in the feeble rays from the light by the piano. ButBilly did not turn. She kept her eyes steadily averted; and she went onspeaking--airy, inconsequential words. 

"Dear me, if those girls _would_ only pull together! But then, what'sthe difference? I supposed you had gone home long ago, Mr. Arkwright. "

"Miss Neilson, you _are_ crying!" Arkwright's voice was low andvibrant. "As if anything or anybody in the world _could_ make _you_ cry!Please--you have only to command me, and I will sally forth at once toslay the offender. " His words were light, but his voice still shook withemotion. 

Billy gave an hysterical little giggle. Angrily she brushed thepersistent tears from her eyes. 

"All right, then; I'll dub you my Sir Knight, " she faltered. "But I'llwarn you--you'll have your hands full. You'll have to slay my headache, and my throat-ache, and my shoe that hurts, and the man who stepped onmy dress, and--and everybody in the operetta, including myself. "

"Everybody--in the operetta!" Arkwright did look a little startled, atthis wholesale slaughter. 

"Yes. Did you ever see such an awful, awful thing as that was to-night?"moaned the girl. 

Arkwright's face relaxed. 

"Oh, so _that's_ what it is!" he laughed lightly. "Then it's only a bogyof fear that I've got to slay, after all; and I'll despatch that rightnow with a single blow. Dress rehearsals always go like that to-night. I've been in a dozen, and I never yet saw one go half decent. Don't youworry. The worse the rehearsal, the better the performance, every time!"

Billy blinked off the tears and essayed a smile as she retorted:

"Well, if that's so, then ours to-morrow night ought to be a--a--"

"A corker, " helped out Arkwright, promptly; "and it will be, too. Youpoor child, you're worn out; and no wonder! But don't worry anotherbit about the operetta. Now is there anything else I can do for you?Anything else I can slay?"

Billy laughed tremulously. 

"N-no, thank you; not that you can--slay, I fancy, " she sighed. "That is--not that you _will_, " she amended wistfully, with a suddenremembrance of the Cause, for which he might do so much--if he onlywould. 

Arkwright bent a little nearer. His breath stirred the loose, curlinghair behind Billy's ear. His eyes had flashed into sudden fire. 

"But you don't know what I'd do if I could, " he murmured unsteadily. "Ifyou'd let me tell you--if you only knew the wish that has lain closestto my heart for--"

"Miss Neilson, please, " called the despairing voice of one of theearth-bound fairies; "Miss Neilson, you _are_ there, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm right here, " answered Billy, wearily. Arkwright answered, too, but not aloud--which was wise. 

"Oh dear! you're tired, I know, " wailed the fairy, "but if you wouldplease come and help us just a minute! Could you?"

"Why, yes, of course. " Billy rose to her feet, still wearily. 

Arkwright touched her arm. She turned and saw his face. It was verywhite--so white that her eyes widened in surprised questioning. 

As if answering the unspoken words, the man shook his head. 

"I can't, now, of course, " he said. "But there _is_ something I want tosay--a story I want to tell you--after to-morrow, perhaps. May I?"

To Billy, the tremor of his voice, the suffering in his eyes, and the"story" he was begging to tell could have but one interpretation: AliceGreggory. Her face, therefore, was a glory of tender sympathy as shereached out her hand in farewell. 

"Of course you may, " she cried. "Come any time after to-morrow night, please, " she smiled encouragingly, as she turned toward the stage. 

Behind her, Arkwright stumbled twice as he walked up the incline towardthe outer door--stumbled, not because of the semi-darkness of the littletheatre, but because of the blinding radiance of a girl's illumined facewhich he had, a moment before, read all unknowingly exactly wrong. 

A little more than twenty-four hours later, Billy Neilson, in her ownroom, drew a long breath of relief. It was twelve o'clock on the nightof the twentieth, and the operetta was over. 

To Billy, life was eminently worth living to-night. Her head did notache, her throat was not sore, her shoe did not hurt, her dress hadbeen mended so successfully by Aunt Hannah, and with such comfortingcelerity, that long before night one would never have suspected thefilmy thing had known the devastating tread of any man's foot. Betteryet, the soprano had sung exactly to key, the alto had shrieked"Beware!" to thrilling purpose, Arkwright had shown all his old charmand vim, and the chorus had been prodigies of joyousness and marvelsof lightness. Even the lovers had lost their stiffness, while the twoearth-bound fairies of the night before had found so amiable a meetingpoint that their solos sounded, to the uninitiated, very like, indeed, a duet. The operetta was, in short, a glorious and gratifying success, both artistically and financially. Nor was this all that, to Billy, madelife worth the living: Arkwright had begged permission that evening tocome up the following afternoon to tell her his "story"; and Billy, whowas so joyously confident that this story meant the final crowning ofher Cause with victory, had given happy consent. 

Bertram was to come up in the evening, and Billy was anticipating that, too, particularly: it had been so long since they had known a reallyfree, comfortable evening together, with nothing to interrupt. Doubtless, too, after Arkwright's visit of the afternoon, she would bein a position to tell Bertram the story of the suspended romance betweenArkwright and Miss Greggory, and perhaps something, also, of her ownefforts to bring the couple together again. On the whole, life did, indeed, look decidedly worth the living as Billy, with a contented sigh, turned over to go to sleep. 

CHAPTER XXVI. ARKWRIGHT TELLS ANOTHER STORY

Promptly at the suggested hour on the day after the operetta, Arkwrightrang Billy Neilson's doorbell. Promptly, too, Billy herself came intothe living-room to greet him. 

Billy was in white to-day--a soft, creamy white wool with a touch ofblack velvet at her throat and in her hair. The man thought she hadnever looked so lovely: Arkwright was still under the spell wrought bythe soft radiance of Billy's face the two times he had mentioned his"story. "

Until the night before the operetta Arkwright had been more thandoubtful of the way that story would be received, should he eversummon the courage to tell it. Since then his fears had been changed torapturous hopes. It was very eagerly, therefore, that he turned now togreet Billy as she came into the room. 

"Suppose we don't have any music to-day. Suppose we give the whole timeup to the story, " she smiled brightly, as she held out her hand. 

Arkwright's heart leaped; but almost at once it throbbed with a vagueuneasiness. He would have preferred to see her blush and be a little shyover that story. Still--there was a chance, of course, that she did notknow what the story was. But if that were the case, what of the radiancein her face? What of--Finding himself in a tangled labyrinth that ledapparently only to disappointment and disaster, Arkwright pulled himselfup with a firm hand. 

"You are very kind, " he murmured, as he relinquished her fingers andseated himself near her. "You are sure, then, that you wish to hear thestory?"

"Very sure, " smiled Billy. 

Arkwright hesitated. Again he longed to see a little embarrassment inthe bright face opposite. Suddenly it came to him, however, that ifBilly knew what he was about to say, it would manifestly not be her partto act as if she knew! With a lighter heart, then, he began his story. 

"You want it from the beginning?"

"By all means! I never dip into books, nor peek at the ending. I don'tthink it's fair to the author. "

"Then I will, indeed, begin at the beginning, " smiled Arkwright, "forI'm specially anxious that you shall be--even more than 'fair' to me. "His voice shook a little, but he hurried on. "There's a--girl--in it; avery dear, lovely girl. "

"Of course--if it's a nice story, " twinkled Billy. 

"And--there's a man, too. It's a love story, you see. "

"Again of course--if it's interesting. " Billy laughed mischievously, butshe flushed a little. 

"Still, the man doesn't amount to much, after all, perhaps. I might aswell own up at the beginning--I'm the man. "

"That will do for you to say, as long as you're telling the story, "smiled Billy. "We'll let it pass for proper modesty on your part. But Ishall say--the personal touch only adds to the interest. "

Arkwright drew in his breath. 

"We'll hope--it'll really be so, " he murmured. 

There was a moment's silence. Arkwright seemed to be hesitating what tosay. 

"Well?" prompted Billy, with a smile. "We have the hero and the heroine;now what happens next? Do you know, " she added, "I have always thoughtthat part must bother the story-writers--to get the couple to doinginteresting things, after they'd got them introduced. "

Arkwright sighed. 

"Perhaps--on paper; but, you see, my story has been _lived_, so far. Soit's quite different. "

"Very well, then--what did happen?" smiled Billy. 

"I was trying to think--of the first thing. You see it began with apicture, a photograph of the girl. Mother had it. I saw it, and wantedit, and--" Arkwright had started to say "and took it. " But he stoppedwith the last two words unsaid. It was not time, yet, he deemed, to tellthis girl how much that picture had been to him for so many months past. He hurried on a little precipitately. "You see, I had heard about thisgirl a lot; and I liked--what I heard. "

"You mean--you didn't know her--at the first?" Billy's eyes weresurprised. Billy had supposed that Arkwright had always known AliceGreggory. 

"No, I didn't know the girl--till afterwards. Before that I was alwaysdreaming and wondering what she would be like. "

"Oh!" Billy subsided into her chair, still with the puzzled questioningin her eyes. 

"Then I met her. "

"Yes?"

"And she was everything and more than I had pictured her. "

"And you fell in love at once?" Billy's voice had grown confident again. 

"Oh, I was already in love, " sighed Arkwright. "I simply sank deeper. "

"Oh-h!" breathed Billy, sympathetically. "And the girl?"

"She didn't care--or know--for a long time. I'm not really sure shecares--or knows--even now. " Arkwright's eyes were wistfully fixed onBilly's face. 

"Oh, but you can't tell, always, about girls, " murmured Billy, hurriedly. A faint pink had stolen to her forehead. She was thinking ofAlice Greggory, and wondering if, indeed, Alice did care; and if she, Billy, might dare to assure this man--what she believed to be true--thathis sweetheart was only waiting for him to come to her and tell her thathe loved her. 

Arkwright saw the color sweep to Billy's forehead, and took suddencourage. He leaned forward eagerly. A tender light came to his eyes. Theexpression on his face was unmistakable. 

"Billy, do you mean, really, that there is--hope for me?" he beggedbrokenly. 

Billy gave a visible start. A quick something like shocked terror cameto her eyes. She drew back and would have risen to her feet had thethought not come to her that twice before she had supposed a man wasmaking love to her, when subsequent events proved that she had beenmortifyingly mistaken: once when Cyril had told her of his love forMarie; and again when William had asked her to come back as a daughterto the house she had left desolate. 

Telling herself sternly now not to be for the third time a "foolishlittle simpleton, " she summoned all her wits, forced a cheery smile toher lips, and said:

"Well, really, Mr. Arkwright, of course I can't answer for the girl, soI'm not the one to give hope; and--"

"But you are the one, " interrupted the man, passionately. "You're theonly one! As if from the very first I hadn't loved you, and--"

"No, no, not that--not that! I'm mistaken! I'm not understanding whatyou mean, " pleaded a horror-stricken voice. Billy was on her feet now, holding up two protesting hands, palms outward. 

