Miss Billie's Decision ...........................................................................................................................................1

Eleanor H. Porter.....................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I. CALDERWELL DOES SOME TALKING ......................................................................1

CHAPTER II. AUNT HANNAH GETS A LETTER.............................................................................8

CHAPTER III. BILLY AND BERTRAM .............................................................................................12

CHAPTER IV. FOR MARY JANE......................................................................................................18

CHAPTER V. MARIE SPEAKS HER MIND ......................................................................................20

CHAPTER VI. AT THE SIGN OF THE PINK....................................................................................23

CHAPTER VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.......................................................................................28

CHAPTER VIII. M. J. OPENS THE GAME........................................................................................32

CHAPTER IX. A RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID..........................................................38

CHAPTER X. A JOB FOR PETEAND FOR BERTRAM ...............................................................45

CHAPTER XI. A CLOCK AND AUNT HANNAH .............................................................................54

CHAPTER XII. SISTER KATE ............................................................................................................58

CHAPTER XIII. CYRIL AND A WEDDING ......................................................................................62

CHAPTER XIV. M. J. MAKES ANOTHER MOVE...........................................................................69

CHAPTER XV. ``MR. BILLY'' AND ``MISS MARY JANE'' .............................................................74

CHAPTER XVI. A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT..................................................................77

CHAPTER XVII. ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT .............................................................................83

CHAPTER XVIII. SUGARPLUMS ......................................................................................................85

CHAPTER XIX. ALICE GREGGORY................................................................................................88

CHAPTER XX. ARKWRIGHT TELLS A STORY.............................................................................93

CHAPTER XXI. A MATTER OF STRAIGHT BUSINESS................................................................96

CHAPTER XXII. PLANS AND PLOTTINGS ...................................................................................100

CHAPTER XXIII. THE CAUSE AND BERTRAM ...........................................................................105

CHAPTER XXIV. THE ARTIST AND HIS ART.............................................................................109

CHAPTER XXV. THE OPERETTA..................................................................................................111

CHAPTER XXVI. ARKWRIGHT TELLS ANOTHER STORY .......................................................114

CHAPTER XXVII. THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH...........................................................119

CHAPTER XXVIII. BILLY TAKES HER TURN.............................................................................123

CHAPTER XXIX. KATE WRITES A LETTER ................................................................................125

CHAPTER XXX. ``I'VE HINDERED HIM'' ......................................................................................128

CHAPTER XXXI. FLIGHT................................................................................................................132

CHAPTER XXXII. PETE TO THE RESCUE ....................................................................................139

CHAPTER XXXIII. BERTRAM TAKES THE REINS.....................................................................141

Calderwell had met Mr. M. J. Arkwright in London through a common friend; since then they had tramped

half over Europe together in a comradeship that was as delightful as it was unusual. As Calderwell put it in a

``We smoke the same cigar and drink the same tea (he's just as much of an old woman on that subject as I

am!), and we agree beautifully on all necessary points of living, from tipping to late sleeping in the morning;

while as for politics and religionwe disagree in those just enough to lend spice to an otherwise tame

``I admit, however, I would like to know his name. To find out what that mysterious `M. J.' stands for has got

to be pretty nearly an obsession with me. I am about ready to pick his pocket or rifle his trunk in search of

some lurking `Martin' or `John' that will set me at peace. As it is, I confess that I have ogled his incoming

mail and his outgoing baggage shamelessly, only to be slapped in the face always and everlastingly by that

bland `M. J.' I've got my revenge, now, though. To myself I call him `Mary Jane' and his

broadshouldered, brownbearded six 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 my direction, better set the sleuths on the trail

Calderwell was thinking of that letter now, as he sat at a small table in a Paris caf. Opposite him was the six

feet of muscular manhood, broad shoulders, pointed brown beard, and alland he had just addressed it,

During the brief, sickening moment of silence after the name had left his lips, Calderwell was conscious of a

``Well, I chose as safe a place as I could!'' he was thinking. Then Arkwright spoke.

``Perhaps you thought of it yourself, then I'll admit you're capable of it,'' he nodded, reaching for a cigar.

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

``Well, silence gives consent, they say,'' laughed the other. ``Anyhow, you must have had _some_ reason for

``Oh, is that it?'' smiled the man opposite. ``Well, I'll own those initials have been something of a puzzle to

people. One man declares they're `Merely Jokes'; but another, not so friendly, says they stand for `Mostly

Jealousy' of more fortunate chaps who have real names for a handle. My small brothers and sisters,

discovering, with the usual perspicacity of one's family on such matters, that I never signed, or called myself

``Oh, well, what's the difference? Would you deprive them of their innocent amusement? And they do so love

that `Mary Jane'! Besides, what's in a name, anyway?'' he went on, eyeing the glowing tip of the cigar

between his fingers. `` `A rose by any other name'you've heard that, probably. Names don't always

``Do I know Billy Neilson?'' he cried. ``Does a fellow usually know the girl he's proposed to regularly once in

three months? Oh, I know I'm telling tales out of school, of course,'' he went on, in response to the look that

had come into the brown eyes opposite. ``But what's the use? Everybody knows itthat knows us. Billy

herself got so she took it as a matter of courseand refused as a matter of course, too; just as she would

``My dear fellow, you don't seem to realize it, but for the last six months you have been assisting at the

``Oh, no,'' sighed Calderwell, cheerfully. ``I shall go back one of these days, I'll warrant, and begin the same

old game again; though I will acknowledge that the last refusal was so very decided that it's been a year,

almost, since I received it. I think I was really convinced, for a while, thatthat she didn't want that apple

pie,'' he finished with a whimsical lightness that did not quite coincide with the stern lines that had come to

``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 seen her for years, but she writes to

mother occasionally; and, of course, for some time now, her letters have been running over full of Billy. She

``She does,'' rejoined Calderwell, with an unexpected chuckle. ``I wonder if you know how she happened to

``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 quite

alone in the world, wrote to `Uncle William' and asked to come and live with him.''

``But it wasn't well. William was a fortyyear old widower who lived with two younger brothers, an old

butler, and a Chinese cook in one of those funny old Beacon Street houses in Boston. `The Strata,' Bertram

``Yes. I wish you could see that house, Arkwright. It's a regular layer cake. Cyrilhe's the second brother;

must be thirtyfour or five nowlives on the top floor in a rugless, curtainless, musicmad existencejust

a plain crank. Below him comes William. William collects things everything from tenpenny nails to

teapots, I should say, and they're all there in his rooms. Farther down somewhere comes Bertram. He's _the_

``The same; only of course four years ago he wasn't quite so well known as he is now. Well, to resume and go

on. It was into this house, this masculine paradise ruled over by Pete and Dong Ling in the kitchen, that

``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 to Bertram with guns

and fishing rods, and such ladylike specialties; and William went to the station to meet the boy.''

``Well, `he' came, and `she' conquered. I guess things were lively for a while, though. Oh, there was a kitten,

``Well, I wasn't there, of course; but Bertram says they spun around like tops gone mad for a time, but finally

quieted down enough to summon a married sister for immediate propriety, and to establish Aunt Hannah for

``Yes,'' nodded the other. ``So you see there are untold possibilities just in a name. Remember that. Just

suppose _you_, as Mary Jane, should beg a home in a feminine householdsay in Miss Billy's, for

``Oh, it's only that I happen to have a devouring curiosity to meet that special young lady. I sing her songs

(you know she's written some dandies!), 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 his mother's bureauthe picture being a gift from Aunt

Hannah.) ``So you see I would, indeed, like to occupy a corner in the fair Miss Billy's household. I could

``Of course! Why don't you`Mary Jane'?'' laughed Calderwell. ``Billy'd take 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 writes me that

she's had a dozen forlornites there all this last summer, two or three at a timetired widows, lonesome old

maids, and crippled kidsjust 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. Mary Jane! You'd drive the suffragettes into conniption

``But how about it?'' he asked. ``I thought she was keeping house with Aunt Hannah. Didn't she stay at all

``Oh, yes, a few months. I never knew just why she did leave, but I fancied, from something Billy herself said

once, that she discovered she was creating rather too much of an upheaval in the Strata. So she took herself

off. She went to school, and travelled considerably. She was over here when I met her first. After that she was

with us all one summer on the yacht. A couple of years ago, or so, she went back to Boston, bought a house

``Wasn't the last I heard. I haven't seen her since December, and I've heard from her only indirectly. She

corresponds with my sister, and so do Iintermittently. I heard a month ago from Belle, and _she_ had a

``How about the Henshaws? I should think there might be a chance there for a romance a charming girl,

``I don't think so. William islet me see nearly fortyfive, I guess, by this time; and he isn't a marrying

man. He buried his heart with his wife and baby years ago. Cyril, according to Bertram, `hates women and all

other confusion,' so that ought to let him out. As for Bertram himselfBertram is `only Bertram.' He's

always been that. Bertram loves girlsto 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 was admiringto paint.

``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 chance for

``Oh, you needn't,'' laughed Calderwell. ``My giving you the right of way doesn't insure you a thoroughfare

for yourselfthere are others, you know. Billy Neilson has had sighing swains about I her, I imagine, since

she could walk and talk. She is a wonderfully fascinating little bit of femininity, and she has a heart of pure

There was no answer. Arkwright sat with his eyes on the moving throng outside 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

Miss Billy Neilson, or the way to her heart. Nor was the young lady mentioned between them again that day.

``Calderwell, I'm sorry, but I believe, after all, I can't take that trip to the lakes with you. I I'm going home

``Yes, and no. I'll own I've been drifting about with you contentedly enough for the last six months to make

you think mountainclimbing and boatpaddling were the end and aim of my existence. But they aren't, you

``Oh, yes, I see. But something besides my education has got to be supplemented now, I reckon.''

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

``Thanks,'' returned his friend, with uplifted eyebrows. ``Do you mind calling it `an angel' just for this

``Oh, the matinegirls will do that fast enough. But, I say, Arkwright, what are you going to do with those

``Oh, no, you won't. And you won't be `Mary Jane,' either. Imagine a Mary Jane in Grand Opera! I know

what you'll be. You'll be `Seor Martini Johnini Arkwrightino'! By the way, you didn't say what that `M. J.'

`` `Merely Jokes'in your estimation, evidently,'' shrugged the other. ``But my going isn't a joke,

``But, honestly, now, toto follow that trail of yours will take money. Ander'' a faint red stole to his

forehead``don't they have erpatrons for these young and budding geniuses? Why can't I have a hand

in this trail, too or maybe you'd call it a foot, eh? I'd be no end glad to, Arkwright.''

``Thanks, old man.'' The red was duplicated this time above the brown silky beard. ``That was mighty kind of

you, and I appreciate it; but it won't be necessary. A generous, but perhaps misguided bachelor uncle left me

a few thousands a year or so ago; and I'm going to put them all down my throator rather, _into_ itbefore

``I did plan to, when I came over but I've changed my mind. I believe I'd rather work while longer in

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

In the cozy livingroom at Hillside, Billy Neilson's pretty home on Corey Hill, Billy herself sat writing at the

desk. Her pen had just traced the date, ``October twentyfifth,'' when Mrs. Stetson entered with a letter in her

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

``There!'' she exclaimed, as she plumped the breathless and scandalized Aunt Hannah into the biggest easy

chair. ``I feel better. I just had to let off steam some way. It's so lovely you came in just when you did!''

``Indeed! II'm not so sure of that,'' stammered the lady, dropping the letter into her lap, and patting with

agitated fingers her cap, her curls, the two shawls about her shoulders, and the lace at her throat. ``My grief

``Hope not,'' purred Billy cheerfully, dropping herself on to a low hassock at Aunt Hannah's feet.

``As if I didn't know that, when I've just written a dozen notes to announce it! And, oh, Aunt Hannah, such a

time as I've had, telling what a dear Bertram is, and how I love, love, _love_ him, and what beautiful eyes he

``Write it? Oh, no! That's only what I _wanted_ to write,'' chuckled Billy. ``What I really did write was as

staid and proper ashere, let me show you,'' she broke off, springing to her feet and running over to her

desk. ``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 and spreading it open before Aunt Hannah's suspicious eyes.

``Well, I like that!after all my stern self control and selfsacrifice to keep out all those things I _wanted_

to write,'' bridled Billy. ``Besides, they'd have been ever so much more interesting reading than these will be,''

``I'm writing to Belle Calderwell, now,'' she announced musingly, dropping herself again on the hassock. ``I

``He ought not to be. I told him long, long ago, the very first time, thatthat I couldn't.''

``I know, dear; butthey don't always understand.'' Aunt Hannah sighed in sympathy with the faraway

``He _will_ be surprised,'' she said. ``He told me once that Bertram wouldn't ever care for any girl except to

paint. To paint, indeed! As if Bertram didn't love mejust _me!_if he never saw another tube of paint!''

``Just think; we've been engaged almost four weeksand tomorrow it'll be announced. I'm so glad I didn't

``Oh, there didn't anybody know it, either not even Cyril himself,'' dimpled Billy, mischievously. ``I just

engaged myself to him in imagination, you know, to see how I'd like it. I didn't like it. But it didn't last,

anyhow, very long just three weeks, I believe. Then I broke it off,'' she finished, with unsmiling mouth, but

``But I _am_ glad only the family knew about my engagement to Uncle Williamoh, Aunt Hannah, you

don't know how good it does seem to call him `Uncle' again. It was always slipping out, anyhow, all the time

``That only goes to prove, my dear, how entirely unsuitable it was, from the start.''

``I know; but if a girl _will_ think a man is asking for a wife when all he wants is a daughter, and if she

blandly says `Yes, thank you, I'll marry you,' I don't know what you can expect!''

``You can expect just what you gotmisery, and almost a tragedy,'' retorted Aunt Hannah, severely.

``Dear Uncle William! What a jewel he was, all the way through! And he'd have marched straight to the altar,

too, with never a flicker of an eyelid, I knowselfsacrificing martyr that he was!''

``Martyr!'' bristled Aunt Hannah, with extraordinary violence for her. ``I'm thinking that term belonged

somewhere else. A month ago, Billy Neilson, you did not look as if you'd live out half your days. But I

suppose _you'd_ have gone to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an eyelid!''

``But I thought I had to,'' protested Billy. ``I couldn't grieve Uncle William so, after Mrs. Hartwell had said

``There are times whenwhen I think it would be wiser if Mrs. Kate Hartwell would attend to her own

``WhyAunt Hannah!'' reproved Billy in mischievous horror. ``I'm shocked at you!''

``There, there, child, forget I said it. I ought not to have said it, of course,'' she murmured agitatedly.

``You should have heard what Uncle William said! But never mind. We all found out the mistake before it

was too late, and everything is lovely now, even to Cyril and Marie. Did you ever see anything so beatifically

happy as that couple are? Bertram says he hasn't heard a dirge from Cyril's rooms for three weeks; and that if

anybody else played the kind of 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'm not actually forgetting what I came

in here for,'' cried Aunt Hannah, fumbling in the folds of her dress for the letter that had slipped from her lap.

``Well, not really, you know. She calls me `Aunt,' just as you and the Henshaw boys do. But I really am

related to _her_, for her mother and I are third cousins, while it was my husband who was distantly related to

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

``Then I'll read it. Itit rather annoys me in some ways. I thought the whole family understood that I wasn't

living by myself any longer that I 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 itat least, as if this girl didn't.''

``I don't know; but she must be some old, to be coming here to Boston to study music, alone singing, I

``Nobut that isn't strange. They live West. I haven't seen any of them for years. I know there are several

childrenand I suppose I've been told their names. I know there's a boythe eldest, I thinkwho is quite a

singer, and there's a girl who paints, I believe; but I don't seem to remember a `Mary Jane.' ''

``Never mind! Suppose we let Mary Jane speak for herself,'' suggested Billy, dropping her chin into the small

``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 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 addressand I shall

``Yes, but Billy, do you think she is expecting me to invite her to make her home with me? I shall have to

``Why, it soundeda littlethat way; but'' Suddenly her face cleared. ``Aunt Hannah, I've thought of the

``Oh, Billy, I couldn't think of letting you do that,'' demurred Aunt Hannah. ``You're very kindbut, oh, no;

``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 then she can have the little blue room next to me.''

``We know she's your niece, and she's lonesome; and we know she's musical. I shall love her for every one of

``All the more reason why she should be looked out for, then,'' retorted Billy, promptly. ``Why, Aunt Hannah,

just as if you didn't want to give this lonesome, unprotected young girl a home!''