"Miss Neilson, you don't mean--that you haven't known--all thistime--that it was you?" The man, now, was on his feet, his eyes hurt andunbelieving, looking into hers. 

Billy paled. She began slowly to back away. Her eyes, still fixed onhis, carried the shrinking terror of one who sees a horrid vision. 

"But you know--you _must_ know that I am not yours to win!" shereproached him sharply. "I'm to be Bertram Henshaw's--_wife_. " FromBilly's shocked young lips the word dropped with a ringing force thatwas at once accusatory and prohibitive. It was as if, by the mereutterance of the word, wife, she had drawn a sacred circle about her andplaced herself in sanctuary. 

From the blazing accusation in her eyes Arkwright fell back. 

"Wife! You are to be Bertram Henshaw's wife!" he exclaimed. There was nomistaking the amazed incredulity on his face. 

Billy caught her breath. The righteous indignation in her eyes fled, anda terrified appeal took its place. 

"You don't mean that you _didn't--know?_" she faltered. 

There was a moment's silence. A power quite outside herself kept Billy'seyes on Arkwright's face, and forced her to watch the change there fromunbelief to belief, and from belief to set misery. 

"No, I did not know, " said the man then, dully, as he turned, rested hisarm on the mantel behind him, and half shielded his face with his hand. 

Billy sank into a low chair. Her fingers fluttered nervously to herthroat. Her piteous, beseeching eyes were on the broad back and benthead of the man before her. 

"But I--I don't see how you could have helped--knowing, " she stammeredat last. "I don't see how such a thing could have happened that youshouldn't know!"

"I've been trying to think, myself, " returned the man, still in a dull, emotionless voice. 

"It's been so--so much a matter of course. I supposed everybody knewit, " maintained Billy. 

"Perhaps that's just it--that it was--so much a matter of course, "rejoined the man. "You see, I know very few of your friends, anyway--whowould be apt to mention it to me. "

"But the announcements--oh, you weren't here then, " moaned Billy. "Butyou must have known that--that he came here a good deal--that we weretogether so much!"

"To a certain extent, yes, " sighed Arkwright. "But I took yourfriendship with him and his brothers as--as a matter of course. _That_was _my_ 'matter of course, ' you see, " he went on bitterly. "I knewyou were Mr. William Henshaw's namesake, and Calderwell had told methe story of your coming to them when you were left alone in the world. Calderwell had said, too, that--" Arkwright paused, then hurried on alittle constrainedly--"well, he said something that led me to think Mr. Bertram Henshaw was not a marrying man, anyway. "

Billy winced and changed color. She had noticed the pause, and she knewvery well what it was that Calderwell had said to occasion that pause. Must _always_ she be reminded that no one expected Bertram Henshaw tolove any girl--except to paint?

"But--but Mr. Calderwell must know about the engagement--now, " shestammered. 

"Very likely, but I have not happened to hear from him since my arrivalin Boston. We do not correspond. "

There was a long silence, then Arkwright spoke again. 

"I think I understand now--many things. I wonder I did not see thembefore; but I never thought of Bertram Henshaw's being--If Calderwellhadn't said--" Again Arkwright stopped with his sentence half complete, and again Billy winced. "I've been a blind fool. I was so intent on myown--I've been a blind fool; that's all, " repeated Arkwright, with abreak in his voice. 

Billy tried to speak, but instead of words, there came only a chokingsob. 

Arkwright turned sharply. 

"Miss Neilson, don't--please, " he begged. "There is no need that youshould suffer--too. "

"But I am so ashamed that such a thing _could_ happen, " she faltered. "I'm sure, some way, I must be to blame. But I never thought. I wasblind, too. I was wrapped up in my own affairs. I never suspected. Inever even _thought_ to suspect! I thought of course you knew. It wasjust the music that brought us together, I supposed; and you werejust like one of the family, anyway. I always thought of you as AuntHannah's--" She stopped with a vivid blush. 

"As Aunt Hannah's niece, Mary Jane, of course, " supplied Arkwright, bitterly, turning back to his old position. "And that was my own fault, too. My name, Miss Neilson, is Michael Jeremiah, " he went on wearily, after a moment's hesitation, his voice showing his utter abandonment todespair. "When a boy at school I got heartily sick of the 'Mike' andthe 'Jerry' and the even worse 'Tom and Jerry' that my young friendsdelighted in; so as soon as possible I sought obscurity and peace in 'M. J. ' Much to my surprise and annoyance the initials proved to be littlebetter, for they became at once the biggest sort of whet to people'scuriosity. Naturally, the more determined persistent inquirers were toknow the name, the more determined I became that they shouldn't. Allvery silly and very foolish, of course. Certainly it seems so now, " hefinished. 

Billy was silent. She was trying to find something, _anything_, to say, when Arkwright began speaking again, still in that dull, hopeless voicethat Billy thought would break her heart. 

"As for the 'Mary Jane'--that was another foolishness, of course. Mysmall brothers and sisters originated it; others followed, on occasion, even Calderwell. Perhaps you did not know, but he was the friend who, byhis laughing question, 'Why don't you, Mary Jane?' put into my head thecrazy scheme of writing to Aunt Hannah and letting her think I was areal Mary Jane. You see what I stooped to do, Miss Neilson, for thechance of meeting and knowing you. "

Billy gave a low cry. She had suddenly remembered the beginning ofArkwright's story. For the first time she realized that he had beentalking then about herself, not Alice Greggory. 

"But you don't mean that you--cared--that I was the--" She could notfinish. 

Arkwright turned from the mantel with a gesture of utter despair. 

"Yes, I cared then. I had heard of you. I had sung your songs. I wasdetermined to meet you. So I came--and met you. After that I was moredetermined than ever to win you. Perhaps you see, now, why I was soblind to--to any other possibility. But it doesn't do any good--to talklike this. I understand now. Only, please, don't blame yourself, " hebegged as he saw her eyes fill with tears. The next moment he was gone. 

Billy had turned away and was crying softly, so she did not see him go. 

CHAPTER XXVII. THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH

Bertram called that evening. Billy had no story now to tell--nothingof the interrupted romance between Alice Greggory and Arkwright. Billycarefully, indeed, avoided mentioning Arkwright's name. 

Ever since the man's departure that afternoon, Billy had beenfrantically trying to assure herself that she was not to blame; that shewould not be supposed to know he cared for her; that it had all been ashe said it was--his foolish blindness. But even when she had partiallycomforted herself by these assertions, she could not by any means escapethe haunting vision of the man's stern-set, suffering face as she hadseen it that afternoon; nor could she keep from weeping at the memory ofthe words he had said, and at the thought that never again could theirpleasant friendship be quite the same--if, indeed, there could be anyfriendship at all between them. 

But if Billy expected that her red eyes, pale cheeks, and generallytroubled appearance and unquiet manner were to be passed unnoticed byher lover's keen eyes that evening, she found herself much mistaken. 

"Sweetheart, what _is_ the matter?" demanded Bertram resolutely, atlast, when his more indirect questions had been evasively turned aside. "You can't make me think there isn't something the trouble, because Iknow there is!"

"Well, then, there is, dear, " smiled Billy, tearfully; "but please justdon't let us talk of it. I--I want to forget it. Truly I do. "

"But I want to know so _I_ can forget it, " persisted Bertram. "What isit? Maybe I could help. "

She shook her head with a little frightened cry. 

"No, no--you can't help--really. "

"But, sweetheart, you don't know. Perhaps I could. Won't you _tell_ meabout it?"

Billy looked distressed. 

"I can't, dear--truly. You see, it isn't quite mine--to tell. "

"Not yours!"

"Not--entirely. "

"But it makes you feel bad?"

"Yes--very. "

"Then can't I know that part?"

"Oh, no--no, indeed, no! You see--it wouldn't be fair--to the other. "

Bertram stared a little. Then his mouth set into stern lines. 

"Billy, what are you talking about? Seems to me I have a right to know. "

Billy hesitated. To her mind, a girl who would tell of the unrequitedlove of a man for herself, was unspeakably base. To tell BertramArkwright's love story was therefore impossible. Yet, in some way, shemust set Bertram's mind at rest. 

"Dearest, " she began slowly, her eyes wistfully pleading, "just what itis, I can't tell you. In a way it's another's secret, and I don't feelthat I have the right to tell it. It's just something that I learnedthis afternoon. "

"But it has made you cry!"

"Yes. It made me feel very unhappy. "

"Then--it was something you couldn't help?"

To Bertram's surprise, the face he was watching so intently flushedscarlet. 

"No, I couldn't help it--now; though I might have--once. " Billy spokethis last just above her breath. Then she went on, beseechingly:"Bertram, please, please don't talk of it any more. It--it's justspoiling our happy evening together!"

Bertram bit his lip, and drew a long sigh. 

"All right, dear; you know best, of course--since I don't know_anything_ about it, " he finished a little stiffly. 

Billy began to talk then very brightly of Aunt Hannah and her shawls, and of a visit she had made to Cyril and Marie that morning. 

"And, do you know? Aunt Hannah's clock _has_ done a good turn, at last, and justified its existence. Listen, " she cried gayly. "Marie had aletter from her mother's Cousin Jane. Cousin Jane couldn't sleep nights, because she was always lying awake to find out just what time it was;so Marie had written her about Aunt Hannah's clock. And now this CousinJane has fixed _her_ clock, and she sleeps like a top, just because sheknows there'll never be but half an hour that she doesn't know what timeit is!"

Bertram smiled, and murmured a polite "Well, I'm sure that's fine!"; butthe words were plainly abstracted, and the frown had not left his brow. Nor did it quite leave till some time later, when Billy, in answer to aquestion of his about another operetta, cried, with a shudder:

"Mercy, I hope not, dear! I don't want to _hear_ the word 'operetta'again for a year!"

Bertram smiled, then, broadly. He, too, would be quite satisfied notto hear the word "operetta" for a year. Operetta, to Bertram, meantinterruptions, interferences, and the constant presence of Arkwright, the Greggorys, and innumerable creatures who wished to rehearse or tochange wigs--all of which Bertram abhorred. No wonder, therefore, thathe smiled, and that the frown disappeared from his brow. He thought hesaw, ahead, serene, blissful days for Billy and himself. 

As the days, however, began to pass, one by one, Bertram Henshaw foundthem to be anything but serene and blissful. The operetta, with itsrehearsals and its interruptions, was gone, certainly; but he wasbecoming seriously troubled about Billy. 

Billy did not act natural. Sometimes she seemed like her old self; andhe breathed more freely, telling himself that his fears were groundless. Then would come the haunting shadow to her eyes, the droop to her mouth, and the nervousness to her manner that he so dreaded. Worse yet, allthis seemed to be connected in some strange way with Arkwright. He foundthis out by accident one day. She had been talking and laughing brightlyabout something, when he chanced to introduce Arkwright's name. 