``Nonsense! What if she shouldn't like us?'' laughed Billy. ``However, if you'd feel better, just ask her to

come and stay with us a month. We shall keep her all right, afterwards. See if we don't!''

``Very well, dear. I'll write, of course, as you tell me to; and it's lovely of you to do it. Now I'll leave you to

Aunt Hannah, fearing a second dizzying whirl impelled by those same young arms, drew her shawls about

``Oh, I won't againtoday,'' she promised merrily. Then, as the lady reached the arched doorway: ``Tell

Mary Jane to let us know the day and train and we'll meet her. Oh, and Aunt Hannah, tell her to wear a

Bertram called that evening. Before the open fire in the livingroom he found a pensive Billy awaiting

hima Billy who let herself be kissed, it is true, and who even kissed back, shyly, adorably; but a Billy who

``Why, darling, what's the matter?'' he demanded, his own eyes growing wide and frightened.

``Our engagement. It'sannounced. I wrote stacks of notes today, and even now there are some left for

tomorrow. And then there'sthe newspapers. Bertram, right away, now, _everybody_ will know it.'' Her

``Sorry! Oh, never, Bertram! It's only that it won't be ours any longerthat is, it won't belong to just our two

selves. Everybody will know it. And they'll bow and smile and say `How lovely!' to our faces, and `Did you

Across Bertram's face swept surprise, consternation, and dismay. Bertram had thought he knew Billy in all

Billy drew another sigh. It seemed to come from the very bottoms of her small, satinslippered feet.

``Well, I am. You're _the_ Bertram Henshaw. You know lots and lots of people that I never even saw. And

they'll come and stand around and stare and lift their lorgnettes and say: `Is that the one? Dear me!' ''

``Nonsense, sweetheart! I should think you were a picture I'd painted and hung on a wall.''

``I shall feel as if I werewith all those friends of yours. Bertram, what if they don't like it?'' Her voice had

``They can't help liking it,'' he retorted, with the prompt certainty of an adoring lover.

``Oh, yes, they can. I can hear them. `What, _she_Bertram Henshaw's wife?a frivolous, inconsequential

``Billy'' like that?' Bertram!'' Billy turned fiercely despairing eyes on her lover``Bertram, sometimes I

wish my name were `Clarissa Cordelia,' or `Arabella Maud,' or `Hannah Jane'anything that's feminine and

Bertram's ringing laugh brought a faint smile to Billy's lips. But the words that followed the laugh, and the

`` `Hannah Jane,' indeed! As if I'd exchange my Billy for her or any Clarissa or Arabella that ever grew! I

``Yesif there be any,'' laughed Bertram, fondly. ``But, see,'' he added, taking a tiny box from his pocket,

``see what I've brought for this same Billy to wear. She'd have had it long ago if she hadn't insisted on

``Oh, Bertram, what a beauty!'' dimpled Billy, as the flawless diamond in Bertram's fingers caught the light

``Now you are minereally mine, sweetheart!'' The man's voice and hand shook as he slipped the ring on

``And I'm so glad to beyours, dear,'' she murmured brokenly. ``Andand I'll make you proud that I am

yours, even if I am just `Billy,' '' she choked. ``Oh, I know I'll write such beautiful, beautiful songs now.''

``Care, darling? of course I care! You know how I love your music. I care about everything that concerns

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

``You mean, you likethe turn of my head and the tilt of my chin?'' she asked a little breathlessly.

``Oh, it's all right, of course,'' she assured him hastily. ``It's only'' Billy stopped and blushed. Billy was

thinking of what Hugh Calderwell had once said to her: that Bertram Henshaw would never love any girl

seriously; that it would always be the turn of her head or the tilt of her chin that he lovedto paint.

``Nothing, only something Hugh Calderwell said to me once. You see, Bertram, I don't think Hugh ever

``Oh, didn't he?'' bridled Bertram. ``Well, that only goes to show how much he knows about it. Erdid you

``No; but I did to his sister, and she'll tell him. Oh, Bertram, such a time as I had over those notes,'' went on

Billy, with a chuckle. Her eyes were dancing, and she was seeming more like her usual self, Bertram thought.

``You see there were such a lot of things I wanted to say, about what a dear you were, and how much II

``Goosey! You are as bad as Aunt Hannah! I said that was what I _wanted_ to say. What I really said

``You witch!'' His admiring eyes still lingered on her face. ``Billy, I'm going to paint you sometime in just

``Isn't it? And then the girl herself! Have you seen her? But you haven't, I know, unless you met her abroad.

``No, I haven't seen her. Is she so _very_ beautiful?'' Billy spoke a little soberly.

``Yesand no.'' The artist lifted his head alertly. What Billy called his ``painting look'' came to his face. ``It

isn't that her features are so regularthough her mouth and chin are perfect. But her face has so much

character, and there's an elusive something about her eyes Jove! If I can only catch it, it'll be the best thing

``Will it? I'm so gladand you'll get it, I know you will,'' claimed Billy, clearing her throat a little nervously.

``I wish I felt so sure,'' sighed Bertram. ``But it'll be a great thing if I do get itJ. G. Winthrop's daughter,

``Yes; yes, indeed!'' Billy cleared her throat again. ``You've seen her, of course, lately?''

``Oh, yes. I was there half the morning discussing the detailssittings and costume, and deciding on the

``Find one!'' The artist made a despairing gesture. ``I found a dozen that I wanted. The trouble was to tell

``Marguerite!'' cried Billy. ``Oh, is her name Marguerite? I do think Marguerite is the dearest name!'' Billy's

``I don'tnot the _dearest_. Oh, it's all well enough, of course, but it can't be compared for a moment

``Yes, I am; though, for that matter, I should love your name, no matter what it was.''

``Even if 'twas `Mary Jane,' eh?'' bantered Billy. ``Well, you'll have a chance to find out how you like that

``Mercy! I hope not,'' shuddered Billy. ``You don't find a Rosa in every kitchenand never in employment

agencies! My Mary Jane is a niece of Aunt Hannah's,or rather, a cousin. She's coming to Boston to study

music, and I've invited her here. We've asked her for a month, though I presume we shall keep her right

``Well, of course, that's very nice for_Mary Jane_,'' he sighed with meaning emphasis.

``Oh, yes, she will,'' sighed Bertram. ``She'll be 'roundlots; you see if she isn't. Billy, I think sometimes

``Never!'' laughed Billy. Besides, what would you have me do when a lonesome young girl was coming to

Boston? Anyhow, _you're_ not the one to talk, young man. I've known _you_ to take in a lonesome girl and

``Jove! What a time that was!'' he exclaimed, regarding his companion with fond eyes. ``And Spunk, too! Is

``Of course she is! I told her to. How do you suppose we could know her when we saw her, if she didn't?''

demanded the girl, indignantly. ``And what is more, sir, there will be _two_ pinks worn this time. _I_ sha'n't

do as Uncle William did, and leave off my pink. Only think what long minutes that seemed hours of

miseryI spent waiting there in that trainshed, just because I didn't know which man was my Uncle

``Well, your Mary Jane won't probably turn out to be quite such a bombshell as our Billy didunless she

should prove to be a boy,'' he added whimsically. ``Oh, but Billy, she _can't_ turn out to be such a dear

treasure,'' finished the man. And at the adoring look in his eyes Billy blushed deeplyand promptly forgot

``I have a letter here from Mary Jane, my dear,'' announced Aunt Hannah at the luncheon table one day.

``Have you?'' Billy raised interested eyes from her own letters. ``What does she say?''

``She will be here Thursday. Her train is due at the South Station at fourthirty. She seems to be very grateful

to you for your offer to let her come right here for a month; but she says she's afraid you don't realize,

perhaps, just what you are doingto take her in like that, with her singing, and all.''

``Oh, no; she doesn't refusebut she doesn't accept either, exactly, as I can see. I've read the letter over

twice, too. I'll let you judge for yourself by and by, when you have time to read it.''

``Never mind. I don't want to read it. She's just a little shy about coming, that's all. She'll stay all right, when

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

``Oh, that will be easy. We'll just go to the Carletons' early and have John wait, then take us from there to the

South Station. Meanwhile we'll make sure that the little blue room is all ready for her. I put in my white

enamel workbasket yesterday, and that pretty little blue case for hairpins and curling tongs that I bought at

``As if it could look any other way, if _you_ had anything to do with it,'' sighed Aunt Hannah, admiringly.

``If we get stranded we might ask the Henshaw boys to help us out, Aunt Hannah. They'd probably suggest

``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 have seen it before they took out those guns and spiders!''

``As if I didn't see quite enough when I saw William's face that morning he came for me!'' retorted Aunt

``Dear Uncle William! What an old saint he has been all the way through,'' mused Billy aloud. ``And

Cyrilwho would ever have believed that the day would come when Cyril would say to me, as he did last

night, that he felt as if Marie had been gone a month. It's been just seven days, you know.''

``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 since his engagement; but I notice that up here where Marie might be, but

isn'this tunes would never be mistaken for ragtime. By the way,'' she added, as she rose from the table,

``that's another surprise in store for Hugh Calderwell. He always declared that Cyril wasn't a marrying man,

either, any more than Bertram. You know he said Bertram only cared for girls to paint; but'' She stopped

and looked inquiringly at Rosa, who had appeared at that moment in the hall doorway.

A few minutes later Aunt Hannah heard Billy at the piano. For fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes the brilliant

scales and arpeggios rippled through the rooms and up the stairs to Aunt Hannah, who knew, by the very

sound of them, that some unusual nervousness was being worked off at the finger tips that played them. At

``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. Her fingers busied themselves with some music

``Well, he didn't want toso of course I said not to. He's been painting this morning on a new portrait, and

she said he might stay to luncheon and keep right on for a while this afternoon, if he liked. Andhe did like,

``Oh, no, not at all,'' interposed Billy, lightly. ``He told me all about it the other night. It's going to be a very

wonderful portrait; and, of course, I wouldn't want to interfere withhis work!'' And again a brilliant scale

Slowly Aunt Hannah turned and went upstairs. Her eyes were troubled. Not since Billy's engagement had

Bertram did not find a pensive Billy awaiting him that evening. He found a brighteyed, flushedcheeked

Billy, who let herself be kissed oncebut who did not kiss back; a blithe, elusive Billy, who played

tripping little melodies, and sang jolly little songs, instead of sitting before the fire and talking; a Billy who at

``Sweetheart, you were a dear this noon to let me off like that,'' he began in a voice shaken with emotion.

``You don't know, perhaps, exactly what 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 point where one little word from you, one hint that

you wanted me to come anywayand I should have come. But you didn't say it, nor hint it. Like the brave

little bit of inspiration that you are, you bade me stay and go on with my work.''

The ``inspiration's'' head drooped a little lower, but this only brought a wealth of soft bronze hair to just

where Bertram could lay his cheek against itand Bertram promptly took advantage of his opportunity.

``And so 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 at arms' length``Billy, that's going to be the best work I've ever done.

Billy lifted her head and looked into her lover's face. His eyes were glowing. His cheeks were flushed. His

whole countenance was aflame with the soul of the artist who sees his vision taking shape before him. And

``Oh, Bertram, I'm proud, proud, _proud_ of you!'' she breathed. ``Come, let's go over to the fireand talk!''

Billy with John and Peggy met Marie Hawthorn at the station. ``Peggy'' was short for ``Pegasus,'' and was

``I simply won't call it `automobile,' '' she had declared when she bought it. ``In the first place, it takes too

long to say it, and in the second place, I don't want to add one more to the nineteen different ways to

pronounce it that I hear all around me every day now. As for calling it my `car,' or my `motor car'I should

expect to see a Pullman or one of those huge black trucks before my door, if I ordered it by either of those

names. Neither will I insult the beautiful thing by calling it a `machine.' Its name is Pegasus. I shall call it

And ``Peggy'' she called it. John sniffed his disdain, and Billy's friends made no secret of their amused

tolerance; but, in an astonishingly short time, half the automobile owners of her acquaintance were calling

their own cars ``Peggy''; and even the dignified John himself was heard to order ``some gasoline for Peggy,''

When Marie Hawthorn stepped from the train at the North Station she greeted Billy with affectionate warmth,

``Goosey! No, he didn'ta _little_ bit; but he did a great _big_ bit. As if you didn't know he was dying to

come, Marie! But he simply couldn'tsomething about his concert Monday night. He told me over the

telephone; but between his joy that you were coming, and his rage that he couldn't see you the first minute

you did come, I couldn't quite make out what was the trouble. But he's coming to dinner tonight, so he'll

``No, he isn't sick, Marie; but you needn't go away again before the weddingnot to leave him on my hands.

I wouldn't have believed Cyril Henshaw, confirmed old bachelor and avowed womanhater, could have acted

Marie laughed. She did not say anything, but the roseflush deepened as she occupied herself very busily in

Cyril was not mentioned again until the two girls, veils tied and coats buttoned, were snugly ensconced in the

``Not quite. We're going to talk of that tonight; but we _do_ know that we aren't going to live at the Strata.''

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

``But, dear, it wouldn't be wise, I'm sure,'' she argued hastily. ``There will be you and Bertram''

``We sha'n't be there for a year, nearly,'' cut in Billy, with swift promptness. ``Besides, I think it would be

``I know; you're worrying about those puddings of yours. You're afraid somebody is going to interfere with

your making quite so many as you want to; and Cyril is worrying for fear there'll be somebody else in the

circle of his shaded lamp besides his little Marie with the light on her hair, and the mending basket by her

``Oh, just a little picture Cyril drew once for me of what home meant for him: a room with a table and a

shaded lamp, and a little woman beside it with the light on her hair and a great basket of sewing by her side.''

``Yes. Oh, he declared he shouldn't want her to sit under that lamp all the time, of course; but he hoped she'd

Marie threw a quick glance at the stolid back of John beyond the two empty seats in front of them. Although

``No, only that there was a girl somewhere who, he hoped, would sit under the lamp some day. And when I

asked him if the girl did like that sort of thing, he said yes, he thought so; for she had told him once that the

things she liked best of all to do were to mend stockings and make puddings. Then I knew, of course, 'twas

you, for I'd heard you say the same 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 turned again to John's broad back, then

drifted to the long, imposing line of windowed walls and doorways on the right. The automobile was passing

smoothly along Beacon Street now with the Public Garden just behind them on the left. After a moment

``I'm so glad he wantsjust puddings and stockings,'' she began a little breathlessly. ``You see, for so long I

supposed he _wouldn't_ want anything but a very brilliant, talented wife who could play and sing beautifully;

``Me? Nonsense!'' laughed Billy. ``Cyril never wanted me, and I never wanted himonly 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 people

around; he doesn't. I like to go to plays; he doesn't. He likes rainy days, and I abhor them. Mercy! Life with

me for him would be one long jangling 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 up the curveless street.

``Oh, did Cyril write you? A young relative of Aunt Hannah's is coming tomorrow to stay a while at the

``There, what did I tell you?'' dimpled Billy. ``You can see what you're coming to when you do get that

A moment later, coming in sight of the house, Billy saw a tall, smoothshaven man standing on the porch.

The man lifted his hat and waved it gayly, baring a slightly bald head to the sun.

``It's Uncle Williambless his heart!'' cried Billy. ``They're all coming to dinner, then he and Aunt Hannah

and Bertram and I are going down to the Hollis Street Theatre and let you and Cyril have a taste of what that

shaded lamp is going to be. I hope you won't be lonesome,'' she finished mischievously, as the car drew up

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

At two o'clock Aunt Hannah tapped at Billy's chamber door. She showed a troubled face to the girl who

``Billy, _would_ you mind very much if I asked you to go alone to the Carletons' and to meet Mary Jane?''

``Why, nothat is, of course I should _mind_, dear, because I always like to have you go to places with me.

``Nno, not exactly; but I have been sneezing all the morning, and taking camphor and sugar to break it

``Why, of course you sha'n't go, you poor dear! Mercy! don't get one of those dreadful colds on to you before

the wedding! Have you felt a draft? Where's another shawl?'' Billy turned and cast searching eyes about the

roomBilly always kept shawls everywhere for Aunt Hannah's shoulders and feet. Bertram had been known

to say, indeed, that a room, according to Aunt Hannah, was not fully furnished unless it contained from one to

four shawls, assorted as to size and warmth. Shawls, certainly, did seem to be a necessity with Aunt Hannah,

as she usually wore from one to three at the same timewhich again caused Bertram to declare that he

always counted Aunt Hannah's shawls when he wished to know what the thermometer was.

``No, I'm not cold, and I haven't felt a draft,'' said Aunt Hannah now. ``I put on my thickest gray shawl this

morning with the little pink one for downstairs, and the blue one for breakfast; so you see I've been very

careful. But I _have_ sneezed six times, so I think 'twould be safer not to 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 any more than you do; so I couldn't be

``Not a bit,'' smiled Billy, cheerily. ``Don't give it another thought, my dear. I sha'n't have a bit of trouble. All

I'll have to do is to look for a girl alone with a pink. Of course I'll have mine on, too, and she'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,'' finished Billy, stooping to give the soft, faintly pink cheek a warm kiss.

``Well, thank you, my dear; perhaps I will,'' sighed Aunt Hannah, drawing the gray shawl about her as she

Mrs. Carleton's tea that afternoon was, for Billy, not an occasion of unalloyed joy. It was the first time she

had appeared at a gathering of any size since the announcement of her engagement; and, as she dolefully told

Bertram afterwards, she had very much the feeling of the picture hung on the wall.

``And they _did_ put up their lorgnettes and say, `Is _that_ the one?' '' she declared; ``and I know some of

But Billy did not stay long in Mrs. Carleton's softlylighted, flowerperfumed rooms. At ten minutes past

four she was saying goodby to a group of friends who were vainly urging her to remain longer.

``I can'tI really can't,'' she declared. ``I'm due at the South Station at half past four to meet a Miss

Arkwright, a young cousin of Aunt Hannah's, whom I've never seen before. We're to meet at the sign of the

``Let me see, my dear; if I remember rightly, you've had experience before, meeting at this sign of the pink.

At least, I have a very vivid recollection of Mr. William Henshaw's going once to meet a _boy_ with a pink,

who turned out to be a girl. Now, to even things up, your girl should turn out to be a boy!''

``Perhapsbut I don't think today will strike the balance,'' she retorted, backing toward the door. ``This

young lady's name is `Mary Jane'; and I'll leave it to you to find anything very masculine in that!''

It was a short drive from Mrs. Carleton's Commonwealth Avenue home to the South Station, and Peggy made

as quick work of it as the narrow, congested cross streets would allow. In ample time Billy found herself in

At twentynine minutes past four Billy left her seat and walked down the trainshed platform to Track

Number Fourteen. She had pinned the pink now to the outside of her long coat, and it made an attractive dash

of white against the darkblue velvet. Billy was looking particularly lovely today. Framing her face was the

During the brief minutes' wait before the clanging locomotive puffed into view far down the long track,

Billy's thoughts involuntarily went back to that other watcher beside a train gate not quite five years before.

``Dear Uncle William!'' she murmured tenderly. Then suddenly she laughedso nearly aloud that a man

behind her gave her a covert glance from curious eyes. ``My! but what a jolt I must have been to Uncle

The next minute she drew nearer the gate and regarded with absorbed attention the long line of passengers

Hurrying men came first, with long strides, and eyes that looked straight ahead. These Billy let pass with a

mere glance. The next group showed a sprinkling of womenwomen whose trig hats and linen collars

spelled promptness as well as certainty of aim and accomplishment. To these, also, Billy paid scant attention.

Couples came nextthe men anxiouseyed, and usually walking two steps ahead of their companions; the

women plainly flustered and hurried, and invariably buttoning gloves or gathering up trailing ends of scarfs

The crowd was thickening fast, now, and Billy's eyes were alert. Children were appearing, and young women

walking alone. One of these wore a bunch of violets. Billy gave her a second glance. Then she saw a

pinkbut it was on the coat lapel of a tall young fellow with a brown beard; so with a slight frown she

Old men came now, and old women; fleshy women, and women with small children and babies. Couples

came, toodawdling couples, plainly newly married: the men were not two steps ahead, and the women's

Gradually the line thinned, and soon there were left only an old man with a cane, and a young woman with

three children. Yet nowhere had Billy seen a girl wearing a white carnation, and walking alone.

With a deeper frown on her face Billy turned and looked about her. She thought that somewhere in the crowd

she had missed Mary Jane, and that she would find her now, standing near. But there was no one standing

near except the goodlooking young fellow with the little pointed brown beard, who, as Billy noticed a

As she glanced toward him, their eyes met. Then, to Billy's unbounded amazement, the man advanced with

``I thought soyet I was expecting to see you with Aunt Hannah. I am M. J. Arkwright, Miss Neilson.''

``But I thoughtwe were expecting'' She stopped helplessly. For one more brief instant she stared; then,

``Ohoh!'' she chuckled. ``How perfectly funny! You _have_ evened things up, after all. To think that Mary

Jane should be a'' She paused and flashed almost angrily suspicious eyes into his face. ``But mine _was_

``I am often called that.'' His brown eyes twinkled, but they did not swerve from their direct gaze into her

``But'' Billy hesitated, and turned her eyes away. She saw then that many curious glances were already

being flung in her direction. The color in her cheeks deepened. With an odd little gesture she seemed to toss

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. OrI forgotyou have a trunk, of course?''

``Thank you; but, Miss Neilson, reallyI couldn't think of trespassing on your hospitality now, you

``I beg your pardon, but it _is_ funny,'' she sighed. ``You see _I_ came once just the same way, and now to

have the tables turned like this! What will Aunt Hannah saywhat will everybody say? Come, I want them

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

``But I'm afraid Aunt Hannah will think'' Billy stopped abruptly. Some distance away she saw John

coming toward them. She turned hurriedly to the man at her side. Her eyes still danced, but her voice was

mockingly serious. ``Really, Mr. Mary Jane, I'm afraid you'll have to come to dinner; then you can settle the

rest with Aunt Hannah. John is almost upon us and _I_ don't want to make explanations. Do you?''

``John,'' she said airily to the somewhat dazed chauffeur (who had been told 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

All the way to the telephone booth Billy was trying to bring order out of the chaos of her mind; but all the

``To think that this thing should have happened to _me!_'' she said, almost aloud. ``And here I am

telephoning just like Uncle WilliamBertram said Uncle William _did_ telephone about _me!_''

``Aunt Hannah, listen. I'd never have believed it, but it's happened. Mary Jane isa man.''

Billy heard a dismayed gasp and a muttered ``Oh, my grief and conscience!'' then a shaking ``Whaat?''

``Yes; a great big man with a brown beard. He's waiting now with John and I must go.''

``But, Billy, I don't understand,'' chattered an agitated voice over the line. ``Hehe called himself `Mary

Jane.' He hasn't any business to be a big man with a brown beard! What shall we do? We don't want a big

``I don't know. _You_ asked him! How he will like that little blue roomAunt Hannah!'' Billy's voice turned

suddenly tragic. ``For pity's sake take out those curling tongs and hairpins, and the workbasket. I'd _never_

``No, no, dear; he won't, I know. He says he's going to a hotel. But I had to bring him home to dinner; there

was no other way, under the circumstances. He won't stay. Don't you worry. But goodby. I must go.

_Remember those curling tongs!_'' And the receiver clicked sharply against the hook.

In the automobile some minutes later, Billy and Mr. M. J. Arkwright were speeding toward Corey Hill. It was

during a slight pause in the conversation that Billy turned to her companion with a demure:

``She said you called yourself `Mary Jane,' and that you hadn't any business to be a big man with a brown

``I'm afraid I owe Aunt Hannah an apology,'' he said. He hesitated, glanced admiringly at the glowing,

halfaverted face near him, then went on decisively. He wore the air of a man who has set the match to his

bridges. ``I signed both letters `M. J. Arkwright,' but in the first one I 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 she said, I realized that she thought I was a real Mary Jane. For the joke of the thing I let

it pass. Butif she noticed my letter carefully, she saw that I did not accept your kind invitation to give

``Yes, we noticed that,'' nodded Billy, merrily. ``But we didn't think you meant 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 `Mary

Jane' was particularly funnyfor me; for, though perhaps you didn't know it, I came once to this very same

city, wearing a pink, and was expected to be Billy, a boy. And only today a lady warned me that your

``Yes, I heard about that coming of yours. I might almost saythat's why Ilet the mistake pass in Aunt

``Oh, how couldyou? But thenit was a temptation!'' She laughed suddenly. ``What sinful joy you must

``I didn't,'' acknowledged the other, with unexpected candor. ``I feltashamed. And when I saw you were

there alone without Aunt Hannah, I came very near not speaking at alluntil I realized that that would be

``Of course it would,'' smiled Billy, brightly; ``so I don't see but I shall have to forgive you, after all. And

here we are at home, Mr. Mary Jane. By the way, what did you say that `M. J.' did stand for?'' she asked, as

The man did not seem to hear; at least he did not answer. He was helping his hostess to alight. A moment

later a plainly agitated Aunt Hannah her gray shawl topped with a huge black one opened the door of

At ten minutes before six on the afternoon of Arkwright's arrival, Billy came into the living room to

welcome the three Henshaw brothers, who, as was frequently the case, were dining at Hillside.

Bertram thought Billy had never looked prettier than she did this afternoon with the bronze sheen of her

pretty house gown bringing out the bronze lights in her dark eyes and in the soft waves of her beautiful hair.

Her countenance, too, carried a peculiar something that the artist's eye was quick to detect, and that the artist's

``Jove! Billy,'' he said low in her ear, as he greeted her, ``I wish I had a brush in my hand this minute. I'd have

Billy laughed and dimpled her appreciation; but down in her heart she was conscious of a vague unrest. Billy

``Oh, yes, Marie's coming,'' she smiled in answer to the quick shifting of Cyril's eyes to the hall doorway.

``Will's getting nervous,'' volunteered Bertram, airily. ``He wants to see Mary Jane. You see we've told him

that we shall expect him to see that she doesn't bother us four too much, you know. He's expected always to

remove her quietly but effectually, whenever he sees that she is likely to interrupt a ttette. Naturally, then,

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

``Don't, don'tplease don't!'' she choked, ``or I shall die. I've had all I can stand, already.''

``Is she soimpossible?'' This last was from Bertram, spoken softly, and with a hurried glance toward the

Billy dropped her hands and lifted her head. By heroic effort she pulled her face into sobriety all but her

``Yes. Oh, Uncle William, I know now just how you feltI know, I know,'' gurgled Billy, incoherently.

``There he stood with his pink just as I didonly he had a brown beard, and he didn't have Spunkand I

had to telephone to prepare folks, just as you did. And the room the room! I fixed the room, too,'' she

babbled breathlessly, ``only I had curling tongs and hair pins in it instead of guns and spiders!''

``I'll tell you. I must tell you. Aunt Hannah is keeping him upstairs so I can tell you,'' she panted. ``But it

was so funny, when I expected a girl, you know, to see him with his brown beard, and he was so tall and big!

And, of course, it made me think how _I_ came, and was a girl when you expected a boy; and Mrs. Carleton

had just said today that maybe this girl would even things up. Oh, it was so funny!''

``I don't know his name, except that it's `M. J.'and that's how he signed the letters. But he _is_ called

`Mary Jane' sometimes, and in the letter he quoted somebody's speechI've forgotten just howbut in it he

was called `Mary Jane,' and, of course, Aunt Hannah took him for a girl,'' explained Billy, grown a little more

``But, see here, Billy, he isn't going to live here now?'' Bertram's voice was almost savage.

``Oh, no, he isn't going to live herenow,'' interposed smooth tones from the doorway.

Three crimsonfaced men sprang to their feet. The situation, for a moment, threatened embarrassed misery

for all concerned; but Arkwright, with a cheery smile, advanced straight toward Bertram, and held out a

``The proverbial fate of listeners,'' he said easily; ``but I don't blame you at all. No, `he' isn't going to live

here,'' he went on, grasping each brother's hand in turn, as Billy murmured faint introductions; ``and what is

more, he hereby asks everybody's pardon for the annoyance his little joke has caused. He might add that he's

heartilyashamed of himself, as well; but if any of you'' Arkwright turned to the three tall men still

standing by their chairs ``if any of you had suffered what 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 of Mary Janeif

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 and Cyril

laughed shamefacedly and sat down. Somebody said: ``But what does the `M. J.' stand for, anyhow?'' Nobody

answered this, however; perhaps because Aunt Hannah and Marie appeared just then in the doorway.

Dinner proved to be a lively meal. In the newcomer, Bertram met his match for wit and satire; and ``Mr.

Mary Jane,'' as he was promptly called by every one but Aunt Hannah, was found to be a most entertaining

Cyril frowned, and got up abruptly. Still frowning, he turned to a bookcase near him and began to take down

``Which is it, Cyril?'' he called with cheerful impertinence; ``stool, piano, or audience that is the matter

``You see,'' explained Bertram, jauntily, to Arkwright, whose eyes were slightly puzzled, ``Cyril never plays

unless the piano and the pedals and the weather and your ears and my watch and his fingers are just right!''

``Nonsense!'' scorned Cyril, dropping his book and walking back to his chair. ``I don't feel like playing

``Why, yes, of course, ' chimed in Aunt Hannah with some nervousness. ``That's what sheI mean hewas

``Won't you sing, please?'' asked Billy. ``Can youwithout your notes? I have lots of songs if you want

For a momentbut only a momentArkwright hesitated; then he rose and went to the piano.

With the easy sureness of the trained musician his fingers dropped to the keys and slid into preliminary

chords and arpeggios to test the touch of the piano; then, with a sweetness and purity that made every listener

turn in amazed delight, a welltrained tenor began the ``Thro' the leaves the night winds moving,'' of

Cyril's chin had lifted at the first tone. He was listening now with very obvious pleasure. Bertram, too, was

showing by his attitude the keenest appreciation. William and Aunt Hannah, resting back in their chairs, were

contentedly nodding their approval to each other. Marie in her corner was motionless with rapture. As to

BillyBilly was plainly oblivious of everything but the song and the singer. She seemed scarcely to move or

to breathe till the song's completion; then there came a low ``Oh, how beautiful!'' through her parted lips.

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

``I wish I could paint a `Face of a Girl,' '' smiled the tenor as he turned from the piano.

``Oh, but, Mr. Arkwright, don't stop,'' objected Billy, springing to her feet and going to her music cabinet by

the piano. ``There's a little song of Nevin's I want you to sing. There, here it is. Just let me play it for you.''

It was the beginning of the end. After Nevin came De Koven, and after De Koven, Gounod. Then came

Nevin again, Billy still playing the accompaniment. Next followed a duet. Billy did not consider herself much

of a singer, but her voice was sweet and true, and not without training. It blended very prettily with the clear,

William and Aunt Hannah still smiled contentedly in their chairs, though Aunt Hannah had reached for the

pink shawl near herthe music had sent little shivers down her spine. Cyril, with Marie, had slipped into the

little reception room across the hall, ostensibly to look at some plans for a house, althoughas everybody

Bertram, still sitting stiffly erect in his chair, was not conscious of a vague irritation now. He was conscious

of a very real, and a very decided onean irritation that was directed against himself, against Billy, and

against this man, Arkwright; but chiefly against music, _#per se_. He hated music. He wished he could sing.

He wondered how long it took to teach a man to sing, anyhow; and he wondered if a man could sing who

At this point the duet came to an end, and Billy and her guest left the piano. Almost at once, after this,

Arkwright made his very graceful adieus, and went off with his suitcase to the hotel where, as he had

William went home then, and Aunt Hannah went upstairs. Cyril and Marie withdrew into a still more

secluded corner to look at their plans, and Bertram found himself at last alone with Billy. He forgot, then, in

the blissful hour he spent with her before the open fire, how he hated music; though he did say, just before he

``Why, I don't know, I'm sure,'' replied Billy, abstractedly; then, with sudden fervor: ``Oh, Bertram, hasn't

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

On the morning after Cyril's first concert of the season, Billy sat sewing with Aunt Hannah in the little

sittingroom at the end of the hall upstairs. Aunt Hannah wore only one shawl this morning,which meant

``Marie ought to be here to mend these stockings,'' remarked Billy, as she critically examined a tiny break in

the black silk mesh stretched across the darningegg in her hand; ``only she'd want a bigger hole. She does so

love to make a beautiful black latticework bridge across a yawning white china seaand you'd think the

safety of an army depended on the way each plank was laid, too,'' she concluded.