"By the way, where is Mary Jane these days?" he asked then. 

"I don't know, I'm sure. He hasn't been here lately, " murmured Billy, reaching for a book on the table. 

At a peculiar something in her voice, he had looked up quickly, only tofind, to his great surprise, that her face showed a painful flush as shebent over the book in her hand. 

He had said nothing more at the time, but he had not forgotten. Severaltimes, after that, he had introduced the man's name, and never had itfailed to bring a rush of color, a biting of the lip, or a quick changeof position followed always by the troubled eyes and nervous manner thathe had learned to dread. He noticed then that never, of her own freewill, did she herself mention the man; never did she speak of him withthe old frank lightness as "Mary Jane. "

By casual questions asked from time to time, Bertram had learned thatArkwright never came there now, and that the song-writing together hadbeen given up. Curiously enough, this discovery, which would once havefilled Bertram with joy, served now only to deepen his distress. Thatthere was anything inconsistent in the fact that he was more frightenednow at the man's absence than he had been before at his presence, did not occur to him. He knew only that he was frightened, and badlyfrightened. 

Bertram had not forgotten the evening after the operetta, and Billy'stear-stained face on that occasion. He dated the whole thing, in fact, from that evening. He fell to wondering one day if that, too, hadanything to do with Arkwright. He determined then to find out. Shamelessly--for the good of the cause--he set a trap for Billy's unwaryfeet. 

Very adroitly one day he led the talk straight to Arkwright; then heasked abruptly:

"Where is the chap, I wonder! Why, he hasn't shown up once since theoperetta, has he?"

Billy, always truthful, --and just now always embarrassed whenArkwright's name was mentioned, --walked straight into the trap. 

"Oh, yes; well, he was here once--the day after the operetta. I haven'tseen him since. "

Bertram answered a light something, but his face grew a little white. Now that the trap had been sprung and the victim caught, he almostwished that he had not set any trap at all. 

He knew now it was true. Arkwright had been with Billy the day after theoperetta, and her tears and her distress that evening had been caused bysomething Arkwright had said. It was Arkwright's secret that she couldnot tell. It was Arkwright to whom she must be fair. It was Arkwright'ssorrow that she "could not help--now. "

Naturally, with these tools in his hands, and aided by days of broodingand nights of sleeplessness, it did not take Bertram long to fashion TheThing that finally loomed before him as The Truth. 

He understood it all now. Music had conquered. Billy and Arkwright hadfound that they loved each other. On the day after the operetta, theyhad met, and had had some sort of scene together--doubtless Arkwrighthad declared his love. That was the "secret" that Billy could not telland be "fair. " Billy, of course, --loyal little soul that she was, --hadsent him away at once. Was her hand not already pledged? That was whyshe could not "help it-now. " (Bertram writhed in agony at the thought. )Since that meeting Arkwright had not been near the house. Billy hadfound, however, that her heart had gone with Arkwright; hence the shadowin her eyes, the nervousness in her manner, and the embarrassment thatshe always showed at the mention of his name. 

That Billy was still outwardly loyal to himself, and that she still keptto her engagement, did not surprise Bertram in the least. That was likeBilly. Bertram had not forgotten how, less than a year before, this sameBilly had held herself loyal and true to an engagement with William, because a wretched mistake all around had caused her to give her promiseto be William's wife under the impression that she was carrying outWilliam's dearest wish. Bertram remembered her face as it had looked allthose long summer days while her heart was being slowly broken; and hethought he could see that same look in her eyes now. All of which onlygoes to prove with what woeful skill Bertram had fashioned this Thingthat was looming before him as The Truth. 

The exhibition of "The Bohemian Ten" was to open with a private viewon the evening of the twentieth of March. Bertram Henshaw's onecontribution was to be his portrait of Miss Marguerite Winthrop--thepiece of work that had come to mean so much to him; the piece of workupon which already he felt the focus of multitudes of eyes. 

Miss Winthrop was in Boston now, and it was during these early Marchdays that Bertram was supposed to be putting in his best work on theportrait; but, unfortunately, it was during these same early March daysthat he was engaged, also, in fashioning The Thing--and the two did notharmonize. 

The Thing, indeed, was a jealous creature, and would brook no rival. She filled his eyes with horrid visions, and his brain with sickeningthoughts. Between him and his model she flung a veil of fear; and sheset his hand to trembling, and his brush to making blunders with thepaints on his palette. 

Bertram saw The Thing, and saw, too, the grievous result of herpresence. Despairingly he fought against her and her work; but The Thinghad become full grown now, and was The Truth. Hence she was not to bebanished. She even, in a taunting way, seemed sometimes to be justifyingher presence, for she reminded him:

"After all, what's the difference? What do you care for this, oranything again if Billy is lost to you?"

But the artist told himself fiercely that he did care--that he mustcare--for his work; and he struggled--how he struggled!--to ignore thehorrid visions and the sickening thoughts, and to pierce the veil offear so that his hand might be steady and his brush regain its skill. 

And so he worked. Sometimes he let his work remain. Sometimes one hoursaw only the erasing of what the hour before had wrought. Sometimes theelusive something in Marguerite Winthrop's face seemed right at the tipof his brush--on the canvas, even. He saw success then so plainly thatfor a moment it almost--but not quite--blotted out The Thing. At othertimes that elusive something on the high-bred face of his model was averitable will-o'-the-wisp, refusing to be caught and held, even in hiseye. The artist knew then that his picture would be hung with Anderson'sand Fullam's. 

But the portrait was, irrefutably, nearing completion, and it was to beexhibited the twentieth of the month. Bertram knew these for facts. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. BILLY TAKES HER TURN

If for Billy those first twenty days of March did not carry quite thetragedy they contained for Bertram, they were, nevertheless, not reallyhappy ones. She was vaguely troubled by a curious something in Bertram'sbehavior that she could not name; she was grieved over Arkwright'ssorrow, and she was constantly probing her own past conduct to seeif anywhere she could find that she was to blame for that sorrow. Shemissed, too, undeniably, Arkwright's cheery presence, and the charmand inspiration of his music. Nor was she finding it easy to givesatisfactory answers to the questions Aunt Hannah, William, and Bertramso often asked her as to where Mary Jane was. 

Even her music was little comfort to her these days. She was notwriting anything. There was no song in her heart to tempt her to write. Arkwright's new words that he had brought her were out of the question, of course. They had been put away with the manuscript of the completedsong, which had not, fortunately, gone to the publishers. Billy hadwaited, intending to send them together. She was so glad, now, that shehad waited. Just once, since Arkwright's last call, she had tried tosing that song. But she had stopped at the end of the first two lines. The full meaning of those words, as coming from Arkwright, had sweptover her then, and she had snatched up the manuscript and hidden itunder the bottom pile of music in her cabinet . .. And she had presumedto sing that love song to Bertram!

Arkwright had written Billy once--a kind, courteous, manly note that hadmade her cry. He had begged her again not to blame herself, and he hadsaid that he hoped he should be strong enough sometime to wish to calloccasionally--if she were willing--and renew their pleasant hours withtheir music; but, for the present, he knew there was nothing for him todo but to stay away. He had signed himself "Michael Jeremiah Arkwright";and to Billy that was the most pathetic thing in the letter--it soundedso hopeless and dreary to one who knew the jaunty "M. J. "

Alice Greggory, Billy saw frequently. Billy and Aunt Hannah were greatfriends with the Greggorys now, and had been ever since the Greggorys'ten-days' visit at Hillside. The cheery little cripple, with the gentletap, tap, tap of her crutches, had won everybody's heart the veryfirst day; and Alice was scarcely less of a favorite, after the sunnyfriendliness of Hillside had thawed her stiff reserve into naturalness. 

Billy had little to say to Alice Greggory of Arkwright. Billy was nolonger trying to play Cupid's assistant. The Cause, for which she hadso valiantly worked, had been felled by Arkwright's own hand--but thatthere were still some faint stirrings of life in it was evidenced byBilly's secret delight when one day Alice Greggory chanced to mentionthat Arkwright had called the night before upon her and her mother. 

"He brought us news of our old home, " she explained a little hurriedly, to Billy. "He had heard from his mother, and he thought some things shesaid would be interesting to us. "

"Of course, " murmured Billy, carefully excluding from her voice any hintof the delight she felt, but hoping, all the while, that Alice wouldcontinue the subject. 

Alice, however, had nothing more to say; and Billy was left inentire ignorance of what the news was that Arkwright had brought. She suspected, though, that it had something to do with Alice'sfather--certainly she hoped that it had; for if Arkwright had called totell it, it must be good. 

Billy had found a new home for the Greggorys; although at first they haddrawn sensitively back, and had said that they preferred to remain wherethey were, they had later gratefully accepted it. A little couple fromSouth Boston, to whom Billy had given a two weeks' outing the summerbefore, had moved into town and taken a flat in the South End. They hadtwo extra rooms which they had told Billy they would like to let forlight house-keeping, if only they knew just the right people to takeinto such close quarters with themselves. Billy at once thought of theGreggorys, and spoke of them. The little couple were delighted, and theGreggorys were scarcely less so when they at last became convinced thatonly a very little more money than they were already paying would givethemselves a much pleasanter home, and would at the same time be a realboon to two young people who were trying to meet expenses. So the changewas made, and general happiness all round had resulted--so much so, thatBertram had said to Billy, when he heard of it:

"It looks as if this was a case where your cake is frosted on bothsides. "

"Nonsense! This isn't frosting--it's business, " Billy had laughed. 

"And the new pupils you have found for Miss Alice--they're business, too, I suppose?"

"Certainly, " retorted Billy, with decision. Then she had given a lowlaugh and said: "Mercy! If Alice Greggory thought it was anything _but_business, I verily believe she would refuse every one of the new pupils, and begin to-night to carry back the tables and chairs herself to thosewretched rooms she left last month!"

Bertram had smiled, but the smile had been a fleeting one, and thebrooding look of gloom that Billy had noticed so frequently, of late, had come back to his eyes. 

Billy was not a little disturbed over Bertram these days. He did notseem to be his natural, cheery self at all. He talked little, and whathe did say seldom showed a trace of his usually whimsical way of puttingthings. He was kindness itself to her, and seemed particularly anxiousto please her in every way; but she frequently found his eyes fixed onher with a sombre questioning that almost frightened her. The more shethought of it, the more she wondered what the question was, that he didnot dare to ask; and whether it was of herself or himself that he wouldask it--if he did dare. Then, with benumbing force, one day, a possiblesolution of the mystery came to her, he had found out that it was true(what all his friends had declared of him)--he did not really love anygirl, except to paint!

The minute this thought came to her, Billy thrust it indignantly away. It was disloyal to Bertram and unworthy of herself, even to think sucha thing. She told herself then that it was only the portrait of MissWinthrop that was troubling him. She knew that he was worried over that. He had confessed to her that actually sometimes he was beginning to fearhis hand had lost its cunning. As if that were not enough to bring thegloom to any man's face--to any artist's!