``I suppose you don't happen to know if Cyril does wear big holes in his socks,'' resumed Billy, after a

moment's silence. ``If you'll believe it, that thought popped into my head last night when Cyril was playing

that concerto so superbly. It did, actuallyright in the middle of the adagio movement, too. And in spite of

my joy and pride in the music I had all I could do to keep from nudging Marie right there and then and asking

``Billy!'' gasped the shocked Aunt Hannah; but the gasp broke at once into whatin Aunt Hannahpassed

for a chuckle. ``If I remember rightly, when I was there at the house with you at first, my dear, William told

``Horrors!'' Billy waved her stocking in mock despair. ``That will never do in the world. It would break

``Gone to look at an apartment in Cambridge, I believe. Really, Aunt Hannah, between her home hunting in

the morning, and her furnitureand rug hunting in the afternoon, and her poring over houseplans in the

evening, I can't get her to attend to her clothes at all. Never did I see a bride so utterly indifferent to her

``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! Oh, yes, it was. I'll tell you what she got for her trousseau that first day. We started out to

buy two hats, some lace for her wedding gown, some crpe de Chine and net for a little dinner frock, and some

silk for a couple of waists to go with her tailored suit; and what did we get? We purchased a newstyle

eggbeater and a set of cake tins. Marie got into the kitchen department and I simply couldn't get her out of

it. But the next day I was not to be inveigled below stairs by any plaintive prayer for a nutmeg grater or a

soda spoon. She _shopped_ that day, and to some purpose. We accomplished lots.''

``Oh, she has'most everything now. _I've_ seen to that. Of course her outfit is very simple, anyway. Marie

hasn't much money, you know, and she simply won't let me do half what I want to. Still, she had saved up

some money, and I've finally convinced her that a trousseau doesn't consist of eggbeaters and cake tins, and

that Cyril would want her to look pretty. That name will fetch her every time, and I've learned to use it

beautifully. I think if I told her Cyril approved of short hair and nearsightedness she'd I cut off her golden

``What a child you are, Billy! Besides, just as if Marie were the only one in the house who is ruled by a magic

``Well, of course, any girlcares something for the man she loves. Just as if I wouldn't do anything in the

``Oh, that makes me think; who was that young woman Bertram was talking with last evening just after he

``Miss WinthropMiss Marguerite Winthrop. Bertram isis painting her portrait, you know.''

``Oh, is that the one?'' murmured Aunt Hannah. ``Hmm; well, she has a beautiful face.''

``Yes, she has.'' Billy spoke very cheerfully. She even hummed a little tune as she carefully selected a needle

``Dear me! I wonder how it feels to have a peculiar something in your face. Bertram, too, says she has it. He's

trying to `catch it,' he says. I wonder nowif he does catch it, does she lose it?'' Flippant as were the words,

Aunt Hannah smiled indulgentlyAunt Hannah had heard only the flippancy, not the shake.

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

``Why, I'm sure he told me'' Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a questioning pause.

``Yes, I know,'' nodded Billy, brightly; ``but he's told me something since. He isn't going. He telephoned me

this morning. Miss Winthrop wanted the sitting changed from tomorrow to this afternoon. He said he knew

``Why, yes; but'' Aunt Hannah did not finish her sentence. The whir of an electric bell had sounded

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

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

``Now wasn't that nice of him? We were talking last night about some duets he had, and he said he'd bring

Billy had almost reached the bottom of the stairway, when a low, familiar strain of music drifted out from the

livingroom. Billy caught her breath, and held her foot suspended. The next moment the familiar strain of

music had become a lullaby one of Billy's ownand sung now by a melting tenor voice that lingered

Motionless and almost breathless, Billy waited until the last low ``lullaby'' vibrated into silence; then with

``I could not resist singing it just once here,'' he said a little unsteadily, as their hands met.

``But to hear my little song sung like that! I couldn't believe it was mine,'' choked Billy, still plainly very

``The inspiration of the roomthat is all,'', he said. ``It is a beautiful song. All of your songs are beautiful.''

``I think I know them allunless you have some new ones out. Have you some new ones, lately?''

``Yes, oh, yes. I know that _now_'' With a swift biting of her lower lip Billy caught herself up in time. As

if she could tell this man, this stranger, what she had told Bertram that night by the firethat she knew that

now, _now_ she would write beautiful songs, with his love, and his pride in her, as incentives. ``Oh, yes, I

think I shall write more one of these days,'' she finished lightly. ``But come, this isn't singing duets! I want to

They sang then, one after another of the duets. To Billy, the music was new and interesting. To Billy, too, it

was new (and interesting) to hear her own voice blending with another's so perfectly to feel herself a part

``Oh, oh!'' she breathed ecstatically, after the last note of a particularly beautiful phrase. ``I never knew before

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 their expression. Still, it might have been better if she had turned, after all. But

Billy's eyes were on the music before her. Her fingers were busy with the fluttering pages, searching for

``Didn't you?'' she murmured abstractedly. ``I supposed _you'd_ sung them before; but you see I never

``This one'' was followed by another and another. Then Billy drew a long breath.

``There! that must positively be the last,'' she declared reluctantly. ``I'm so hoarse now I can scarcely croak.

``Don't you? You sing far better than some who do, anyhow,''retorted the man, warmly.

``Thank you,'' smiled Billy; ``that was nice of you to say sofor my sakeand the others aren't here to care.

But tell me of yourself. I haven't had a chance to ask you yet; andI think you said Mary Jane was going to

``She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she's quite likely to bring up in vaudeville.''

``Calderwell! Do you meanHugh Calderwell?'' Billy's cheeks showed a deeper color.

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

``Yes.'' He hesitated, then plunged on recklessly. ``We tramped half over Europe 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 a little precipitately. ``You've studied before, of course. Your voice shows that.''

``Oh, yes; I've studied singing several years, and I've had a year or two of church work, besides a little

``No, but I am,'' declared Billy, with conviction. ``They couldn't help liking it.''

Arkwright laughed again. Just how well they had ``liked it'' he did not intend to say. Their remarks had been

quite too flattering to repeat even to this very plainly interested young woman delightful and

``Really? How splendid! Why, then you'll be acting them next right on the Boston Opera House stage, and

``But they do let the students appear,'' argued Billy. ``I knew a girl last year who went on

in `Aida,' and she was a pupil at the School. She sang first in a Sunday concert, then they put her in the bill

for a Saturday night. She did splendidlyso well that they gave her a chance later at a subscription

``Thank you! I only wish the powers that could put me there had your flattering enthusiasm on the matter,'' he

``I don't worry any,'' nodded Billy, ``only please don't `arrive' too soonnot before the wedding, you know,''

she added jokingly. ``We shall be too busy to give you proper attention until after that.''

``Yes. Didn't you know? My friend, Miss Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. Cyril Henshaw next month.''

``Oh, _Miss Hawthorn!_ No, I didn't know,'' he murmured; then, with sudden astonishment he added: ``And

``I am.'' Arkwright paused, then went on almost defiantly. ``You see, Calderwell was telling me only last

September how very unmarriageable all the Henshaw brothers were. So I am surprisednaturally,'' finished

``That he has a right to change his mind, of course,'' supplemented Arkwright smilingly, coming to her rescue

in the evident confusion that would not let her finish her sentence. ``But Calderwell made it so emphatic, you

see, about all the brothers. He said that William had lost his heart long ago; that Cyril hadn't any to lose; and

``But, Mr. Arkwright, Bertram isis'' Billy had moistened her lips, and plunged hurriedly in to prevent

Arkwright's next words. But again was she unable to finish her sentence, and again was she forced to listen to

``Is an artist, of course,'' said Arkwright. ``That's what Calderwell declaredthat it would always be the tilt

Billy drew back suddenly. Her face paled. As if _now_ she could tell this man that Bertram Henshaw was

engaged to her! He would find it out soon, of course, for himself; and perhaps he, like Hugh Calderwell,

Thanksgiving came. Once again the Henshaw brothers invited Billy and Aunt Hannah to spend the day with

them. This time, however, there was to be an additional guest present in the person of Marie Hawthorn.

And what a day it was, for everything and everybody concerned! First the Strata itself: from Dong Ling's

kitchen in the basement to Cyril's domain on the top floor, the house was as spick andspan as Pete's eager

old hands could make it. In the drawingroom and in Bertram's den and studio, great clusters of pink roses

perfumed the air, and brightened the sombre richness of the oldtime furnishings. Before the open fire in the

den a sleek gray catadorned with a huge ribbon bow the exact shade of the roses (Bertram had seen to

that!)winked and blinked sleepy yellow eyes. In Bertram's studio the latest ``Face of a Girl'' had made way

for a group of canvases and plaques, every one of which showed Billy Neilson in one pose or another.

Upstairs, where William's chaos of treasures filled shelves and cabinets, the place of honor was given to a

small black velvet square on which rested a pair of quaint Battersea enamel mirror knobs. In Cyril's

roomsusually so austerely barea handsome Oriental rug and several curtaindraped chairs hinted at

When the doorbell rang Pete admitted the ladies with a promptness that was suggestive of surreptitious

watching at some window. On Pete's face the dignity of his high office and the delight of the moment were

fighting for mastery. The dignity held firmly through Mrs. Stetson's friendly greeting; but it fled in defeat

when Billy Neilson stepped over the threshold with a cheery ``Good morning, Pete.''

``Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again,'' stammered the man,delight now in sole possession.

``She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete,'' smiled the eldest Henshaw, hurrying forward.

``I wish she had now,'' whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William's quick stride, had reached Billy's side

``The rug has come, and the curtains, too,'' called a ``householder'' sort of voice that few would have

recognized as belonging to Cyril Henshaw. ``You must all come upstairs and see them after dinner.'' The

voice, apparently, spoke to everybody; but the eyes of the owner of the voice plainly saw only the fairhaired

young woman who stood a little in the shadow behind Billy, and who was looking about her now as at

``You knowI've never beenwhere you livebefore,'' explained Marie Hawthorn in a low, vibrant tone,

In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and guests advanced toward the fire, the sleek gray cat rose, stretched

``Well, Spunkie, come here,'' commanded Billy, snapping her fingers at the slowmoving creature on the

hearthrug. ``Spunkie, when I am your mistress, you'll have to change either your name or your nature. As if I

were going to have such a bunch of independent moderation as you masquerading as an understudy to my

``Spunkie doesn't seem to be worrying.'' The cat had jumped into Billy's lap with a matter ofcourse air that

was unmistakableand to Bertram, adorable. Bertram's eyes, as they rested on Billy, were even fonder than

``I should think they might be,'' she answered. ``Only think how dreadfully upsetting I was in the first place!''

``Nobody knew it but Kateand she didn't _know_ it; she only imagined it,'' he said tersely.

``I'm not so sure,'' she demurred. ``As I look back at it now, I think I can discern a few evidences

myselfthat I was upsetting. I was a bother to Bertram in his painting, I am sure.''

``You were an inspiration,'' corrected Bertram. ``Think of the posing you did for me.''

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

``Well, I admit you were a littleupsetting, at times,'' retorted that individual, with something of his old

``Nonsense!'' cut in William, sharply. ``You were never anything but a comfort in the house, Billy, my

``Thank you,'' murmured Billy, demurely. ``I'll remember thatwhen Pete and I disagree about the table

``Billy,'' he said in a low voice, as the others laughed at her sally, ``you needn't have Pete nor Dong Ling here

``Yes; and where's he grown old? For whom has he worked the last fifty years, while he's been growing old?

I wonder if you think I'd let Pete leave 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 to find Pete in the doorway.

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

It was a good dinner, and it was well served. It could scarcely have been otherwise with Dong Ling in the

kitchen and Pete in the diningroom doing their utmost to please. But even had the turkey been tough instead

of tender, and even had the pies been filled with sawdust instead of with delicious mincemeat, it is doubtful if

four at the table would have known the difference: Cyril and Marie at one end were discussing where to put

their new sideboard in their diningroom, and Bertram and Billy at the other were talking of the next

Thanksgiving, when, according to Bertram, the Strata would have the ``dearest little mistress that ever was

born.'' As if, under these circumstances, the tenderness of the turkey or the toothsomeness of the mince pie

mattered! To Aunt Hannah and William, in the centre of the table, however, it did matter; so it was well, of

``And now,'' said Cyril, when dinner was over, ``suppose you come up and see the rug.''

In compliance with this suggestion, the six trailed up the long flights of stairs then, Billy carrying an extra

``Oh, yes, I knew we should need it,'' she nodded to Bertram, as she picked up the shawl from the hall stand

``Oh, my grief and conscience, Cyril, how _can_ you stand it?to climb stairs like this,'' panted Aunt

Hannah, as she reached the top of the last flight and dropped breathlessly into the nearest chairfrom which

``Well, I'm not sure I couldif I were always to eat a Thanksgiving dinner just before,'' laughed Cyril.

``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 by

``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 so much as a ravelling on the floor up here to

``Of course I want rugs,'' interrupted Cyril, irritably. ``I want them everywhere except in my own especial

den. You don't suppose I want to hear other people clattering over bare floors all day, do you?''

``Of course not!'' Bertram's face was preternaturally grave as he turned to the little music teacher. ``I hope,

Miss Marie, that you wear rubber heels on your shoes,'' he observed solicitously.

``And another thing, Miss Marie,'' he resumed, with the air of a true and tried adviser. ``Just let me give you a

pointer. I've lived with your future husband a good many years, and I know what I'm talking about.''

``Whenever you want to know anything about Cyril, listen to his playing. For instance: if, after dinner, you

hear a dreamy waltz or a sleepy nocturne, you may know that all is well. But if on your ears there falls

anything like a dirge, or the wail of a lost spirit gone mad, better look to your soup and see if it hasn't been

scorched, or taste of your pudding and see if you didn't put in salt instead of sugar.''

``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't the kind that scorches soups or uses salt for sugar. So maybe I'd better put it

to you this way: if you want a new sealskin coat or an extra diamond tiara, tackle him when he plays like

this!'' And with a swift turn Bertram dropped himself to the piano stool and dashed into a rollicking melody

What happened next was a surprise to every one. Bertram, very much as if he were a naughty little boy, was

jerked by a wrathful brother's hand off the piano stool. The next moment the wrathful brother himself sat at

the piano, and there burst on five pairs of astonished ears a crashing dissonance which was but the prelude to

Spellbound they listened while rippling runs and sonorous harmonies filled the room to overflowing, as if

under the fingers of the player there werenot the keyboard of a pianobut the violins, flutes, cornets,

Billy, perhaps, of them all, best understood. She knew that in those tripping melodies and crashing chords

were Cyril's joy at the presence of Marie, his wrath at the flippancy of Bertram, his ecstasy at that for which

the rug and curtains stoodthe little woman sewing in the radiant circle of a shaded lamp. Billy knew that all

this and more were finding voice at Cyril's finger tips. The others, too, understood in a way; but they, unlike

Billy, were not in the habit of finding on a few score bits of wood and ivory a vent for their moods and

The music was softer now. The resounding chords and purling runs had become a belllike melody that

wound itself in and out of a maze of exquisite harmonies, now hiding, now coming out clear and unafraid,

like a mountain stream emerging into a sunlit meadow from the leafy shadows of its forest home.

In a breathless hush the melody quivered into silence. It was Bertram who broke the pause with a

``By George!'' Then, a little unsteadily: ``If it's I that set you going like that, old chap, I'll come up and play

``If you've seen all you want of the rug we'll go downstairs,'' he said nonchalantly.

``But we haven't!'' chorussed several indignant voices. And for the next few minutes not even the owner of

the beautiful Kirman could find any fault with the quantity or the quality of the attention bestowed on his new

possession. But Billy, under cover of the chatter, said reproachfully in his ear:

``I want you to see a couple of Batterseas I got last week,'' cried the collector eagerly, as he led the way to the

black velvet square. ``They're fineand I think she looks like you,'' he finished, turning to Billy, and holding

out one of the knobs, on which was a beautifully executed miniature of a young girl with dark, dreamy eyes.

``Oh, how pretty!'' exclaimed Marie, over Billy's shoulder. ``But what are they?''

``Mirror knobs. I've got lots of them. Would you like to see themreally? They're right here.''

The next minute Marie found herself looking into a cabinet where lay a score 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 howhow queer! Tell me about them, please.''

William drew a long breath. His eyes glistened. William loved to talkwhen he had a curio and a listener.

``I will. Our greatgrandmothers used them, you know, to support their mirrors, or to fasten back their

curtains,'' he explained ardently. ``Now here's another Battersea enamel, but it isn't so good as my new

``But what a beautiful shipon that round one!'' exclaimed Marie. ``And what'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 the white background?regular Chinese mode of decoration, that is.''

``Erany time, William,'' began Bertram, mischievously; but William did not seem to hear.

``Now in this corner,'' he went on, warming to his subject, ``are the enamelled porcelains. They were

probably made at the Worcester works England, you know; and I think many of them are quite as pretty as

the Batterseas. You see it was at Worcester that they invented that variation of the transfer printing process

that they called bat printing, where they used oil instead of ink, and gelatine instead of paper. Now

engravings for that kind of printing were usually in stipple workdots, you knowso the prints on these

knobs can easily be distinguished from those of the transfer printing. See? Now, this one is''

``Er, of course, William, any time'' interposed Bertram again, his eyes twinkling.

``But 'twas lovely, and I _was_ interested, really,'' claimed Marie. ``Besides, there are such a lot of things

``These are what he was collecting last year,'' murmured Billy, hovering over a small cabinet where were

some beautiful specimens of antique jewelry brooches, necklaces, armlets, Rajah rings, and anklets, gorgeous

``Well, here is something you _will_ enjoy,'' declared Bertram, with an airy flourish. ``Do you see those

teapots? Well, we can have tea every day in the year, and not use one of them but five times. I've counted.

There are exactly seventythree,'' he concluded, as he laughingly led the way from the room.

``Ho! Trust Will to find another `Old Blue' or a `perfect treasure of a black basalt' by that time,'' shrugged

Below William's rooms was the floor once Bertram's, but afterwards given over to the use of Billy and Aunt

Hannah. The rooms were open today, and were bright with sunshine and roses; but they were very plainly

``And you don't use them yet?'' remonstrated Billy, as she paused at an open door.

``No. These are Mrs. Bertram Henshaw's rooms,'' said the youngest Henshaw brother in a voice that made

``They were Billy'sand they can never seem any one's but Billy's, now,'' declared William to Marie, as they

``And now for the den and some good stories before the fire,'' proposed Bertram, as the six reached the first

``There's nothing much'' he began; but he stopped at once, with an odd laugh. ``Well, I sha'n't say _that_,''

he finished, flinging open the door of his studio, and pressing a button that flooded the room with light. The

next moment, as they stood before those plaques and panels and canvaseson each of which was a pictured

``Billy''they understood the change in his sentence, and they laughed appreciatively.

``My grief and conscience, Bertram! All these and of Billy? I knew you had a good many, but'' Aunt

Hannah paused impotently, her eyes going from Bertram's face to the pictures again.

``Some of them from memory. More of them from life. A lot of them were just sketches that I did when she

was here in the house four or five years ago,'' answered Bertram; ``like this, for instance.'' And he pulled into

a better light a picture of a laughing, darkeyed girl holding against her cheek a small gray kitten, with alert,

``You should have seen itin the flesh,'' remarked Cyril, dryly. ``No paint nor painter could imprison that

Everybody laughedeverybody but Billy. Billy, indeed, of them all, had been strangely silent ever since

they entered the studio. She stood now a little apart. Her eyes were wide, and a bit frightened. Her fingers

were twisting the corners of her handkerchief nervously. She was looking to the right and to the left, and

Sometimes it was her full face, sometimes her profile; sometimes there were only her eyes peeping from

above a fan, or peering from out brown shadows of nothingness. Once it was merely the back of her head

showing the mass of waving hair with its high lights of burnished bronze. Again it was still the back of her

head with below it the bare, slender neck and the scarf draped shoulders. In this picture the curve of a

halfturned cheek showed plainly, and in the background was visible a hand holding four playing cards, at

which the pictured girl was evidently 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

``No, no, Bertram, youyou didn't mean thethe tilt of the chin,'' she faltered wildly.

The girl fell back at once. She tried to laugh lightly. She had seen the dismayed questioning in her lover's

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

``Bertram, I'm ashamed of youexpecting 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 that I'd

William laughed fondly. Aunt Hannah and Marie gave an indulgent smile. Cyril actually chuckled. Bertram

Billy examined intently a sketch she had found with its back to the wall. 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 cried interestedly:

There was no answer. Bertram was still engaged, apparently, in putting away some sketches. Over by the

doorway leading to the den Marie and Aunt Hannah, followed by William and Cyril, were just disappearing

behind a huge easel. In another minute the merry chatter of their voices came from the room beyond. Bertram

hurried then straight across the studio to the girl still bending over the sketch in the corner.

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

Billy gave an hysterical little laughat least, Bertram tried to assure himself that it was a laugh, though it

``Bertram, if you say another word about about the tilt of that chin, I shall _scream!_'' she panted.

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

``Come, sir,'' she commanded gayly. ``Billy has been on exhibition quite long enough. It is high time she was

Bertram did not answer. Neither did he make a move to assist her. His ardent gray eyes were following her

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

Billy turned abruptly. A peculiar radiance shone in her eyes and glorified her face. As she stood, she was

close to a picture on an easel and full in the soft glow of the shaded lights above it.

``Then you _do_ want me,'' she began, ``just _me!_not to'' she stopped short. The man opposite had

taken an eager step toward her. On his face was the look she knew so well, the look she had come almost to

``Billy, stand just as you are,'' he was saying. ``Don't move. Jove! But that effect is perfect with those dark

shadows beyond, and just your hair and face and throat showing. I declare, I've half a mind to sketch'' But

The early days in December were busy ones, certainly, in the little house on Corey Hill. Marie was to be

married the twelfth. It was to be a home wedding, and a very simple oneaccording to Billy, and according

to what Marie had said it was to be. Billy still serenely spoke of it as a ``simple affair,'' but Marie was

beginning to be fearful. As the days passed, bringing with them more and more frequent evidences either

tangible or intangible of orders to stationers, caterers, and florists, her fears found voice in a protest.

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

``There, there, dear,'' coaxed the mistress of Hillside, ``don't fret. Besides, I'm sure I should think you, of all

``Well, of course, Marie, if you'd _rather_ have oatmeal and doughnuts,'' she began with kind solicitude; but

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

``I know, but boxes are so much easier and cleaner thanjust fingers,'' apologized an anxiously serious

``And the flowersroses, dozens of them, in December! Billy, I can't let you do all this for me.''

``Nonsense, dear!'' laughed Billy. ``Why, I love to do it. Besides, when you're gone, just think how lonesome

I'll be! I shall have to adopt somebody else thennow that Mary Jane has proved to be nothing but a

disappointing man instead of a nice little girl like you,'' she finished whimsically.

``Why, because II can't,'' she stammered. ``I can't get them for myself, andand''

``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 you want. And just now I want pink roses and ice cream and lace flounces

for you. Marie,'' Billy's voice trembled a little``I never had a sister till I had you, and I have had such a

good time buying things that I thought you wanted! But, of course, if you don't want them'' The words

ended in a choking sob, and down went Billy's head into her folded arms on the desk before her.

``But I do want them, dear; I want them all every single one,'' she urged. ``Now promise me promise me

``I do, dearindeed I do. I love pretty weddings, and II always hoped that I could have oneif I ever

married. So you must know, dear, how I really do want all those things,'' declared Marie, fervently. ``And

now I must go. I promised to meet Cyril at Park Street at three o'clock.'' And she hurried from the roomand

not until she was halfway to her destination 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.

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

It was early in December that Pete came one day with a package for Marie from Cyril. Marie was not at

home, and Billy herself went downstairs to take 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

``I'm afraid I'll have to take it, Pete, unless you want to carry it back with you,'' she smiled. ``I'll see that Miss

``Thank you, Miss. It does my old eyes good to see your bright face.'' He hesitated, then turned slowly.

Billy laid the package on the table. Her eyes were thoughtful as she looked after the old man, who was now

almost to the door. Something in his bowed form appealed to her strangely. She took a quick step toward

``Indeed he is. Perhaps it's your good care that's helped, someto make him so,'' smiled the girl, vaguely

wishing that she could say something that would drive the wistful look from the dim old eyes before her.

For a moment Billy thought she had succeeded. The old servant drew himself stiffly erect. In his eyes shone

the loyal pride of more than fifty years' honest service. Almost at once, however, the pride died away, and the

``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

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

``Yes; and they'll be comin' to you one of these days, Miss, and that's what I was wantin' to speak to ye about.

I understand, of course, that when you get there you'll be wantin' younger blood to serve ye. My feet ain't so

spry as they once was, and my old hands blunder sometimes, in spite of what my head bids 'em do. So I

As he said the words, Pete stood with head and shoulders erect, his eyes looking straight forward but not at

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

Amazement, incredulity, and a look that was almost terror crossed the old man's face; then a flood of dull red

blotted them all out and left only worshipful rapture. With a choking cry he took the slim little hand in both

his rough and twisted ones much as if he were possessing himself of a treasured bit of eggshell china.

``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 they stumble and blunder all day! I shall love stumbles and blundersif you make them.

They were not the words Billy had intended to say. She had meant to speak of his long, faithful service, and

of how much they appreciated it; but, to her surprise, Billy found her own eyes wet and her own voice

trembling, and the words that she would have said she found fast shut in her throat. So there was nothing to

do but to stammer out somethinganything, that would help to keep her from yielding to that absurd and

``Miss Billy!'' choked Pete again. Then he turned and fled with anything but his usual dignity.

Bertram called that evening. When Billy came to him in the livingroom, her slender self was almost hidden

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

``Oh! And see how you've crushed poor Marie's tablecloth!'' she cried, with reproachful eyes.

``I can't help it. See here, Billy.'' He loosened his clasp and held the girl off at arm's length, regarding her with

stormy eyes. ``It's Marie, Marie, Mariealways. If I telephone in the morning, you've gone shopping with

Marie. If I want you in the afternoon for something, you're at the dressmaker's with Marie. If I call in the

``Oh, yes, you're here,'' admitted Bertram, aggrievedly, ``and so are dozens of napkins, miles of tablecloths,

and yards upon yards of lace and flummydiddles you call `doilies.' They all belong to Marie, and they fill

your arms and your thoughts full, until there isn't an inch of room for me. Billy, when is this thing going to

``Well, I'm thankful ifeh?'' broke off the man, with a sudden change of manner. ``What do you mean by `a

``Well, of course _this_ ends the twelfth with Marie's wedding; but I've sort of regarded it as anunderstudy

``Billy, you darling!'' breathed a supremely happy voice in a shelllike earBilly was not at arm's length

``That is,'' she amended, ``I must be practising my part ofthe understudy, you know.''

``But, honestly, is it all necessary?'' he sighed despairingly, as she seated herself and gathered the tablecloth

``I do,'' smiled Billy, ``unless you want your brother to run the risk of leading his bride to the altar and

finding her robed in a kitchen apron with an eggbeater in her hand for a bouquet.''

``No, of course notquite. But never have I seen a bride so utterly oblivious to clothes as Marie was till one

``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 singled out the dowdy one.''

``Did it work! It worked too well. Marie gave me one horrified look, then at once and immediately she

became possessed with the idea that she _was_ a dowdy woman. And from that day to this she has pursued

every lurking wrinkle and every fold awry, until her dressmaker's life isn't worth the living; and I'm

beginning to think mine isn't, either, for I have to assure her at least four times every day now that she is

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

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

``That I didn't wish to interfere with your workwhich was quite true,'' interrupted Billy in her turn,

smoothly. ``By the way,''Billy was examining her stitches very closely now ``how is Miss Winthrop's

``Splendidly!that is, it _was_, until she began to put off the sittings for her pink teas and folderols. She's

going to Washington next week, too, to be gone nearly a fortnight,'' finished Bertram, gloomily.

``Well, yes,'' laughed Bertram, a little shortly. ``You see, she's changed the pose twice already.''

``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 in the habit of having her own way about everything. Naturally, under those

circumstances, I can't expect to get a satisfactory portrait, if she's out of tune with the pose. Besides, I will

own, so far her suggestions have made for improvementprobably because she's been happy in making

``I saw her the other night,'' she said lightly. (If the lightness was a little artificial Bertram did not seem to

``Yes.'' Bertram got to his feet and began to walk up and down the little room. His eyes were alight. On his

face the ``painting look'' was king. ``It's going to mean a lot to methis picture, Billy. In the first place I'm

just at the point in my career where a big success would mean a lot and where a big failure would mean

more. And this portrait is bound to be one or the other from the very nature of the thing.''

``Yes. First, because of who the sitter is, and secondly because of what she is. She is, of course, the most

famous subject I've had, and half the artistic world knows by this time that Marguerite Winthrop is being

``No, of course not; but'' He hesitated, frowned, and dropped himself into a chair. His eyes studied the fire

moodily. ``You see,'' he resumed, after a moment, ``there's a peculiar, elusive something about her

expression'' (Billy stirred restlessly and gave her thread so savage a jerk that it broke)``a something that

isn't easily caught by the brush. Anderson and Fullambig fellows, both of themdidn't catch it. At least,

I've understood that neither her family nor her friends are satisfied with _their_ portraits. And to succeed

where Anderson and Fullam failedJove! Billy, a chance like that doesn't come to a fellow twice in a

lifetime!'' Bertram was out of his chair, again, tramping up and down the little room.

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

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

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

``Of course I am,'' he agreed passionately, leading her to the sofa, and seating himself at her side.

``Yes, but you must really _feel_ it,'' she urged; ``feel the `_sure_' in yourself. You have to!to doing things.

That's what I told Mary Jane yesterday, when he was running on about what _he_ wanted to doin his

``Mary Jane, indeed! Of all the absurd names to give a fullgrown, sixfoot man! Billy, do, for pity's sake,

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

``No. He's about as disgruntled as you are over the way the wedding monopolizes everything. He's been up

once or twice to see Aunt Hannah and to get acquainted, as he expresses it, and once he brought up some

``There, that makes me think. He told Aunt Hannah and me to guess what his name was, and we never hit it

``Yes,'' mused Billy, abstractedly, her eyes on the dancing fire. The next minute she stirred and settled herself

more comfortably in the curve of her lover's arm. ``But there! who cares what his name is? I'm sure I don't.''

``Nor I,'' echoed Bertram in a voice that he tried to make not too fervent. He had not forgotten Billy's

surprised: ``Why, Bertram, don't you like Mary Jane?'' and he did not like to call forth a repetition of it.

Abruptly, therefore, he changed the subject. ``By the way, what did you do to Pete today?'' he asked

laughingly. ``He came home in a seventh heaven of happiness babbling of what an angel straight from the sky

Miss Billy was. Naturally I agreed with him on that point. But what did you do to him?''

``Well, maybe I can help you there,'' he hinted. ``You see, his Celestial Majesty came to me himself the other

day, and said, after sundry and various preliminaries, that he should be `velly much glad' when the `Little

Missee' came to live with me, for then he could go back to China with a heart at rest, as he had money `velly

``Dear me,'' smiled Billy, ``what a happy state of affairsfor him. But for youdo you realize, young man,

what that means for you? A new wife and 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

Mrs. Kate Hartwell, the Henshaw brothers' sister from the West, was expected on the tenth. Her husband

could not come, she had written, but she would bring with her, little Kate, the youngest child. The boys, Paul

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

``Yes, I remember,'' she observed. ``Kate told me, after you spent the first day with her, that you graciously

informed her that little Kate was almost as nice as Spunk. Kate did not fully appreciate the compliment, I

``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 the prettiest thing I knew how to say, for I considered Spunk the topnotch of

``I think I should have liked to know Spunk,'' smiled Marie from the other side of the sewing table.

``He was a dear,'' declared Billy. ``I had another 'most as good when I first came to Hillside, but he got lost.

For a time it seemed as if I never wanted another, but I've about come to the conclusion now that I do, and

I've told Bertram to find one for me if he can. You see I shall be lonesome after you're gone, Marie, and I'll

``Oh, I don't mind the inferenceas long as I know your admiration of cats,'' laughed Marie.

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

``Good!'' nodded Billy. ``That will give time to put little Kate through her paces as flower girl.''

``Yes, and it will give Big Kate time to _try_ to make your breakfast a supper, and your roses pinksor

``Cyril!'' chorussed the three ladies in horror, adoration, and amusementaccording to whether the voice

``I beg your pardon,'' he apologized; ``but Rosa said you were in here sewing, and I told her not to bother. I'd

announce myself. Just as I got to the door I chanced to hear Billy's speech, and I couldn't resist making the

amendment. Maybe you've forgotten Kate's love of managingbut I haven't,'' he finished, as he sauntered

``Nor Inor anybody else,'' declared a severe voiceboth the words and the severity being most

``Oh, well, never mind,'' spoke up Billy, quickly. ``Everything's all right now, so let's forget it. She always

``Even when she told you in the first place what aertorment you were to us?'' quizzed Cyril.