No sooner, however, had Billy arrived at this point in her mentalargument, than a new element entered--her old lurking jealousy, of whichshe was heartily ashamed, but which she had never yet been able quite tosubdue; her jealousy of the beautiful girl with the beautiful name (notBilly), whose portrait had needed so much time and so many sittings tofinish. What if Bertram had found that he loved _her?_ What if thatwere why his hand had lost its cunning--because, though loving her, herealized that he was bound to another, Billy herself?

This thought, too, Billy cast from her at once as again disloyal andunworthy. But both thoughts, having once entered her brain, had made forthemselves roads over which the second passing was much easier than thefirst--as Billy found to her sorrow. Certainly, as the days went by, and as Bertram's face and manner became more and more a tragedy ofsuffering, Billy found it increasingly difficult to keep thosethoughts from wearing their roads of suspicion into horrid deep ruts ofcertainty. 

Only with William and Marie, now, could Billy escape from it all. WithWilliam she sought new curios and catalogued the old. With Marie shebeat eggs and whipped cream in the shining kitchen, and tried to thinkthat nothing in the world mattered except that the cake in the ovenshould not fall. 

CHAPTER XXIX. KATE WRITES A LETTER

Bertram feared that he knew, before the portrait was hung, that it wasa failure. He was sure that he knew it on the evening of the twentiethwhen he encountered the swiftly averted eyes of some of his artistfriends, and saw the perplexed frown on the faces of others. But heknew, afterwards, that he did not really know it--till he read thenewspapers during the next few days. 

There was praise--oh, yes; the faint praise that kills. There was someadverse criticism, too; but it was of the light, insincere variety thatis given to mediocre work by unimportant artists. Then, here and there, appeared the signed critiques of the men whose opinion counted--andBertram knew that he had failed. Neither as a work of art, nor as alikeness, was the portrait the success that Henshaw's former work wouldseem to indicate that it should have been. Indeed, as one caustic penput it, if this were to be taken as a sample of what was to follow--thenthe famous originator of "The Face of a Girl" had "a most distinguishedfuture behind him. "

Seldom, if ever before, had an exhibited portrait attracted so muchattention. As Bertram had said, uncounted eyes were watching for itbefore it was hung, because it was a portrait of the noted beauty, Marguerite Winthrop, and because two other well-known artists had failedwhere he, Bertram Henshaw, was hoping to succeed. After it was hung, andthe uncounted eyes had seen it--either literally, or through the eyesof the critics--interest seemed rather to grow than to lessen, for otheruncounted eyes wanted to see what all the fuss was about, anyway. Andwhen these eyes had seen, their owners talked. Nor did they, by anymeans, all talk against the portrait. Some were as loud in its praise aswere others in its condemnation; all of which, of course, but helped toattract more eyes to the cause of it all. 

For Bertram and his friends these days were, naturally, trying ones. William finally dreaded to open his newspaper. (It had become thefashion, when murders and divorces were scarce, occasionally to"feature" somebody's opinion of the Henshaw portrait, on the firstpage--something that had almost never been known to happen before. )Cyril, according to Marie, played "perfectly awful things on his pianoevery day, now. " Aunt Hannah had said "Oh, my grief and conscience!"so many times that it melted now into a wordless groan whenever a newunfriendly criticism of the portrait met her indignant eyes. 

Of all Bertram's friends, Billy, perhaps not unnaturally, was theangriest. Not only did she, after a time, refuse to read the papers, but she refused even to allow certain ones to be brought into the house, foolish and unreasonable as she knew this to be. 

As to the artist himself, Bertram's face showed drawn lines and his eyessombre shadows, but his words and manner carried a stolid indifferencethat to Billy was at once heartbreaking and maddening. 

"But, Bertram, why don't you do something? Why don't you say something?Why don't you act something?" she burst out one day. 

The artist shrugged his shoulders. 

"But, my dear, what can I say, or do, or act?" he asked. 

"I don't know, of course, " sighed Billy. "But I know what I'd like todo. I should like to go out and--fight somebody!"

So fierce were words and manner, coupled as they were with a pair ofgentle eyes ablaze and two soft little hands doubled into menacingfists, that Bertram laughed. 

"What a fiery little champion it is, to be sure, " he said tenderly. "Butas if fighting could do any good--in this case!"

Billy's tense muscles relaxed. Her eyes filled with tears. 

"No, I don't suppose it would, " she choked, beginning to cry, so thatBertram had to turn comforter. 

"Come, come, dear, " he begged; "don't take it so to heart. It's notso bad, after all. I've still my good right hand left, and we'll hopethere's something in it yet--that'll be worth while. "

"But _this_ one isn't bad, " stormed Billy. "It's splendid! I'm sure, Ithink it's a b-beautiful portrait, and I don't see _what_ people mean bytalking so about it!"

Bertram shook his head. His eyes grew sombre again. 

"Thank you, dear. But I know--and you know, really--that it isn't asplendid portrait. I've done lots better work than that. "

"Then why don't they look at those, and let this alone?" wailed Billy, with indignation. 

"Because I deliberately put up this for them to see, " smiled the artist, wearily. 

Billy sighed, and twisted in her chair. 

"What does--Mr. Winthrop say?" she asked at last, in a faint voice. 

Bertram lifted his head. 

"Mr. Winthrop's been a trump all through, dear. He's already insisted onpaying for this--and he's ordered another. "

"Another!"

"Yes. The old fellow never minces his words, as you may know. He cameto me one day, put his hand on my shoulder, and said tersely: 'Will yougive me another, same terms? Go in, boy, and win. Show 'em! I lostthe first ten thousand I made. I didn't the next!' That's all he said. Before I could even choke out an answer he was gone. Gorry! talk abouthis having a 'heart of stone'! I don't believe another man in thecountry would have done that--and done it in the way he did--in the faceof all this talk, " finished Bertram, his eyes luminous with feeling. 

Billy hesitated. 

"Perhaps--his daughter--influenced him--some. "

"Perhaps, " nodded Bertram. "She, too, has been very kind, all the waythrough. "

Billy hesitated again. 

"But I thought--it was going so splendidly, " she faltered, in ahalf-stifled voice. 

"So it was--at the first. "

"Then what--ailed it, at the last, do you suppose?" Billy was holdingher breath till he should answer. 

The man got to his feet. 

"Billy, don't--don't ask me, " he begged. "Please don't let's talk ofit any more. It can't do any good! I just flunked--that's all. Myhand failed me. Maybe I tried too hard. Maybe I was tired. Maybesomething--troubled me. Never mind, dear, what it was. It can do no goodeven to think of that--now. So just let's--drop it, please, dear, " hefinished, his face working with emotion. 

And Billy dropped it--so far as words were concerned; but she could notdrop it from her thoughts--specially after Kate's letter came. 

Kate's letter was addressed to Billy, and it said, after speaking ofvarious other matters:

"And now about poor Bertram's failure. " (Billy frowned. In Billy'spresence no one was allowed to say "Bertram's failure"; but a letterhas a most annoying privilege of saying what it pleases without let orhindrance, unless one tears it up--and a letter destroyed unread remainsalways such a tantalizing mystery of possibilities! So Billy let theletter talk. ) "Of course we have heard of it away out here. I do wish ifBertram _must_ paint such famous people, he would manage to flatter themup--in the painting, I mean, of course--enough so that it might pass fora success!

"The technical part of all this criticism I don't pretend to understandin the least; but from what I hear and read, he must, indeed, have madea terrible mess of it, and of course I'm very sorry--and some surprised, too, for usually he paints such pretty pictures!

"Still, on the other hand, Billy, I'm not surprised. William says thatBertram has been completely out of fix over something, and as gloomy asan owl, for weeks past; and of course, under those circumstances, thepoor boy could not be expected to do good work. Now William, being aman, is not supposed to understand what the trouble is. But I, being awoman, can see through a pane of glass when it's held right up beforeme; and I can guess, of course, that a woman is at the bottom of it--shealways is!--and that you, being his special fancy at the moment" (Billyalmost did tear the letter now--but not quite), "are that woman. 

"Now, Billy, you don't like such frank talk, of course; but, on theother hand, I know you do not want to ruin the dear boy's career. So, for heaven's sake, if you two have been having one of those quarrelsthat lovers so delight in--do, please, for the good of the cause, makeup quick, or else quarrel harder and break it off entirely--which, honestly, would be the better way, I think, all around. 

"There, there, my dear child, don't bristle up! I am very fond of you, and would dearly love to have you for a sister--if you'd only takeWilliam, as you should! But, as you very well know, I never did approveof this last match at all, for either of your sakes. 

"He can't make you happy, my dear, and you can't make him happy. Bertram never was--and never will be--a marrying man. He's tootemperamental--too thoroughly wrapped up in his Art. Girls have nevermeant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. And they neverwill. They can't. He's made that way. Listen! I can prove it to you. Upto this winter he's always been a care-free, happy, jolly fellow, andyou _know_ what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tiedhimself to any one girl till last fall. Then you two entered into thisabsurd engagement. 

"Now what has it been since? William wrote me himself not a fortnightago that he'd been worried to death over Bertram for weeks past, he's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlikehimself. And his picture has _failed_ dismally. Of course Williamdoesn't understand; but I do. I know you've probably quarrelled, orsomething. You know how flighty and unreliable you can be sometimes, Billy, and I don't say that to mean anything against you, either--that's_your_ way. You're just as temperamental in your art, music, as Bertramis in his. You're utterly unsuited to him. If Bertram is to marry_anybody_, it should be some quiet, staid, sensible girl who would bea _help_ to him. But when I think of you two flyaway flutterbudgetsmarrying--!

"Now, for heaven's sake, Billy, _do_ make up or something--and do itnow. Don't, for pity's sake, let Bertram ever put out another such apiece of work to shame us all like this. Do you want to ruin his career?

"Faithfully yours, "KATE HARTWELL. 

"P. S. _I_ think William's the one for you. He's devoted to you, andhis quiet, sensible affection is just what your temperament needs. I_always_ thought William was the one for you. Think it over. 

"P. S. No. 2. You can see by the above that it isn't you I'm objectingto, my dear. It's just _you-and-Bertram_. 

"K. "

CHAPTER XXX. "I'VE HINDERED HIM"

Billy was shaking with anger and terror by the time she had finishedreading Kate's letter. Anger was uppermost at the moment, and with onesweeping wrench of her trembling fingers she tore the closely writtensheets straight through the middle, and flung them into the littlewicker basket by her desk. Then she went down-stairs and played hernoisiest, merriest Tarantella, and tried to see how fast she could makeher fingers fly. 