For a moment no one spoke. Cyril's eyes were on Marie, who was nervously trying to smooth back a few

``What's the matter with the hair, little girl?'' asked Cyril in a voice that was caressingly irritable. ``You've

Billy dropped her thread suddenly. She sprang for it at once, before Cyril could make a move to get it. She

had to dive far under a chair to capture itwhich may explain why her face was so very red when she finally

On the morning of the tenth, Billy, Marie, and Aunt Hannah were once more sewing together, this time in the

``I told John to have Peggy at the door at eleven,'' she said, after a time; ``but I think I can finish running in

``I hope not,'' replied Billy; ``but I told Rosa to delay luncheon, anyway, till we get here. I'' She stopped

abruptly and turned a listening ear toward the door of Aunt Hannah's room, which was open. A clock was

striking. ``Mercy! that can't be eleven now,'' she cried. ``But it must beit was ten before I came upstairs.''

``Why, the little wretch,'' laughed Billy, dropping back into her chair and picking up her work again. ``The

idea of its telling fibs like that and frightening people half out of their lives! I'll have it fixed right away.

``You don't want it fixed! Maybe you like to have it strike eleven when it's halfpast ten!'' Billy's voice was

``Yyes, I do,'' stammered the lady, apologetically. ``You see, II worked very hard to fix it so it would

``Well, I did,'' retorted the lady, with unexpected spirit. ``I wanted to know what time it was in the nightI'm

``But I don't see.'' Billy's eyes were perplexed. ``Why must you make it tell fibs in order toto find out the

``It does.'' There was the triumphant ring of the conqueror in Aunt Hannah's voice. ``But now it strikes

halfpast _on the hour_, and the clock 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 of understanding illumined her face. Then her

``Oh, Aunt Hannah, Aunt Hannah,'' she gurgled. ``If Bertram wouldn't call you the limit making a clock

``Well, there's only half an hour, anyway, now, that I don't know what time it is,'' she maintained, ``for one or

the other of those clocks strikes the hour every thirty minutes. Even during those neverending three 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

``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 an invalid, 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 find some 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 light in the room, and

``Yes. She declared it gave her the creeps, and that she wouldn't have the spooky thing staring at her all night

like that. So it's got to be something she can hear, and I'm going to tell her Mrs. Stetson's plan right away.''

``Well, I'm sure I wish you would,'' cried that lady, with prompt interest; ``and she'll like it, I'm sure. And tell

her if she can hear a _town_ clock strike, it's just the same, and even better; for there aren't any halfhours at

``Of course it's lovely,'' smiled Billy, rising; ``but I fancy I'd better go and get ready to meet Mrs. Hartwell, or

the `lovely' thing will be telling me that it's halfpast eleven!'' And she tripped laughingly from the room.

Promptly at the appointed time John with Peggy drew up before the door, and Billy, muffled in furs, stepped

into the car, which, with its protecting top and sides and glass windshield, was in its winter dress.

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

``Oh, well, I shall be very comfortable, I'm sure,'' smiled Billy. ``Just don't drive too rapidly, specially coming

John's grizzled old face twitched. So evident were the words that were not spoken that Billy asked

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

``Why, John! Nonsense! II love to haul in other folks's ships,'' laughed the girl, embarrassedly.

John did not answer apparently; but Billy was sure she caught a lowmuttered, indignant ``much!'' as he

To herself she laughed softly. She thought she possessed the secret now of some of John's disapproving

At the station Mrs. Hartwell's train was found to be gratifyingly on time; and in due course Billy was

extending a cordial welcome to a tall, handsome woman who carried herself with an unmistakable air of

assured competence. Accompanying her was a little girl with big blue eyes and yellow curls.

``I am very glad to see you both,'' smiled Billy, holding out a friendly hand to Mrs. Hartwell, and stooping to

``Thank you, you are very kind,'' murmured the lady; ``butare you alone, Billy? Where are the boys?''

``Uncle William is out of town, and Cyril is rushed to death and sent his excuses. Bertram did mean to come,

but he telephoned this morning that he couldn't, after all. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to make the best

of just me,'' condoled Billy. ``They'll be out to the house this evening, of courseall but Uncle William. He

``And this is little Kate, I suppose,'' she said, ``whom I haven't seen for such a long, long time. Let me see,

``No; but I know who you are,'' she added, with shy eagerness. ``You're going to be my Aunt Billy, and

``Kate, my dear, I told you to be sure and remember that it was your Uncle 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 from one brother to another are somewhat

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

``Well, my dear, I'm not so confident of that. _My_ choice has been and always will beWilliam.''

``Is that so? But you see, after all, _you_ aren't making thethe choice.'' Billy spoke lightly, gayly; and she

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

Billy laughed. She was beginning to discern that it did not do much harmnor much good to disagree

``What if they did?'' retorted the lady, sharply. ``Can't you do as you please in your own home? Evening

weddings are so much prettier! We can't change now, of course, with the guests all invited. That is, I suppose

``Oh, yes,'' smiled Billy, demurely. ``We have guests invitedand I'm afraid we can't change the time.''

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

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 will give Big Kate time to try to make your breakfast supper, and your roses pinksor

``Of course a noon wedding is quite pretty if you darken the rooms and have lightsyou're going to do that,

``Not darken the rooms!'' exclaimed Mrs. Hartwell. ``Why, it won't'' She stopped suddenly, and fell back in

her seat. The look of annoyed disappointment gave way to one of confident relief. ``But then, _that can_ be

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

``Yes, I will,'' nodded Mrs. Hartwell, brightly. She was looking pleased and happy again. ``I love weddings.

``Yes. Cyril is happy, of course. Still, I can't imagine _him_ in love with any woman.''

``I suppose so. I don't seem to remember her much; still, I think I saw her once or twice when I was on last

``Hmm; I suppose so. Still, I think 'twould have been better if Cyril could have selected some one that

_wasn't_ musicalsay a more domestic wife. He's so terribly unpractical himself about household matters.''

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

``Do you? Just you wait till you see Marie's trousseau ofeggbeaters and cake tins,'' she chuckled.

``Whatever in the world do you mean, Billy?'' she demanded fretfully, as she followed her hostess from the

car. ``I declare! aren't you ever going to grow beyond making those absurd remarks of yours?''

``Maybesometime,'' laughed Billy, as she took little Kate's hand and led the way up the steps.

Luncheon in the cozy diningroom at Hillside that day was not entirely a success. At least there were not

present exactly the harmony and tranquillity that are conceded to be the best sauce for one's food. The

wedding, of course, was the allabsorbing topic of conversation; and Billy, between Aunt Hannah's attempts

to be polite, Marie's to be sweettempered, Mrs. Hartwell's to be dictatorial, and her own to be pacifying as

well as firm, had a hard time of it. If it had not been for two or three diversions created by little Kate, the

But little Katemost of the time the personification of proper littlegirlhoodhad a disconcerting faculty

of occasionally dropping a word here, or a question there, with startling effect. As, for instance, when she

asked Billy ``Who's going to boss your wedding?'' and again when she calmly informed her mother that when

_she_ was married she was not going to have any wedding at all to bother with, anyhow. She was going to

elope, and she should choose somebody's chauffeur, because he'd know how to go the farthest and fastest so

her mother couldn't catch up with her and tell her how she ought to have done it.

After luncheon Aunt Hannah went upstairs for rest and recuperation. Marie took little Kate and went for a

``Perhaps you would like a nap, too, Mrs. Hartwell,'' suggested Billy, as they passed into the livingroom.

Mrs. Hartwell scorned naps, and she said so very emphatically. She said something else, too.

``Billy, why do you always call me `Mrs. Hartwell' in that stiff, formal fashion? You used to call me `Aunt

``But I was very young then.'' Billy's voice was troubled. Billy had been trying so hard for the last two hours

Billy hesitated. She was wondering why it seemed so hard to call Mrs. Hartwell ``Kate.''

``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 other cordially. ``Indeed, my dear, I'm very fond of

you, and I was delighted to hear you were to be my sister. If onlyit could have stayed William instead of

``Yes. Forgive me, Billy, but I was about as much surprised to hear of Bertram's engagement as I was of

`` `Womanhater'dear me, no! He was a womanlover, always. As if his eternal `Face of a Girl' didn't

prove that! Bertram has always loved womento paint. But as for his ever taking them seriouslywhy,

``If you'll excuse me, please, just a few minutes,'' Billy said very quietly. ``I want to speak to Rosa in the

In the kitchen Billy spoke to Rosashe wondered afterwards what she said. 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 took from

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. She shall not say anything that will make trouble

between you and me. I've suffered enough through her already! And she doesn't _know_she didn't know

before, and she doesn't now. She's only imagining. I will not not_not_ believe that you love mejust to

Billy put the photograph back on the table then, and went downstairs to her guest. She smiled brightly,

``I wondered if perhaps you wouldn't like some music,'' she said pleasantly, going straight to the piano.

Billy sat down then and playedplayed as Mrs. Hartwell had never heard her play before.

``Why, Billy, you amaze me,'' she cried, when the pianist stopped and whirled about. ``I had no idea you

Billy smiled enigmatically. Billy was thinking that Mrs. Hartwell would, indeed, have been surprised if she

had known that in that playing were herself, the ride home, the luncheon, Bertram, and the girlwhom

The twelfth was a beautiful day. Clear, frosty air set the blood to tingling and the eyes to sparkling, even if it

It _was_ Marie Hawthorn's wedding day, and certainly her eyes sparkled and her blood tingled as she threw

open the window of her room and breathed long and deep of the fresh morning air before going down to

``They say `Happy is the bride that the sun shines on,' '' she whispered softly to an English sparrow that

cocked his eye at her from a neighboring tree branch. ``As if a bride wouldn't be happy, sun or no sun,'' she

As it happens, however, tingling blood and sparkling eyes are a matter of more than weather, or even

``Fine! Oh, yes, I suppose so, though I must confess I haven't noticed itand you wouldn't, if you had a

``Yes. Maybe you have, though. Is Marie rampaging around the house like a wild creature, and asking ten

``Show, indeed!'' retorted Kate, indignantly. ``The _wedding_ is at noon sharpas the best man should know

``All right; then tell Billy, please, to see that it is sharp, or I won't answer for the consequences.''

``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 submitted himself to be tied up with white ribbons and topped with roses.''

``Well, it amounts to that. Anyhow, he thinks it does, and he's wild. I wish you could have heard the

thunderous performance on his piano with which he woke me up this morning. Billy says he plays

everythinghis past, present, and future. All is, if he was playing his future this morning, I pity the girl

``Well, I do. But I'll warrant he wasn't playing his future this morning. He was playing his presentthe

wedding. You see, he's just waked up to the 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 just fourteen 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 asking questions he's

making threats to snake the parson up there an hour ahead of time and be off with Marie before a soul

``Cyril doesn't think so. Indeed, Kate, I've had a hard struggle to convince him that the guests wouldn't think

it the most delightful experience of their lives if they should come and find the ceremony over with and the

``Well, you remind Cyril, please, that there are other people besides himself concerned in this wedding,''

``I have,'' purred Bertram, ``and he says all right, let them have it, then. He's gone now to look up proxy

``Proxy marriages, indeed! Come, come, Bertram, I've got something to do this morning besides to stand here

listening to your nonsense. See that you and Cyril get here on timethat's all!'' And she hung up the receiver

``Yes. Bertram says he's trying to find some one to play his rle, I believe, in the ceremony.''

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 probably never was a man yet who wouldn't

have fled from the wedding part of his marriage 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 I saw it coming, last night at the

``Of course he didn't, child. He never said anything but that he loved you, and he never thought anything but

that you were going to be his. Men never dotill the wedding day. Then they never think of anything but a

place to run,'' she finished laughingly, as she began to arrange on a stand the quantity of little white boxes

``But if he'd told mein time, I wouldn't have had a thingbut the minister,'' faltered Marie.

``And when you think so much of a pretty wedding, too? Nonsense! It isn't good for a man, to give up to his

``It wouldn't be a `whim,' Mrs. Hartwell, and I should be _glad_ to give up,'' she said with decision.

``Dear me, child! don't you know that if men had their way, they'dwell, if men married men there'd never

There was no reply. A little precipitately Marie turned and hurried away. A moment later she was laying a

restraining hand on Billy, who was filling tall vases with superb longstemmed roses in the kitchen.

``Billy, please,'' she panted, ``couldn't we do without those? Couldn't we send them to somesome

``No, of course notto 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 showed how desperate, indeed, was her state of mind. ``I only meant that I

didn't want them myself, nor the shower bouquet, nor the rooms darkened, nor little Kate as the flower

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 with soothing little murmurs and pettings. By degrees, then, the whole story

``Dearie, I don't believe Cyril feels or acts half so bad as Bertram and Kate make out, and, anyhow, if he did,

it's too late now toto send the wedding cake to the hospital, or make any other of the little changes you

suggest.'' Billy's lips puckered into a halfsmile, but her eyes were grave. ``Besides, there are your music

pupils trimming the livingroom this minute with evergreen, there's little Kate making her flowergirl

wreath, and Mrs. Hartwell stacking cake boxes in the hall, to say nothing of Rosa gloating over the best china

in the diningroom, and Aunt Hannah putting purple bows into the new lace cap she's counting on wearing.

Only think how disappointed they'd all be if I should say: `Never mindstop that. Marie's just going to have

a minister. No fuss, no feathers!' Why, dearie, even the roses are hanging their heads for grief,'' she went on

mistily, lifting with gentle fingers one of the fullpetalled pink beauties near her. ``Besides, there's

``Oh, of course, I knew I couldn'treally,'' sighed Marie, as she turned to go upstairs, all the light and joy

``All right, dear, but go easy. Better strike up your tuning fork to find his pitch today. You'll discover it's a

A moment later Cyril's tersely nervous ``Good morning, Billy,'' came across the line.

Billy drew in her breath and cast a hurriedly apprehensive glance over her shoulder to make sure Marie was

``Cyril,'' she called in a low voice, ``if you care a shred for Marie, for heaven's sake call her up and tell her

that you dote on pink roses, and pink ribbons, and pink breakfastsand pink wedding cake!''

``Nothing, only she overheard part of Bertram's nonsensical talk with Kate a little while ago, and she's ready

to cast the last ravelling of white satin and conventionality behind her, and go with you to the justice of the

``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's brokenhearted. You must do something. She's coming!'' And the receiver

Five minutes later Marie was called to the telephone. Dejectedly, wistfuleyed, she went. Just what were the

words that hummed across the wire into the pink little ear of the bridetobe, Billy never knew; but a Marie

that was anything but wistfuleyed and dejected left the telephone a little later, and was heard very soon in

the room above trilling merry snatches of a little song. Contentedly, then, Billy went back to her roses.

It was a pretty wedding, a very pretty wedding. Every one said that. The pink and green of the decorations,

the soft lights (Kate had had her way about darkening the rooms), the pretty frocks and smiling faces of the

guests 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 looked like some

fairy visitor from another world in the floating shimmer of her gossamer silk and tulle. There was, too, not

quite unnoticed, the bridegroom; tall, of distinguished bearing, and with features that were clear cut

Then came the receptionthe ``women and confusion ``of Cyril's fearsfollowed by the going away of the

At four o'clock, however, with only William and Bertram remaining for guests, something like quiet

``Well, it's over,'' sighed Billy, dropping exhaustedly into a big chair in the livingroom.

``And _well_ over,'' supplemented Aunt Hannah, covering her white shawl with a warmer blue one.

``Well, I flatter myself I did do some good,'' bridled Kate, as she turned to help little Kate take the flower

``Even if you did hurry into my room and scare me into conniption fits telling me I'd be late,'' laughed Billy.

``Well, how was I to know that Aunt Hannah's clock only meant halfpast eleven when it struck twelve?'' she

Only the added color and the swift glance showed that Billy heard, for when she spoke she said:

``And didn't Cyril behave beautifully? 'Most every time I looked at him he was talking to some woman.''

``Oh, no, he wasn'tbegging your pardon, my dear,'' objected Bertram. ``I watched him, too, even more

closely than you did, and it was always the _woman_ who was talking to _Cyril!_''

``Pooh!'' scoffed Kate. Then she added eagerly: ``You must be married in church, Billy, and in the evening.''

``Billy hasn't decided yet how _she_ does want to be married,'' he said with unnecessary emphasis.

``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 been such a good chance for him to meet our friends.''

``Really, my dear,'' murmured Aunt Hannah, ``I think it _would_ be more respectful to call him by his name.''

``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 his name was `Methuselah,' you wouldn't call him thatyet, would you?''

``There! we never thought of `Methuselah,' '' she gurgled gleefully. ``Maybe it _is_ `Methuselah,'

now`Methuselah John'! You see, he's told us to try to guess it,'' she explained, turning to William; ``but,

honestly, I don'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 for that, 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 to

``Of course he isand so are you, too, Uncle William,'' spoke up Billy, with affectionate cordiality. ``As if

I'd let you go back to a forlorn dinner in that great house tonight! Indeed, no!''

``Yes, of course,'' finished Billy, quickly. ``I'll telephone Pete that you'll stay hereboth of you.''

It was at this point that little Kate, who had been turning interested eyes from one brother to the other,

``Kate!'' gasped her mother, ``didn't I tell you'' Her voice trailed into an incoherent murmur of

Billy blushed. Bertram said a low word under his breath. Aunt Hannah's ``Oh, my grief and conscience!'' was

``Well, my little lady,'' he suggested, ``let us put it the other way and say that quite probably she didn't want

``Does she want to marry Uncle Bertram?'' ``Kate!'' gasped Billy and Mrs. Hartwell together this time, fearful

``We'll hope so,'' nodded Uncle William, speaking in a cheerfully matteroffact voice, intended to

The little girl frowned and pondered. Her elders cast about in their minds for a speedy change of subject; but

their somewhat scattered wits were not quick enough. It was little Kate who spoke next.

``Uncle William, would she have got Uncle Cyril if Aunt Marie hadn't nabbed him first?''

``What? Oh, sure enoughthe lights! I forgot. Well, then, come upto change your dress,'' finished Mrs.

Hartwell, as with a despairing look and gesture she led her young daughter from the room.

Billy came downstairs on the thirteenth of December to find everywhere the peculiar flatness that always

follows a day which for weeks has been the focus of one's aims and thoughts and labor.

``It's just as if everything had stopped at Marie's wedding, and there wasn't anything more to do,'' she

``It won'tlong, dear,'' smiled Aunt Hannah, tranquilly, as she buttered her roll, ``specially after Bertram

``Only three days; but I'm just sure it's going to seem three weeks, now,'' sighed Billy. ``But he simply had to

``I've no doubt of it,'' observed Aunt Hannah. And at the meaning emphasis of her words, Billy laughed a

``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 rose leaf anywhere

on the floor. Of course most of the flowers went to the hospital last night, anyway. As for Marie's roomit

looks as spickandspan as if it had never seen a scrap of ribbon or an inch of tulle.''

``All carried down to the kitchen and half packed now, ready to go over to 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,'' suggested Aunt Hannah, hopefully.

``Humph! Can I?'' scoffed Billy. ``As if I couldwhen Marie left strict orders that not one thing was to be

touched till she got here. They arranged everything but the presents before the wedding, anyway; and Marie

wants to fix those herself after she gets back. Mercy! Aunt Hannah, if I should so much as move a plate one

inch in the china closet, Marie would know it and change it when she got home,'' laughed Billy, as she rose

``But there's your music, my dear. You said you were going to write some new songs after the wedding.''

``I was,'' sighed Billy, walking to the window, and looking listlessly at the bare, brown world outside; ``but I

``No, of course not; but they'll come, dear, in time. You're tired, now,'' soothed Aunt Hannah, as she turned to

``It's the reaction, of course,'' murmured Aunt Hannah to herself, on the way upstairs. ``She's had the whole

A few minutes later, from the livingroom, came a plaintive little minor melody. 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 that Bertram's trip to New York would leave William alone. Her trunk was to be

carried there today, and she would leave for home from there, at the end of a two or three days' visit.

It began to snow at twelve o'clock. All the morning the sky had been gray and threatening; and the threats

took visible shape at noon in myriads of white snow feathers that filled the air to the blinding point, and

turned the brown, bare world into a thing of fairylike beauty. Billy, however, with a rare frown upon her face,

``Don't, dear, please don't,'' begged Aunt Hannah. ``See, the flakes are smaller now, and the wind is coming

up. We're in for a blizzard I'm sure we are. And you know you have some cold, already.''

``All right,'' sighed Billy. ``Then it's me for the knitting work and the fire, I suppose,'' she finished, with a

She was not knitting, however, she was sewing with Aunt Hannah when at four o'clock Rosa brought in the

``It's Mary Jane!'' she exclaimed, as Rosa disappeared. ``Now wasn't he a dear to think to come today?

``Oh, Billy!'' she remonstrated. ``Yes, I'll come down, of course, a little later, and I'm glad _Mr. Arkwright_

``All right,'' she nodded. ``I'll go and tell _Mr. Arkwright_ you'll be down directly.''

``How did you know, Mr. Arkwright, that I was feeling specially restless and lonesome to day?'' she

``I didn't know it,'' he rejoined. ``I only knew that I was specially restless and lonesome myself.''

Arkwright's voice was not quite steady. The unmistakable friendliness in the 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 could not

know that it was only the chill of the snowstorm that had given warmth to her handclasp, the dreariness of the

day that had made her greeting so cordial, the loneliness of a maiden whose lover is away that had made his

``Well, I'm glad you came, anyway,'' sighed Billy, contentedly; ``though I suppose I ought to be sorry that

you were lonesomebut I'm afraid I'm not, for now you'll know just how I felt, so you won't mind if I'm a

little wild and erratic. You see, the tension has snapped,'' she added laughingly, as she seated herself.

``The wedding, you know. For so many weeks we've been seeing just December twelfth, that we'd apparently

forgotten all about the thirteenth that came after it; so when I got up this morning I felt just as you do when

the clock has stopped ticking. But it was a lovely wedding, Mr. Arkwright. I'm sorry you could not be here.''

``Thank you; so am Ithough usually, I will confess, I'm not much good at attending `functions' and meeting

strangers. As perhaps you've guessed, Miss Neilson, I'm not particularly a society chap.''

``Of course you aren't! People who are doing thingsreal thingsseldom are. But we aren't the society kind

ourselves, you knownot the capital S kind. We like sociability, which is vastly different from liking

Society. Oh, we have friends, to be sure, who dote on `pink teas and purple pageants,' as Cyril calls them; and

we even go ourselves sometimes. But if you had been here yesterday, Mr. Arkwright, you'd have met lots like

yourself, men and women who are doing things: singing, playing, painting, illustrating, writing. Why, we

even had a poet, sironly he didn't have long hair, so he didn't look the part a bit,'' she finished laughingly.

``Dear me, no; not now. But it used to be, didn't it? And for painters, too. But now they look just

``It isn't possible that you are sighing for the velvet coats and flowing ties of the past, is it, Miss Neilson?''

``I'm afraid it is,'' dimpled Billy. ``I _love_ velvet coats and flowing ties!''

``May singers wear them? I shall don them at once, anyhow, at a venture,'' declared the man, promptly.

``I don't think you will. You all like your horrid fuzzy tweeds and worsteds too well!''

``You speak with feeling. One would almost suspect that you already had tried to bring about a reformand

failed. Perhaps Mr. Cyril, now, or Mr. Bertram'' Arkwright stopped with a whimsical smile.

Billy flushed a little. As it happened, she had, indeed, had a merry tilt with Bertram on that very subject, and

he had laughingly promised that his wedding present to her would be a velvet house coat for himself. It was

on the point of Billy's tongue now to say this to Arkwright; but another glance at the provoking smile on his

lips drove the words back in angry confusion. For the second time, in the presence of this man, Billy found

herself unable to refer to her engagement to Bertram Henshawthough this time she did not in the least

``Come, let us try some duets,'' she suggested. ``That's lots nicer than quarrelling over velvet coats; and Aunt

Before she had ceased speaking, Arkwright was at her side with an exclamation of eager acquiescence.

``Yesand no. I have some words, both of my own and other people's; but I haven't found in any one of

Arkwright hesitated. His right hand went almost to his inner coat pocketthen fell back at his side. The next

``Well, children, I've come down to hear the music,'' announced Aunt Hannah, smilingly, from the doorway;

``onlyBilly, _will_ you run up and get my pink shawl, too? This room _is_ colder than I thought, and

``Of course,'' cried Billy, rising at once. ``You shall have a dozen shawls, if you like,'' she laughed, as she left

What a cozy time it wasthe hour that followed, after Billy returned with the pink shawl! Outside, the wind

howled at the windows and flung the snow against the glass in sleety crashes. Inside, the man and the girl

sang duets until they were tired; then, with Aunt Hannah, they feasted royally on the buttered toast, tea, and

frosted cakes that Rosa served on a little table before the roaring fire. It was then that Arkwright talked of

``After all, you see there's just this difference between my friends and yours,'' he said, at last. ``Your friends

_are_ doing things. They've succeeded. Mine haven't, yetthey're only _trying_.''

``No. They couldn'tall of them, you know. Some haven't the talent, some haven't the perseverance, and

``It is a pity, Miss Neilson. Disappointed hopes are always a pity, aren't they?''

``Yyes,'' sighed the girl. ``Butif there were only something one could do tohelp!''

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 your generosity, Miss Neilson to mend all the

``I have known great good to come from great disappointments, ``remarked Aunt Hannah, a bit didactically.

``So have I,'' laughed Arkwright, still determined to drive the troubled shadow from the face he was watching

so intently. ``For instance: a fellow I know was feeling all cut up last Friday because he was just too late to

get into Symphony Hall on the twentyfivecent admission. Half an hour afterwards his disappointment was

turned to joya friend who had an orchestra chair couldn't use his ticket that day, and so handed it over to

``Then you've missed one of the sights of Boston if you haven't ever seen that long line of patient waiters at

``No, but the waiting is,'' retorted Arkwright. ``You see, those admissions are limitedfive hundred and five,

I believeand they're rush seats, at that. First come, first served; and if you're too late you aren't served at

all. So the first arrival comes bright and early. I've heard that he has been known to come at peep of day when

there's a Paderewski or a Melba for a drawing card. But I've got my doubts of that. Anyhow, I never saw

them there much before halfpast eight. But many's the cold, stormy day I've seen those steps in front of the

``To be sure they will. You see, each pays twentyfive cents at the door, until the limit is reached, then the

rest are turned away. Naturally they don't want to be turned away, so they try to get there early enough to be

among the fortunate five hundred and five. Besides, the earlier you are, the better seat you are likely to get.''

``Oh, they bring camp chairs, sometimes, I've heard, and then there are the steps. You don't know what a

really fine seat a stone step isif you have a _big_ enough bundle of newspapers to cushion it with! They

bring their luncheons, too, with books, papers, and knitting work for fine days, I've been toldsome of them.

``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 in your orchestra chair, for which you've paid so high a premium.''

``But whowho are they? Where do they come from? Who _would_ go and stand hours like that to get a

``Who are they? Anybody, everybody, from anywhere? everywhere; people who have the music hunger but

not the money to satisfy it,'' he rejoined. ``Students, teachers, a little milliner from South Boston, a little

dressmaker from Chelsea, a housewife from Cambridge, a stranger from the uttermost parts of the earth;

maybe a widow who used to sit downstairs, or a professor who has seen better days. Really to know that

line, you should see it for yourself, Miss Neilson,'' smiled Arkwright, as he reluctantly rose to go. ``Some

Friday, however, before you take your seat, just glance up at that packed top balcony and judge by the faces

you see there whether their owners think they're getting their twentyfivecents' worth, or not.''

``I will,'' nodded Billy, with a smile; but the smile came from her lips only, not her eyes: Billy was wishing,

at that moment, that she owned the whole of Symphony Hallto give away. But that was like Billy. When

she was seven years old she had proposed to her Aunt Ella that they take all the thirtyfive orphans from the

Hampden Falls Orphan Asylum to live with them, so that little Sallie Cook and the other orphans might have

ice cream every day, if they wanted it. Since then Billy had always been tryingin a wayto give ice cream

Arkwright was almost at the door when he turned abruptly. His face was an abashed red. From his pocket he

``Do you supposein thisyou might find that melody?'' he stammered in a low voice. The next moment

he was gone, having left in Billy's fingers a paper upon which was written in a clearcut, masculine hand six

``Why, they're beautiful,'' she breathed, ``just beautiful! Where did he get them, I wonder? It's a love

songand such a pretty one! I believe there _is_ a melody in it,'' she exulted, pausing to hum a line or two.

``There isI know there is; and I'll write itfor Bertram,'' she finished, crossing joyously to the piano.

Halfway down Corey Hill at that moment, Arkwright was buffeting the wind and snow. He, too, was

thinking joyously of those stanzas joyously, yet at the same time fearfully. Arkwright himself had written

On the fourteenth of December Billy came downstairs alert, interested, and happy. She had received a dear

letter from Bertram (mailed on the way to New York), the sun was shining, and her fingers were fairly

tingling to put on paper the little melody that was now surging riotously through her brain. Emphatically, the

restlessness of the day before was gone now. Once more Billy's ``clock'' had ``begun to tick.''

After breakfast Billy went straight to the telephone and called up Arkwright. Even one side of the

conversation Aunt Hannah did not hear very clearly; but in five minutes a radiant faced Billy danced into

``Aunt Hannah, just listen! Only think Mary Jane wrote the words himself, so of course I can use them!''

``Of course! I'll say `His Majesty' if you like, dear,'' she chuckled. ``But did you heardid you realize?

They're his own words, so there's no question of rights or permission, or anything. And he's coming up this

afternoon to hear my melody, and to make a few little changes in the words, maybe. Oh, Aunt Hannah, you

``Yes, yes, dear, of course; but'' Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a vaguely troubled pause.

``Yes, dear; and I amvery glad. It's only if it doesn't take too much timeand if Bertram doesn't mind.''

``No, it won't take too much time, I fancy, andso far as Bertram is concernedif what Sister Kate says is

true, Aunt Hannah, he'll be glad to have me occupy a little of my time with something besides himself.''

``Well, probably I did need it. She said it night before last just before she went home with Uncle William.

She declared that I seemed to forget entirely that Bertram belonged to his Art first, before he belonged to me;

and that it was exactly as she had supposed it would bea perfect absurdity for Bertram to think of marrying

``Fiddlededee!'' ejaculated the irate Aunt Hannah, even more sharply. ``I hope you have too much good sense

``Yes, I know,'' sighed the girl; ``but of course I can see some things for myself, and I suppose I did makea

little fuss about his going to New York the other night. And I will own that I've had a real struggle with

myself sometimes, lately, not to mindhis giving so much time to his portrait painting. And of course both

of those are very reprehensiblein an artist's wife,'' she finished, a little tremulously.

``Humph! Well, I don't think I should worry about that,'' observed Aunt Hannah with grim positiveness.

``No, I don't mean to,'' smiled Billy, wistfully. ``I only told you so you'd understand that it was just as well if

I did have something to take up my mindbesides Bertram. And of course music would be the most natural

``And it seems actually almost providential that MaryI mean Mr. Arkwright is here to help me, now that

``Yes, of course. He isn't likea stranger,'' murmured Aunt Hannah. Aunt Hannah's voice sounded as if she

``No, indeed! He seems just like one of the family to me, almost as if he were reallyyour niece, Mary

``Why, of course he does, Aunt Hannah everybody does!'' Billy's eyes were plainly surprised.

``Yes, yes, of coursehe must,'' subsided Aunt Hannah, confusedly, hoping that Billy would not divine the

hidden reason behind her question. She was relieved when Billy's next words showed that she had not divined

``I told you, didn't I? He's coming up this afternoon. He can't get here till five, though; but he's so interested!

He's about as crazy over the thing as I am. And it's going to be fine, Aunt Hannah, when it's done. You just

``I'm glad she didn't suspect,'' she was thinking. ``I believe she'd consider even the _question_ disloyal to

Bertramdear child! And of course Mary''Aunt Hannah corrected herself with cheeks aflame``I mean

It was just here, however, that Aunt Hannah was mistaken. Mr. Arkwright did notknow. He had not

reached Boston when the engagement was announced. He knew none of Billy's friends in town save the

Henshaw brothers. He had not heard from Calderwell since he came to Boston. The very evident intimacy of

Billy with the Henshaw brothers he accepted as a matter of course, knowing the history of their acquaintance,

and the fact that Billy was Mr. William Henshaw's namesake. As to Bertram being Billy's lover that idea

had long ago been killed at birth by Calderwell's emphatic assertion that the artist would never care for any

girlexcept to paint. Since coming to Boston, Arkwright had seen little of the two together. His work, his

friends, and his general mode of life precluded that. Because of all this, therefore, Arkwright did not know;

Promptly at five o'clock that afternoon, Arkwright rang Billy's doorbell, and was admitted by Rosa to the

``I'm so glad you've come,'' she sighed happily. ``I want you to hear the melody your pretty words have sung

to me. Though, maybe, after all, you won't like it, you know,'' she finished with arch wistfulness.