But Billy could not, of course, play tarantellas all day; and even whileshe did play them she could not forget that waste-basket up-stairs, andthe horror it contained. The anger was still uppermost, but the terrorwas prodding her at every turn, and demanding to know just what it wasthat Kate had written in that letter, anyway. It is not strange then, perhaps, that before two hours passed, Billy went up-stairs, took theletter from the basket, matched together the torn half-sheets and forcedher shrinking eyes to read every word again-just to satisfy that terrorwhich would not be silenced. 

At the end of the second reading, Billy reminded herself with sterncalmness that it was only Kate, after all; that nobody ought to mindwhat Kate said; that certainly _she_, Billy, ought not--after theexperience she had already had with her unpleasant interference! Katedid not know what she was talking about, anyway. This was only anothercase of her trying "to manage. " She did so love to manage--everything!

At this point Billy got out her pen and paper and wrote to Kate. 

It was a formal, cold little letter, not at all the sort that Billy'sfriends usually received. It thanked Kate for her advice, and forher "kind willingness" to have Billy for a sister; but it hinted thatperhaps Kate did not realize that as long as Billy was the one who wouldhave to _live_ with the chosen man, it would be pleasanter to take theone Billy loved, which happened in this case to be Bertram--not William. As for any "quarrel" being the cause of whatever fancied trouble therewas with the new picture--the letter scouted that idea in no uncertainterms. There had been no suggestion of a quarrel even once since theengagement. 

Then Billy signed her name and took the letter out to post immediately. 

For the first few minutes after the letter had been dropped into thegreen box at the corner, Billy held her head high, and told herself thatthe matter was now closed. She had sent Kate a courteous, dignified, conclusive, effectual answer, and she thought with much satisfaction ofthe things she had said. 

Very soon, however, she began to think--not so much of what _she_had said--but of what Kate had said. Many of Kate's sentences wereunpleasantly vivid in her mind. They seemed, indeed, to stand out inletters of flame, and they began to burn, and burn, and burn. These weresome of them:

"William says that Bertram has been completely out of fix oversomething, and as gloomy as an owl for weeks past. "

"A woman is at the bottom of it--. .. You are that woman. "

"You can't make him happy. "

"Bertram never was--and never will be--a marrying man. "

"Girls have never meant anything to him but a beautiful picture topaint. And they never will. "

"Up to this winter he's always been a carefree, happy, jolly fellow, and you _know_ what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tiedhimself to any one girl until last fall. "

"Now what has it been since?"

"He's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlikehimself; and his picture has failed, dismally. "

"Do you want to ruin his career?"

Billy began to see now that she had not really answered Kate's letter atall. The matter was not closed. Her reply had been, perhaps, courteousand dignified--but it had not been conclusive nor effectual. 

Billy had reached home now, and she was crying. Bertram _had_ actedstrangely, of late. Bertram _had_ seemed troubled over something. Hispicture _had_--With a little shudder Billy tossed aside these thoughts, and dug at her teary eyes with a determined hand. Fiercely she toldherself that the matter _was_ settled. Very scornfully she declared thatit was "only Kate, " after all, and that she _would not_ let Kate makeher unhappy again! Forthwith she picked up a current magazine and beganto read. 

As it chanced, however, even here Billy found no peace; for the firstarticle she opened to was headed in huge black type:

"MARRIAGE AND THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT. "

With a little cry Billy flung the magazine far from her, and picked upanother. But even "The Elusiveness of Chopin, " which she found here, could not keep her thoughts nor her eyes from wandering to the discardedthing in the corner, lying ignominiously face down with crumpled, out-flung leaves. 

Billy knew that in the end she should go over and pick that magazineup, and read that article from beginning to end. She was not surprised, therefore, when she did it--but she was not any the happier for havingdone it. 

The writer of the article did not approve of marriage and the artistictemperament. He said the artist belonged to his Art, and to posteritythrough his Art. The essay fairly bristled with many-lettered words andhigh-sounding phrases, few of which Billy really understood. She didunderstand enough, however, to feel, guiltily, when the thing wasfinished, that already she had married Bertram, and by so doing hadcommitted a Crime. She had slain Art, stifled Ambition, destroyedInspiration, and been a nuisance generally. In consequence of whichBertram would henceforth and forevermore be doomed to Littleness. 

Naturally, in this state of mind, and with this vision before her, Billywas anything but her bright, easy self when she met Bertram an hour ortwo later. Naturally, too, Bertram, still the tormented victim of thebugaboo his jealous fears had fashioned, was just in the mood toplace the worst possible construction on his sweetheart's very evidentunhappiness. With sighs, unspoken questions, and frequently avertedeyes, therefore, the wretched evening passed, a pitiful misery to themboth. 

During the days that followed, Billy thought that the world itselfmust be in league with Kate, so often did she encounter Kate's lettermasquerading under some thin disguise. She did not stop to realize thatbecause she was so afraid she _would_ find it, she _did_ find it. Inthe books she read, in the plays she saw, in the chance words she heardspoken by friend or stranger--always there was something to feed herfears in one way or another. Even in a yellowed newspaper that hadcovered the top shelf in her closet she found one day a symposiumon whether or not an artist's wife should be an artist; and sheshuddered--but she read every opinion given. 

Some writers said no, and some, yes; and some said it all depended--onthe artist and his wife. Billy found much food for thought, some foramusement, and a little that made for peace of mind. On the wholeit opened up a new phase of the matter, perhaps. At all events, uponfinishing it she almost sobbed:

"One would think that just because I write a song now and then, I wasgoing to let Bertram starve, and go with holes in his socks and nobuttons on his clothes!"

It was that afternoon that Billy went to see Marie; but even there shedid not escape, for the gentle Marie all unknowingly added her mite tothe woeful whole. 

Billy found Marie in tears. 

"Why, Marie!" she cried in dismay. 

"Sh-h!" warned Marie, turning agonized eyes toward the closed door ofCyril's den. 

"But, dear, what is it?" begged Billy, with no less dismay, but withgreater caution. 

"Sh-h!" admonished Marie again. 

On tiptoe, then, she led the way to a room at the other end of the tinyapartment. Once there; she explained in a more natural tone of voice:

"Cyril's at work on a new piece for the piano. "

"Well, what if he is?" demanded Billy. "That needn't make you cry, needit?"

"Oh, no--no, indeed, " demurred Marie, in a shocked voice. 

"Well, then, what is it?"

Marie hesitated; then, with the abandon of a hurt child that longs forsympathy, she sobbed:

"It--it's just that I'm afraid, after all, that I'm not good enough forCyril. "

Billy stared frankly. 

"Not _good_ enough, Marie Henshaw! Whatever in the world do you mean?"

"Well, not good _for_ him, then. Listen! To-day, I know, in lots ofways I must have disappointed him. First, he put on some socks that I'ddarned. They were the first since our marriage that I'd found todarn, and I'd been so proud and--and happy while I _was_ darning them. But--but he took 'em off right after breakfast and threw 'em in acorner. Then he put on a new pair, and said that I--I needn't darn anymore; that it made--bunches. Billy, _my darns--bunches!_" Marie's faceand voice were tragic. 

"Nonsense, dear! Don't let that fret you, " comforted Billy, promptly, trying not to laugh too hard. "It wasn't _your_ darns; it was justdarns--anybody's darns. Cyril won't wear darned socks. Aunt Hannah toldme so long ago, and I said then there'd be a tragedy when _you_ found itout. So don't worry over that. "

"Oh, but that isn't all, " moaned Marie. "Listen! You know how quiet hemust have everything when he's composing--and he ought to have it, too!But I forgot, this morning, and put on some old shoes that didn't haveany rubber heels, and I ran the carpet sweeper, and I rattled tins inthe kitchen. But I never thought a thing until he opened his door andasked me _please_ to change my shoes and let the--the confounded dirtgo, and didn't I have any dishes in the house but what were made of thatabominable tin s-stuff, " she finished in a wail of misery. 

Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie's aghast face and upraisedhand speedily reduced it to a convulsive giggle. 

"You dear child! Cyril's always like that when he's composing, " soothedBilly. "I supposed you knew it, dear. Don't you fret! Run along and makehim his favorite pudding, and by night both of you will have forgottenthere ever were such things in the world as tins and shoes and carpetsweepers that clatter. "

Marie shook her head. Her dismal face did not relax. 

"You don't understand, " she moaned. "It's myself. I've _hindered_ him!"She brought out the word with an agony of slow horror. "And only to-dayI read-here, look!" she faltered, going to the table and picking up withshaking hands a magazine. 

Billy recognized it by the cover at once--another like it had been flungnot so long ago by her own hand into the corner. She was not surprised, therefore, to see very soon at the end of Marie's trembling finger:

"Marriage and the Artistic Temperament. "

Billy did not give a ringing laugh this time. She gave an involuntarylittle shudder, though she tried valiantly to turn it all off with alight word of scorn, and a cheery pat on Marie's heaving shoulders. Butshe went home very soon; and it was plain to be seen that her visit toMarie had not brought her peace. 

Billy knew Kate's letter, by heart, now, both in the original, and inits different versions, and she knew that, despite her struggles, shewas being forced straight toward Kate's own verdict: that she, Billy, _was_ the cause, in some way, of the deplorable change in Bertram'sappearance, manner, and work. Before she would quite surrender to thisheart-sickening belief, however, she determined to ask Bertram himself. Falteringly, but resolutely, therefore, one day, she questioned him. 

"Bertram, once you hinted that the picture did not go right because youwere troubled over something; and I've been wondering--was it about--me, in any way, that you were troubled?"

Billy had her answer before the man spoke. She had it in the quickterror that sprang to his eyes, and the dull red that swept from hisneck to his forehead. His reply, so far as words went did not count, forit evaded everything and told nothing. But Billy knew without words. She knew, too, what she must do. For the time being she took Bertram'sevasive answer as he so evidently wished it to be taken; but thatevening, after he had gone, she wrote him a little note and broke theengagement. So heartbroken was she--and so fearful was she that heshould suspect this--that her note, when completed, was a cold littlething of few words, which carried no hint that its very coldness was butthe heart-break in the disguise of pride. 

This was like Billy in all ways. Billy, had she lived in the days ofthe Christian martyrs, would have been the first to walk with head erectinto the Arena of Sacrifice. The arena now was just everyday living, thelions were her own devouring misery, and the cause was Bertram's bestgood. 

From Bertram's own self she had it now--that she had been the cause ofhis being troubled; so she could doubt no longer. The only part that wasuncertain was the reason why he had been troubled. Whether his bond toher had become irksome because of his love for another, or because ofhis love for no girl--except to paint, Billy did not know. But that itwas irksome she did not doubt now. Besides, as if she were going to slayhis Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisancegenerally just so that _she_ might be happy! Indeed, no! Hence she brokethe engagement. 

This was the letter:

 "DEAR BERTRAM:--You won't make the move, so I must. I knew, from the way you spoke to-day, that it _was_ about me that you were troubled, even though you generously tried to make me think it was not. And so the picture did not go well. 

 "Now, dear, we have not been happy together lately. You have seen it; so have I. I fear our engagement was a mistake, so I'm going to send back your ring to-morrow, and I'm writing this letter to-night. Please don't try to see me just yet. You _know_ what I am doing is best--all round. "Always your friend, "BILLY. "

CHAPTER XXXI. FLIGHT

Billy feared if she did not mail the letter at once she would not havethe courage to mail it at all. So she slipped down-stairs very quietlyand went herself to the post box a little way down the street; then shecame back and sobbed herself to sleep--though not until after she hadsobbed awake for long hours of wretchedness. 

When she awoke in the morning, heavy-eyed and unrested, there came toher first the vague horror of some shadow hanging over her, then thesickening consciousness of what that shadow was. For one wild minuteBilly felt that she must run to the telephone, summon Bertram, andbeseech him to return unread the letter he would receive from her thatday. Then there came to her the memory of Bertram's face as it hadlooked the night before when she had asked him if she were the cause ofhis being troubled. There came, too, the memory of Kate's scathing"Do you want to ruin his career?" Even the hated magazine article andMarie's tragic "I've _hindered_ him!" added their mite; and Billy knewthat she should not go to the telephone, nor summon Bertram. 

The one fatal mistake now would be to let Bertram see her own distress. If once he should suspect how she suffered in doing this thing, therewould be a scene that Billy felt she had not the courage to face. Shemust, therefore, manage in some way not to see Bertram--not to let himsee her until she felt more sure of her self-control no matter what hesaid. The easiest way to do this was, of course, to go away. But where?How? She must think. Meanwhile, for these first few hours, she would nottell any one, even Aunt Hannah, what had happened. There must _no one_speak to her of it, yet. That she could not endure. Aunt Hannah would, of course, shiver, groan "Oh, my grief and conscience!" and call foranother shawl; and Billy just now felt as if she should scream if sheheard Aunt Hannah say "Oh, my grief and conscience!"--over that. Billywent down to breakfast, therefore, with a determination to act exactlyas usual, so that Aunt Hannah should not know--yet. 

When people try to "act exactly as usual, " they generally end in actingquite the opposite; and Billy was no exception to the rule. Hence herattempted cheerfulness became flippantness, and her laughter gigglesthat rang too frequently to be quite sincere--though from Aunt Hannahit all elicited only an affectionate smile at "the dear child's highspirits. "

A little later, when Aunt Hannah was glancing over the morningpaper--now no longer barred from the door--she gave a sudden cry. 

"Billy, just listen to this!" she exclaimed, reading from the paper inher hand. "'A new tenor in "The Girl of the Golden West. " Appearanceof Mr. M. J. Arkwright at the Boston Opera House to-night. Owing to thesudden illness of Dubassi, who was to have taken the part of Johnsontonight, an exceptional opportunity has come to a young tenor singer, one of the most promising pupils at the Conservatory school. Arkwrightis said to have a fine voice, a particularly good stage presence, anda purity of tone and smoothness of execution that few of his age andexperience can show. Only a short time ago he appeared as the duke atone of the popular-priced Saturday night performances of "Rigoletto";and his extraordinary success on that occasion, coupled with hisfamiliarity with, and fitness for the part of Johnson in "The Girlof the Golden West, " led to his being chosen to take Dubassi's placeto-night. His performance is awaited with the greatest of interest. ' Nowisn't that splendid for Mary Jane? I'm so glad!" beamed Aunt Hannah. 

"Of course we're glad!" cried Billy. "And didn't it come just in time?This is the last week of opera, anyway, you know. "

"But it says he sang before--on a Saturday night, " declared Aunt Hannah, going back to the paper in her hand. "Now wouldn't you have thought we'dhave heard of it, or read of it? And wouldn't you have thought he'd havetold us?"

"Oh, well, maybe he didn't happen to see us so he could tell us, "returned Billy with elaborate carelessness. 

"I know it; but it's so funny he _hasn't_ seen us, " contended AuntHannah, frowning. "You know how much he used to be here. "

Billy colored, and hurried into the fray. 

"Oh, but he must have been so busy, with all this, you know. And ofcourse we didn't see it in the paper--because we didn't have any paperat that time, probably. Oh, yes, that's my fault, I know, " she laughed;"and I was silly, I'll own. But we'll make up for it now. We'll go, ofcourse, I wish it had been on our regular season-ticket night, but Ifancy we can get seats somewhere; and I'm going to ask Alice Greggoryand her mother, too. I'll go down there this morning to tell them, andto get the tickets. I've got it all planned. "

Billy had, indeed, "got it all planned. " She had been longing forsomething that would take her away from the house--and if possible awayfrom herself. This would do the one easily, and might help on the other. She rose at once. 

"I'll go right away, " she said. 

"But, my dear, " frowned Aunt Hannah, anxiously, "I don't believe I cango to-night--though I'd love to, dearly. "

"But why not?"

"I'm tired and half sick with a headache this morning. I didn't sleep, and I've taken cold somewhere, " sighed the lady, pulling the top shawl alittle higher about her throat. 

"Why, you poor dear, what a shame!"

"Won't Bertram go?" asked Aunt Hannah. 

Billy shook her head--but she did not meet Aunt Hannah's eyes. 

"Oh, no. I sha'n't even ask him. He said last night he had a banqueton for to-night--one of his art clubs, I believe. " Billy's voice wascasualness itself. 

"But you'll have the Greggorys--that is, Mrs. Greggory _can_ go, can'tshe?" inquired Aunt Hannah. 

"Oh, yes; I'm sure she can, " nodded Billy. "You know she went to theoperetta, and this is just the same--only bigger. "

"Yes, yes, I know, " murmured Aunt Hannah. 

"Dear me! How can she get about so on those two wretched little sticks?She's a perfect marvel to me. "

"She is to me, too, " sighed Billy, as she hurried from the room. 

Billy was, indeed, in a hurry. To herself she said she wanted to getaway--away! And she got away as soon as she could. 

She had her plans all made. She would go first to the Greggorys' andinvite them to attend the opera with her that evening. Then she wouldget the tickets. Just what she would do with the rest of the day she didnot know. She knew only that she would not go home until time to dressfor dinner and the opera. She did not tell Aunt Hannah this, however, when she left the house. She planned to telephone it from somewhere downtown, later. She told herself that she _could not_ stay all day underthe sharp eyes of Aunt Hannah--but she managed, nevertheless, to bidthat lady a particularly blithe and bright-faced good-by. 

Billy had not been long gone when the telephone bell rang. Aunt Hannahanswered it. 

"Why, Bertram, is that you?" she called, in answer to the words thatcame to her across the wire. "Why, I hardly knew your voice!"

"Didn't you? Well, is--is Billy there?"

"No, she isn't. She's gone down to see Alice Greggory. "

"Oh!" So evident was the disappointment in the voice that Aunt Hannahadded hastily:

"I'm so sorry! She hasn't been gone ten minutes. But--is there anymessage?"

"No, thank you. There's no--message. " The voice hesitated, then went ona little constrainedly. "How--how is Billy this morning? She--she's allright, isn't she?"

Aunt Hannah laughed in obvious amusement. 

"Bless your dear heart, yes, my boy! Has it been such a _long_ timesince last evening--when you saw her yourself? Yes, she's all right. Infact, I was thinking at the breakfast table how pretty she looked withher pink cheeks and her bright eyes. She seemed to be in such highspirits. "

An inarticulate something that Aunt Hannah could not quite catchcame across the line; then a somewhat hurried "All right. Thank you. Good-by. "

The next time Aunt Hannah was called to the telephone, Billy spoke toher. 

"Aunt Hannah, don't wait luncheon for me, please. I shall get it intown. And don't expect me till five o'clock. I have some shopping todo. "

"All right, dear, " replied Aunt Hannah. "Did you get the tickets?"

"Yes, and the Greggorys will go. Oh, and Aunt Hannah!"

"Yes, dear. "

"Please tell John to bring Peggy around early enough to-night so we cango down and get the Greggorys. I told them we'd call for them. "

"Very well, dear. I'll tell him. "

"Thank you. How's the poor head?"

"Better, a little, I think. "

"That's good. Won't you repent and go, too?"

"No--oh, no, indeed!"

"All right, then; good-by. I'm sorry!"

"So'm I. Good-by, " sighed Aunt Hannah, as she hung up the receiver andturned away. 

It was after five o'clock when Billy got home, and so hurried were thedressing and the dinner that Aunt Hannah forgot to mention Bertram'stelephone call till just as Billy was ready to start for the Greggorys'. 

"There! and I forgot, " she confessed. "Bertram called you up just afteryou left this morning, my dear. "

"Did he?" Billy's face was turned away, but Aunt Hannah did not noticethat. 

"Yes. Oh, he didn't want anything special, " smiled the lady, "only--well, he did ask if you were all right this morning, " shefinished with quiet mischief. 

"Did he?" murmured Billy again. This time there was a little sound afterthe words, which Aunt Hannah would have taken for a sob if she had notknown that it must have been a laugh. 

Then Billy was gone. 

At eight o'clock the doorbell rang, and a minute later Rosa came upto say that Mr. Bertram Henshaw was down-stairs and wished to see Mrs. Stetson. 

Mrs. Stetson went down at once. 

"Why, my dear boy, " she exclaimed, as she entered the room; "Billy saidyou had a banquet on for to-night!"

"Yes, I know; but--I didn't go. " Bertram's face was pale and drawn. Hisvoice did not sound natural. 

"Why, Bertram, you look ill! _Are_ you ill?" The man made an impatientgesture. 

"No, no, I'm not ill--I'm not ill at all. Rosa says--Billy's not here. "

"No; she's gone to the opera with the Greggorys. "

"The _opera!_" There was a grieved hurt in Bertram's voice thatAunt Hannah quite misunderstood. She hastened to give an apologeticexplanation. 

"Yes. She would have told you--she would have asked you to join them, I'm sure, but she said you were going to a banquet. I'm _sure_ she saidso. "

"Yes, I did tell her so--last night, " nodded Bertram, dully. 

Aunt Hannah frowned a little. Still more anxiously she endeavored toexplain to this disappointed lover why his sweetheart was not at home togreet him. 

"Well, then, of course, my boy, she'd never think of your coming hereto-night; and when she found Mr. Arkwright was going to sing--"

"Arkwright!" There was no listlessness in Bertram's voice or manner now. 

"Yes. Didn't you see it in the paper? Such a splendid chance for him!His picture was there, too. "

"No. I didn't see it. "

"Then you don't know about it, of course, " smiled Aunt Hannah. "But he'sto take the part of Johnson in 'The Girl of the Golden West. ' Isn't thatsplendid? I'm so glad! And Billy was, too. She hurried right off thismorning to get the tickets and to ask the Greggorys. "

"Oh!" Bertram got to his feet a little abruptly, and held out his hand. "Well, then, I might as well say good-by then, I suppose, " he suggestedwith a laugh that Aunt Hannah thought was a bit forced. Before she couldremind him again, though, that Billy was really not to blame for notbeing there to welcome him, he was gone. And Aunt Hannah could only goup-stairs and meditate on the unreasonableness of lovers in general, andof Bertram in particular. 

Aunt Hannah had gone to bed, but she was still awake, when Billy camehome, so she heard the automobile come to a stop before the door, andshe called to Billy when the girl came upstairs. 

"Billy, dear, come in here. I'm awake! I want to hear about it. Was itgood?"

Billy stopped in the doorway. The light from the hall struck her face. There was no brightness in her eyes now, no pink in her cheeks. 

"Oh, yes, it was good--very good, " she replied listlessly. 

"Why, Billy, how queer you answer! What was the matter? Wasn't MaryJane--all right?"

"Mary Jane? Oh!--oh, yes; he was very good, Aunt Hannah. "

"'Very good, ' indeed!" echoed the lady, indignantly. "He must havebeen!--when you speak as if you'd actually forgotten that he sang atall, anyway!"

Billy had forgotten--almost. Billy had found that, in spite of hergetting away from the house, she had not got away from herself once, allday. She tried now, however, to summon her acting powers of the morning. 

"But it was splendid, really, Aunt Hannah, " she cried, with some showof animation. "And they clapped and cheered and gave him any number ofcurtain calls. We were so proud of him! But you see, I _am_ tired, " shebroke off wearily. 

"You poor child, of course you are, and you look like a ghost! I won'tkeep you another minute. Run along to bed. Oh--Bertram didn't go to thatbanquet, after all. He came here, " she added, as Billy turned to go. 

"Bertram!" The girl wheeled sharply. 

"Yes. He wanted you, of course. I found I didn't do, at all, " chuckledAunt Hannah. "Did you suppose I would?"

There was no answer. Billy had gone. 

In the long night watches Billy fought it out with herself. (Billy hadalways fought things out with herself. ) She must go away. She knew that. Already Bertram had telephoned, and called. He evidently meant to seeher--and she could not see him. She dared not. If she did--Billy knewnow how pitifully little it would take to make her actually _willing_ toslay Bertram's Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and bea nuisance generally--if only she could have Bertram while she was doingit all. Sternly then she asked herself if she had no pride; if she hadforgotten that it was because of her that the Winthrop portrait had notbeen a success--because of her, either for the reason that he loved nowMiss Winthrop, or else that he loved no girl--except to paint. 

Very early in the morning a white-faced, red-eyed Billy appeared at AuntHannah's bedside. 

"Billy!" exclaimed Aunt Hannah, plainly appalled. 

Billy sat down on the edge of the bed. 

"Aunt Hannah, " she began in a monotonous voice as if she were recitinga lesson she had learned by heart, "please listen, and please try not tobe too surprised. You were saying the other day that you would like tovisit your old home town. Well, I think that's a very nice idea. If youdon't mind we'll go to-day. "

Aunt Hannah pulled herself half erect in bed. 

"_To-day_--child?"

"Yes, " nodded Billy, unsmilingly. "We shall have to go somewhere to-day, and I thought you would like that place best. "

"But--Billy!--what does this mean?"

Billy sighed heavily. 

"Yes, I understand. You'll have to know the rest, of course. I've brokenmy engagement. I don't want to see Bertram. That's why I'm going away. "

Aunt Hannah fell nervelessly back on the pillow. Her teeth fairlychattered. 

"Oh, my grief and conscience--_Billy!_ Won't you please pull up thatblanket, " she moaned. "Billy, what do you mean?"

Billy shook her head and got to her feet. 

"I can't tell any more now, really, Aunt Hannah. Please don't ask me;and don't--talk. You _will_--go with me, won't you?" And Aunt Hannah, with her terrified eyes on Billy's piteously agitated face, nodded herhead and choked:

"Why, of course I'll go--anywhere--with you, Billy; but--why did you doit, why did you do it?"

A little later, Billy, in her own room, wrote this note to Bertram:

 "DEAR BERTRAM:--I'm going away to-day. That'll be best all around. You'll agree to that, I'm sure. Please don't try to see me, and please don't write. It wouldn't make either one of us any happier. You must know that. 

 "As ever your friend, "BILLY. "

Bertram, when he read it, grew only a shade more white, a degree moresick at heart. Then he kissed the letter gently and put it away with theother. 

To Bertram, the thing was very clear. Billy had come now to theconclusion that it would be wrong to give herself where she could notgive her heart. And in this he agreed with her--bitter as it was forhim. Certainly he did not want Billy, if Billy did not want him, he toldhimself. He would now, of course, accede to her request. He would notwrite to her--and make her suffer more. But to Bertram, at that moment, it seemed that the very sun in the heavens had gone out. 

CHAPTER XXXII. PETE TO THE RESCUE

One by one the weeks passed and became a month. Then other weeks becameother months. It was July when Billy, homesick and weary, came back toHillside with Aunt Hannah. 

Home looked wonderfully good to Billy, in spite of the fact that she hadso dreaded to see it. Billy had made up her mind, however, that, comesometime she must. She could not, of course, stay always away. Perhaps, too, it would be just as easy at home as it was away. Certainly it couldnot be any harder. She was convinced of that. Besides, she did not wantBertram to think--

Billy had received only meagre news from Boston since she went away. Bertram had not written at all. William had written twice--hurt, grieved, puzzled, questioning letters that were very hard to answer. From Marie, too, had come letters of much the same sort. By far thecheeriest epistles had come from Alice Greggory. They contained, indeed, about the only comfort Billy had known for weeks, for they showed veryplainly to Billy that Arkwright's heart had been caught on the rebound;and that in Alice Greggory he was finding the sweetest sort of balm forhis wounded feelings. From these letters Billy learned, too, that JudgeGreggory's honor had been wholly vindicated; and, as Billy told AuntHannah, "anybody could put two and two together and make four, now. "

It was eight o'clock on a rainy July evening that Billy and Aunt Hannaharrived at Hillside; and it was only a little past eight that AuntHannah was summoned to the telephone. When she came back to Billy shewas crying and wringing her hands. 

Billy sprang to her feet. 

"Why, Aunt Hannah, what is it? What's the matter?" she demanded. 

Aunt Hannah sank into a chair, still wringing her hands. 

"Oh, Billy, Billy, how can I tell you, how can I tell you?" she moaned. 

"You must tell me! Aunt Hannah, what is it?"

"Oh--oh--oh! Billy, I can't--I can't!"

"But you'll have to! What is it, Aunt Hannah?"

"It's--B-Bertram!"

"Bertram!" Billy's face grew ashen. "Quick, quick--what do you mean?"

For answer, Aunt Hannah covered her face with her hands and began to sobaloud. Billy, almost beside herself now with terror and anxiety, droppedon her knees and tried to pull away the shaking hands. 

"Aunt Hannah, you must tell me! You must--you must!"

"I can't, Billy. It's Bertram. He's--_hurt!_" choked Aunt Hannah, hysterically. 

"Hurt! How?"

"I don't know. Pete told me. "

"Pete!"

"Yes. Rosa had told him we were coming, and he called me up. He saidmaybe I could do something. So he told me. "

"Yes, yes! But told you what?"

"That he was hurt. "

"How?"

"I couldn't hear all, but I think 'twas an accident--automobile. And, Billy, Billy--Pete says it's his arm--his right arm--and that maybe hecan't ever p-paint again!"

"Oh-h!" Billy fell back as if the words had been a blow. "Not that, AuntHannah--not that!"

"That's what Pete said. I couldn't get all of it, but I got that. And, Billy, he's been out of his head--though he isn't now, Petesays--and--and--and he's been calling for you. "

"For--_me?_" A swift change came to Billy's face. 

"Yes. Over and over again he called for you--while he was crazy, youknow. That's why Pete told me. He said he didn't rightly understand whatthe trouble was, but he didn't believe there was any trouble, _really_, between you two; anyway, that you wouldn't think there was, if you couldhear him, and know how he wanted you, and--why, Billy!"

Billy was on her feet now. Her fingers were on the electric push-buttonthat would summon Rosa. Her face was illumined. The next moment Rosaappeared. 

"Tell John to bring Peggy to the door at once, please, " directed hermistress. 

"Billy!" gasped Aunt Hannah again, as the maid disappeared. Billy wastremblingly putting on the hat she had but just taken off. "Billy, whatare you going to do?"

Billy turned in obvious surprise. 

"Why, I'm going to Bertram, of course. "

"To Bertram! But it's nearly half-past eight, child, and it rains, andeverything!"

"But Bertram _wants_ me!" exclaimed Billy. "As if I'd mind rain, ortime, or anything else, _now!_"

"But--but--oh, my grief and conscience!" groaned Aunt Hannah, beginningto wring her hands again. 

Billy reached for her coat. Aunt Hannah stirred into sudden action. 

"But, Billy, if you'd only wait till to-morrow, " she quavered, puttingout a feebly restraining hand. 

"To-morrow!" The young voice rang with supreme scorn. "Do you think I'dwait till to-morrow--after all this? I say Bertram _wants_ me. " Billypicked up her gloves. 

"But you broke it off, dear--you said you did; and to go down thereto-night--like this--"

Billy lifted her head. Her eyes shone. Her whole face was a glory oflove and pride. 

"That was before. I didn't know. He _wants_ me, Aunt Hannah. Didyou hear? He _wants_ me! And now I won't even--hinder him, if hecan't--p-paint again!" Billy's voice broke. The glory left her face. Hereyes brimmed with tears, but her head was still bravely uplifted. "I'mgoing to Bertram!"

Blindly Aunt Hannah got to her feet. Still more blindly she reached forher bonnet and cloak on the chair near her. 

"Oh, will you go, too?" asked Billy, abstractedly, hurrying to thewindow to look for the motor car. 

"Will I go, too!" burst out Aunt Hannah's indignant voice. "Do you thinkI'd let you go alone, and at this time of night, on such a wild-goosechase as this?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, " murmured Billy, still abstractedly, peeringout into the rain. 

"Don't know, indeed! Oh, my grief and conscience!" groaned Aunt Hannah, setting her bonnet hopelessly askew on top of her agitated head. 

But Billy did not even answer now. Her face was pressed hard against thewindow-pane. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. BERTRAM TAKES THE REINS

With stiffly pompous dignity Pete opened the door. The next momenthe fell back in amazement before the impetuous rush of a starry-eyed, flushed-cheeked young woman who demanded:

"Where is he, Pete?"

"Miss Billy!" gasped the old man. Then he saw Aunt Hannah--Aunt Hannahwith her bonnet askew, her neck-bow awry, one hand bare, and the otherhalf covered with a glove wrong side out. Aunt Hannah's cheeks, too, were flushed, and her eyes starry, but with dismay and anger--the lastbecause she did not like the way Pete had said Miss Billy's name. It wasone matter for her to object to this thing Billy was doing--but quiteanother for Pete to do it. 

"Of course it's she!" retorted Aunt Hannah, testily. "As if you yourselfdidn't bring her here with your crazy messages at this time of night!"

"Pete, where is he?" interposed Billy. "Tell Mr. Bertram I am here--or, wait! I'll go right in and surprise him. "

"_Billy!_" This time it was Aunt Hannah who gasped her name. 

Pete had recovered himself by now, but he did not even glance towardAunt Hannah. His face was beaming, and his old eyes were shining. 

"Miss Billy, Miss Billy, you're an angel straight from heaven, youare--you are! Oh, I'm so glad you came! It'll be all right now--allright! He's in the den, Miss Billy. "

Billy turned eagerly, but before she could take so much as one steptoward the door at the end of the hall, Aunt Hannah's indignant voicearrested her. 

"Billy-stop! You're not an angel; you're a young woman--and a crazyone, at that! Whatever angels do, young women don't go unannounced andunchaperoned into young men's rooms! Pete, go tell your master that _we_are here, and ask if he will receive _us_. "

Pete's lips twitched. The emphatic "we" and "us" were not lost on him. But his face was preternaturally grave when he spoke. 

"Mr. Bertram is up and dressed, ma'am. He's in the den. I'll speak tohim. "

Pete, once again the punctilious butler, stalked to the door ofBertram's den and threw it wide open. 

Opposite the door, on a low couch, lay Bertram, his head bandaged, andhis right arm in a sling. His face was turned toward the door, but hiseyes were closed. He looked very white, and his features were pitifullydrawn with suffering. 

"Mr. Bertram, " began Pete--but he got no further. A flying figurebrushed by him and fell on its knees by the couch, with a low cry. 

Bertram's eyes flew open. Across his face swept such a radiant look ofunearthly joy that Pete sobbed audibly and fled to the kitchen. DongLing found him there a minute later polishing a silver teaspoon witha fringed napkin that had been spread over Bertram's tray. In the hallabove Aunt Hannah was crying into William's gray linen duster that hungon the hall-rack--Aunt Hannah's handkerchief was on the floor back atHillside. 

In the den neither Billy nor Bertram knew or cared what had become ofAunt Hannah and Pete. There were just two people in their world--twopeople, and unutterable, incredible, overwhelming rapture and peace. Then, very gradually it dawned over them that there was, after all, something strange and unexplained in it all. 

"But, dearest, what does it mean--you here like this?" asked Bertramthen. As if to make sure that she was "here, like this, " he drew hereven closer--Bertram was so thankful that he did have one arm that wasusable. 

Billy, on her knees by the couch, snuggled into the curve of the one armwith a contented little sigh. 

"Well, you see, just as soon as I found out to-night that you wanted me, I came, " she said. 

"You darling! That was--" Bertram stopped suddenly. A puzzled frownshowed below the fantastic bandage about his head. "'As soon as, '" hequoted then scornfully. "Were you ever by any possible chance thinking I_didn't_ want you?"

Billy's eyes widened a little. 

"Why, Bertram, dear, don't you see? When you were so troubled thatthe picture didn't go well, and I found out it was about me you weretroubled--I--"

"Well?" Bertram's voice was a little strained. 

"Why, of--of course, " stammered Billy, "I couldn't help thinking thatmaybe you had found out you _didn't_ want me. "

"_Didn't want you!_" groaned Bertram, his tense muscles relaxing. "May Iask why?"

Billy blushed. 

"I wasn't quite sure why, " she faltered; "only, of course, I thoughtof--of Miss Winthrop, you know, or that maybe it was because you didn'tcare for _any_ girl, only to paint--oh, oh, Bertram! Pete told us, " shebroke off wildly, beginning to sob. 

"Pete told you that I didn't care for any girl, only to paint?" demandedBertram, angry and mystified. 

"No, no, " sobbed Billy, "not that. It was all the others that toldme that! Pete told Aunt Hannah about the accident, you know, and hesaid--he said--Oh, Bertram, I _can't_ say it! But that's one of thethings that made me know I _could_ come now, you see, because I--Iwouldn't hinder you, nor slay your Art, nor any other of those dreadfulthings if--if you couldn't ever--p-paint again, " finished Billy in anuncontrollable burst of grief. 

"There, there, dear, " comforted Bertram, patting the bronze-gold headon his breast. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talkingabout--except the last; but I know there _can't_ be anything that oughtto make you cry like that. As for my not painting again--you didn'tunderstand Pete, dearie. That was what they were afraid of atfirst--that I'd lose my arm; but that danger is all past now. I'mloads better. Of course I'm going to paint again--and better than everbefore--_now!_"

Billy lifted her head. A look that was almost terror came to her eyes. She pulled herself half away from Bertram's encircling arm. 

"Why, Billy, " cried the man, in pained surprise. "You don't mean to sayyou're _sorry_ I'm going to paint again!"

"No, no! Oh, no, Bertram--never that!" she faltered, still regardinghim with fearful eyes. "It's only--for _me_, you know. I _can't_ go backnow, and not have you--after this!--even if I do hinder you, and--"

"_Hinder me!_ What are you talking about, Billy?"

Billy drew a quivering sigh. 

"Well, to begin with, Kate said--"

"Good heavens! Is Kate in _this_, too?" Bertram's voice was savage now. 

"Well, she wrote a letter. "

"I'll warrant she did! Great Scott, Billy! Don't you know Kate by thistime?"

"Y-yes, I said so, too. But, Bertram, what she wrote was true. I foundit everywhere, afterwards--in magazines and papers, and even in Marie. "

"Humph! Well, dearie, I don't know yet what you found, but I do know youwouldn't have found it at all if it hadn't been for Kate--and I wish Ihad her here this minute!"

Billy giggled hysterically. 

"I don't--not _right_ here, " she cooed, nestling comfortably againsther lover's arm. "But you see, dear, she never _has_ approved of themarriage. "

"Well, who's doing the marrying--she, or I?" "That's what I said, too--only in another way, " sighed Billy. "But she called us flyawayflutterbudgets, and she said I'd ruin your career, if I did marry you. "

"Well, I can tell you right now, Billy, you will ruin it if you don't!"declared Bertram. "That's what ailed me all the time I was painting thatmiserable portrait. I was so worried--for fear I'd lose you. "

"Lose me! Why, Bertram Henshaw, what do you mean?"

A shamed red crept to the man's forehead. 

"Well, I suppose I might as well own up now as any time. I was scaredblue, Billy, with jealousy of--Arkwright. "

Billy laughed gayly--but she shifted her position and did not meet herlover's eyes. 

"Arkwright? Nonsense!" she cried. "Why, he's going to marry AliceGreggory. I know he is! I can see it as plain as day in her letters. He's there a lot. "

"And you never did think for a minute, Billy, that you cared for him?"Bertram's gaze searched Billy's face a little fearfully. He had not beenslow to mark that swift lowering of her eyelids. But Billy looked himnow straight in the face--it was a level, frank gaze of absolute truth. 

"Never, dear, " she said firmly. (Billy was so glad Bertram had turnedthe question on _her_ love instead of Arkwright's!) "There has neverreally been any one but you. "

"Thank God for that, " breathed Bertram, as he drew the bright headnearer and held it close. 

After a minute Billy stirred and sighed happily. 

"Aren't lovers the beat'em for imagining things?" she murmured. 

"They certainly are. "

"You see--I wasn't in love with Mr. Arkwright. "

"I see--I hope. "

"And--and you didn't care _specially_ for--for Miss Winthrop?"

"Eh? Well, no!" exploded Bertram. "Do you mean to say you really--"

Billy put a soft finger on his lips. 

"Er--'people who live in _glass houses_, ' you know, " she reminded him, with roguish eyes. 

Bertram kissed the finger and subsided. 

"Humph!" he commented. 

There was a long silence; then, a little breathlessly, Billy asked:

"And you don't--after all, love me--just to paint?"

"Well, what is that? Is that Kate, too?" demanded Bertram, grimly. 

Billy laughed. 

"No--oh, she said it, all right, but, you see, _everybody_ said that tome, Bertram; and that's what made me so--so worried sometimes when youtalked about the tilt of my chin, and all that. "

"Well, by Jove!" breathed Bertram. 

There was another silence. Then, suddenly, Bertram stirred. 

"Billy, I'm going to marry you to-morrow, " he announced decisively. 

Billy lifted her head and sat back in palpitating dismay. 

"Bertram! What an absurd idea!"

"Well, I am. I don't _know_ as I can trust you out of my sight till_then!_ You'll read something, or hear something, or get a letter fromKate after breakfast to-morrow morning, that will set you 'saving me'again; and I don't want to be saved--that way. I'm going to marry youto-morrow. I'll get--" He stopped short, with a sudden frown. "Confoundthat law! I forgot. Great Scott, Billy, I'll have to trust you fivedays, after all! There's a new law about the license. We've _got_ towait five days--and maybe more, counting in the notice, and all. "

Billy laughed softly. 

"Five days, indeed, sir! I wonder if you think I can get ready to bemarried in five days. "

"Don't want you to get ready, " retorted Bertram, promptly. "I saw Marieget ready, and I had all I wanted of it. If you really must have allthose miles of tablecloths and napkins and doilies and lace rufflingswe'll do it afterwards, --not before. "

"But--"

"Besides, I _need_ you to take care of me, " cut in Bertram, craftily. 

"Bertram, do you--really?"

The tender glow on Billy's face told its own story, and Bertram's eagereyes were not slow to read it. 

"Sweetheart, see here, dear, " he cried softly, tightening his good leftarm. And forthwith he began to tell her how much he did, indeed, needher. 

"Billy, my dear!" It was Aunt Hannah's plaintive voice at the doorway, a little later. "We must go home; and William is here, too, and wants tosee you. "

Billy rose at once as Aunt Hannah entered the room. 

"Yes, Aunt Hannah, I'll come; besides"--she glanced at Bertrammischievously--"I shall need all the time I've got to prepare for--mywedding. "

"Your wedding! You mean it'll be before--October?" Aunt Hannah glancedfrom one to the other uncertainly. Something in their smiling faces senta quick suspicion to her eyes. 

"Yes, " nodded Billy, demurely. "It's next Tuesday, you see. "

"Next Tuesday! But that's only a week away, " gasped Aunt Hannah. 

"Yes, a week. "

"But, child, your trousseau--the wedding--the--the--a week!" Aunt Hannahcould not articulate further. 

"Yes, I know; that is a good while, " cut in Bertram, airily. "We wantedit to-morrow, but we had to wait, on account of the new license law. Otherwise it wouldn't have been so long, and--"

But Aunt Hannah was gone. With a low-breathed "Long! Oh, my grief andconscience--_William!_" she had fled through the hall door. 

"Well, it _is_ long, " maintained Bertram, with tender eyes, as hereached out his hand to say good-night.