``As if I could help liking it,'' smiled the man, trying to keep from his voice the ecstatic delight that the touch

``The words are lovely,'' she declared, sorting out two or three sheets of manuscript music from the quantity

on the rack before her. ``But there's one placethe rhythm, you knowif you could change it. There!but

listen. First I'm going to play it straight through to you.'' And she dropped her fingers to the keyboard. The

next moment a tenderly sweet melodywith only a chord now and then for accompanimentfilled

Arkwright'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 girl for whom they were written. They were being sung with feeling, tooso

evident a feeling that the man's pulse quickened, and his eyes flashed a sudden fire. Arkwright could not

know, of course, that Billy, in her own mind, was singing that songto Bertram Henshaw.

The fire was still in Arkwright's eyes when the song was ended; but Billy very plainly did not see it. With a

frowning sigh and a murmured ``There!'' she began to talk of ``rhythm'' and ``accent'' and ``cadence''; and to

point out with anxious care why three syllables instead of two were needed at the end of a certain line. From

this she passed eagerly to the accompaniment, and Arkwright at once found himself lost in a maze of ``minor

thirds'' and ``diminished sevenths,'' until he was forced to turn from the singer to the song. Still, watching her

a little later, he noticed her absorbed face and eager enthusiasm, her earnest pursuance of an elusive harmony,

and he wondered: did she, or did she not sing that song with feeling a little while before?

Arkwright had not settled this question to his own satisfaction when Aunt Hannah came in at halfpast five,

and he was conscious of a vague disappointment as he rose to greet her. Billy, however, turned an untroubled

``We're doing finely, Aunt Hannah,'' she cried. Then, suddenly, she flung a laughing question to the man.

``How about it, sir? Are we going to put on the titlepage: `Words by Mary Jane Arkwright'or will you

``Then it'll have to be `Mary Jane,' '' retorted Billy, with calm naughtiness, 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 have sighing swains writing to `Dear Miss

Arkwright,' telling how touching were _her_ words; and lovelorn damsels thanking _Mr_. Neilson for _his_

``Yes, yes, I know; that was badand I won't again, truly,'' promised Billy. But her eyes danced, and the

next moment she had whirled about on the piano stool and dashed into a Chopin waltz. The room itself, then,

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Billy was summoned to the telephone.

``Oh, good morning, Uncle William,'' she called, in answer to the masculine voice that replied to her ``Hullo.''

``Well, I do, my dear.'' Uncle William's voice was troubled. ``I want you to go with me, if you can, to see a

Mrs. Greggory. She's got a teapot I want. It's a genuine Lowestoft, Harlow says. Will you go?''

``Eleven if you can, at Park Street. She's at the West End. I don't dare to put it off for fear I'll lose it. Harlow

says others will have to know 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 says they're peculiarthe daughter, especiallyand may

need some careful handling. That's why I wanted youthough I wanted you to see the teapot, too,it'll be

Billy, all alone at her end of the line, blushed. That she was one day to be mistress of the Strata and all it

``I'd love to see it, and I'll come gladly; but I'm afraid I won't be much help, Uncle William,'' she worried.

``I'll take the risk of that. You see, Harlow says that about half the time she isn't sure she wants to sell it, after

``Yes; and thank you, my dear. I tried to get Kate to go, too; but she wouldn't. By the way, I'm going to bring

you home to luncheon. Kate leaves this afternoon, you know, and it's been so snowy she hasn't thought best

to try to get over to the house. Maybe Aunt Hannah would come, 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 that she's felt a draft somewherepoor dear. I'll tell her, though, and I'll see you at

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 in his pocket. But when the shabby house on the narrow little street was

``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

Billy shivered a little; but after one glance at the man's disappointed face she lifted a determined chin.

``Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don't mindfor myself; but only think of the

Mrs. Greggory was found to be living in two back rooms at the top of four flights of stairs, up which William

Henshaw toiled with increasing weariness and dismay, punctuating each flight with a despairing: ``Billy,

But Billy would not turn back, and at last they found themselves in the presence of a white haired,

sweetfaced woman who said yes, she was Mrs. Greggory; yes, she was. Even as she uttered the words,

however, she looked fearfully over her shoulders as if expecting to hear from the hall behind them a voice

Mrs. Greggory was a cripple. Her slender little body was poised on two oncecostly crutches. Both the worn

places on the crutches, and the skill with which the little woman swung herself about the room testified that

Billy's eyes were brimming with pity and dismay. Mechanically she had taken the chair toward which Mrs.

Greggory had motioned her. She had tried not to seem to look about her; but there was not one detail of the

bare little room, from its faded rug to the patched but spotless tablecloth, that was not stamped on her brain.

Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had cleared his throat nervously. Billy did not

know whether she herself were the more distressed or the more relieved to hear him stammer:

``WeerI came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to understand you had an erteapot

thater'' With his eyes on the cracked white crockery pitcher on the table, William Henshaw came to a

A curious expression, or rather, series of expressions crossed Mrs. Greggory's face. Terror, joy, dismay, and

relief seemed, one after the other to fight for supremacy. Relief in the end conquered, though even yet there

``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.

``But, madam, perhapsdon't let me'' I he began stammeringly. ``Of courseBilly!'' he broke off in an

Mrs. Greggory had thrown open the door of a small cupboard near the collector's chair, disclosing on one of

the shelves a beautifully shaped teapot, creamy in tint, and exquisitely decorated in a rose design. Near it set a

``If you'll lift it down, please, yourself,'' motioned Mrs. Greggory. ``I don't like towith these,'' she

With fingers that were almost reverent in their appreciation, the collector reached for the teapot. His eyes

``Billy, look, what a beauty! And it's a Lowestoft, too, the real thingthe genuine, true soft paste! And

there's the traydid you notice?'' he exulted, turning back to the shelf. ``You _don't_ see that every day!

``These pieces have been in our family for generations,'' said Mrs. Greggory with an accent of pride. ``You'll

``I have been told so. Yet to me their chief value, of course, lies in their association. My mother and my

``But, madam, if you do not wish to sell'' He stopped abruptly. His longing eyes had gone back to the

``But I dothat is, I must. Mr. Harlow says that it is valuable, and that it will bring in money; and we

needmoney.'' She threw a quick glance toward the hall door, though she did not pause in her remarks. ``I

can't do much at work that pays. I sew'' she nodded toward the machine by the window'' but with only

one foot to make it go You see, the other isis inclined to shirk a little,'' she finished with a wistful

Billy turned away sharply. There was a lump in her throat and a smart in her eyes. She was conscious

suddenly of a fierce anger against she did not know what, exactly; but she fancied it was against the teapot,

or against Uncle William for wanting the teapot, or for _not_ wanting itif he did not buy it.

Mrs. Greggory said then. ``Perhaps you will tell me what it would be worth to you,'' she concluded

The collector's eyes glowed. He picked up the teapot with careful rapture and examined it. Then he turned to

``I have only one other in my collection as rare,'' he said. ``I paid a hundred dollars for that. I shall be glad to

``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 that to you'' She paused suddenly. A quick step had sounded in the hall

outside. The next moment the door flew open and a young woman, who looked to be about twentythree or

``Mother, only think, I've'' She stopped, and drew back a little. Her startled eyes went from one face to

another, then dropped to the Lowestoft teapot in the man's hands. Her expression changed at once. She shut

Billy lifted her chin the least bit. She was conscious of a feeling which she could not name: Billy was not

used to being called ``these people'' in precisely that tone of voice. William Henshaw, too, raised his chin.

``My name is Henshaw, MissGreggory, I presume,'' he said quietly. ``I was sent 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. ``This gentleman says he will be glad to buy it. Er my daughter, Alice, Mr.

A swift red stained Alice Greggory's face. With barely an acknowledgment of the introductions she turned to

``Yes, dear, but that won't be necessary now. As I started to tell you when 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 teapot at

present.'' As she finished her sentence she stepped one side as if to make room for the strangers to reach the

William Henshaw frowned angrilythat was the man; but his eyesthe collector's eyes sought the teapot

longingly. Before either the man or the collector could speak, however; Mrs. Greggory interposed quick

``But, Alice, my dear,'' she almost sobbed. ``You didn't wait to let me tell you. Mr. Henshaw says it is worth a

It was plain to be seen that she was wavering. Billy, watching the little scene, with mingled emotions, saw the

glance with which the girl swept the bare little room; and she knew that there was not a patch or darn or

Billy was wondering which she herself desired morethat Uncle William should buy the Lowestoft, or that

he should not. She knew she wished Mrs. Greggory to have the hundred dollars. There was no doubt on that

point. Then Uncle William spoke. His words carried the righteous indignation of the man who thinks he has

been unjustly treated, and the final plea of the collector who sees a coveted treasure slipping from his grasp.

``I am very sorry, of course, if my offer has annoyed you,'' he said stiffly. ``I certainly should not have made

it had I not had Mrs. Greggory's assurance that she wished to sell the teapot.''

``_Wished to sell!_'' She repeated the words with superb disdain. She was plainly very angry. Her bluegray

eyes gleamed with scorn, and her whole face was suffused with a red that had swept to the roots of her soft

hair. ``Do you think a woman _wishes_ to sell a thing that she's treasured all her life, a thing that is perhaps

``I can't help it,'' stormed the girl, hotly. ``I know how much you think of that teapot that was grandmother's. I

know what it cost you to make up your mind to sell it at all. And then to hear these people talk about your

_wishing_ to sell it! Perhaps they think, too, we _wish_ to live in a place like this; that we _wish_ to have

rugs that are darned, and chairs that are broken, and garments that are patches instead of clothes!''

With a little outward fling of her two hands Alice Greggory stepped back. Her face had grown white again.

``I beg your pardon, of course,'' she said in a voice that was bitterly quiet. ``I should not have spoken so. You

are very kind, Mr. Henshaw, but I do not think we care to sell the Lowestoft today.''

Both words and manner were obviously a dismissal; and with a puzzled sigh William Henshaw picked up his

hat. His face showed very clearly that he did not know what to do, or what to say; but it showed, too, as

clearly, that he longed to do something, or say something. During the brief minute that he hesitated, however,

``Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let _me_ buy the teapot? And thenwon't you keep it for mehere? I

haven't the hundred dollars with me, 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 the standpoint of sense and logic and

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 out and caught Billy's hand in both her own even while she shook her

Not so her daughter. Alice Greggory flushed scarlet. She drew herself proudly erect.

``Thank you,'' she said with crisp coldness; ``but, distasteful as darns and patches are to us, we prefer them,

``Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies,'' said William Henshaw then, decisively. And Billy, with

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't be to this place,'' he fumed.

``Awful! The girl was the most stubborn, unreasonable, vixenish little puss I ever saw. I didn't want her old

Lowestoft if she didn't want to sell it! But to practically invite me there, and then treat me like that!'' scolded

the collector, his face growing red with anger. ``Still, I was sorry for the poor little old lady. I wish,

somehow, she could have that hundred dollars!'' It was the man who said this, not the collector.

``So do I,'' rejoined Billy, dolefully. ``But that girl was soso 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 ``ice cream''

Kate and little Kate left for the West on the afternoon of the fifteenth, and Bertram arrived from New York

that evening. Notwithstanding the confusion of all this, Billy still had time to give some thought to her

experience of the morning with Uncle William. The forlorn little room with its povertystricken furnishings

and its crippled mistress was very vivid in Billy's memory. Equally vivid were the flashing eyes of Alice

``For,'' as Billy explained to Bertram that evening, after she had told him the story of the morning's adventure,

``I should think not,'' scowled her lover, indignantly; ``and it's safe to say you never will again. The

impertinence of it! But then, you won't see 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

``Why, Billy, you don't mean that Will, or you either, would try again for that trumpery teapot!''

``Of course not,'' flashed Billy, heatedly. ``It isn't the teapotit's that dear little Mrs. Greggory. Why, dearie,

you don't know how poor they are! Everything in sight is so old and thin and worn it's enough to break your

heart. The rug isn't anything but darns, nor the tablecloth, eitherexcept patches. It's awful, Bertram!''

``I know, darling; but _you_ don't expect to buy them new rugs and new tablecloths, do you?''

``Mercy!'' she chuckled. ``Only picture Miss Alice's face if I _should_ try to buy them rugs and tablecloths!

No, dear,'' she went on more seriously, ``I sha'n't do that, of coursethough I'd like to; but I shall try to see

Mrs. Greggory again, if it's nothing more than a rose or a book or a new magazine that I can take to her.''

``Or a smilewhich I fancy will be the best gift of the lot,'' amended Bertram, fondly.

``Smilesmy smilesare not so valuable, I'm afraidexcept to you, perhaps,'' she laughed.

``Selfevident facts need no proving,'' retorted Bertram. ``Well, and what else has happened in all these ages

``Oh, and I haven't told you!'' she exclaimed. ``I'm writing a new songa love song. Mary Jane wrote the

``Indeed! And isMary Jane a poet, with all the rest?'' he asked, with affected lightness.

``Oh, no, of course not,'' smiled Billy; ``but these words _are_ pretty. And they just sang themselves into the

``Lucky Mary Jane!'' murmured Bertram, still with a lightness that he hoped would pass for indifference.

(Bertram was ashamed of himself, but deep within him was a growing consciousness that he knew the

meaning of the vague irritation that he always felt at the mere mention of Arkwright's name.) ``And will the

``I even suggested `Methuselah John' for a change. Oh, but, dearie,'' she broke off with shy eagerness, ``I just

want you to hear a little of what I've done with it. You see, really, all the time, I suspect, I've been singing

itto you,'' she confessed with an endearing blush, as she sprang lightly to her feet and hurried to the piano.

It was a bad ten minutes that Bertram Henshaw spent then. How he could love a song and hate it at the same

time he did not understand; but he knew that he was doing exactly that. To hear Billy carol ``Sweetheart, my

sweetheart!'' with that joyous tenderness was bliss unspeakable until he remembered that Arkwright wrote

the ``Sweetheart, my sweetheart!'' then it was (Even in his thoughts Bertram bit the word off short. He was

not a swearing man.) When he looked at Billy now at the piano, and thought of her singingas she said she

had sungthat song to him all through the last three days, his heart glowed. But when he looked at her and

thought of Arkwright, who had made possible that singing, his heart froze with terror.

From the very first it had been music that Bertram had feared. He could not forget that Billy herself had once

told him that never would she love any man better than she loved her music; that she was not going to marry.

All this had been at the firstthe very first. He had boldly scorned the idea then, and had said:

``So it's musica cold, senseless thing of spidery marks on clean white paperthat is my only rival!''

He had said, too, that he was going to win. And he had wonbut not until after long weeks of fearing,

hoping, striving, and despairingthis last when Kate's blundering had nearly made her William's wife. Then,

on that memorable day in September, Billy had walked straight into his arms; and he knew that he had,

Very sharply now, as he listened to Billy's singing, Bertram told himself to be reasonable, to be sensible; that

Billy did, indeed, love him. Was she not, according to her own dear assertion, singing that song to him? But it

was Arkwright's song. He remembered that, tooand grew faint at the thought. True, he had won when his

rival, music, had been a ``cold, senseless thing of spidery marks'' on paper; but would that winning stand

when ``music'' had become a thing of flesh and blooda man of undeniable charm, good looks, and

winsomeness; a man whose thoughts, aims, and words were the personification of the thing Billy, in the long

``There!'' she breathed, her face shyly radiant with the glory of the song. ``Did youlike it?''

Bertram did his best; but, in his state of mind, the very radiance of her face was only an added torture, and his

tongue stumbled over the words of praise and appreciation that he tried to say. He saw, then, the happy light

in Billy's eyes change to troubled questioning and grieved disappointment; and he hated himself for a jealous

brute. More earnestly than ever, now, he tried to force the ring of sincerity into his voice; but he knew that he

``Of course, dear, II haven't got it nearly perfected yet. It'll be much better, later.''

``But it s{sic} fine, now, sweetheartindeed it is,'' protested Bertram, hurriedly.

``Well, of course I'm gladif you like it,'' murmured Billy; but the glow did not come back to her face.

Those short December days after Bertram's return from New York were busy ones for everybody. Miss

Winthrop was not in town to give sittings for her portrait, it is true; but her absence only afforded Bertram

time and opportunity to attend to other work that had been more or less delayed and neglected. He was often

at Hillside, however, and the lovers managed to snatch many an hour of quiet happiness from the rush and

Bertram was assuring himself now that his jealous fears of Arkwright were groundless. Billy seldom

mentioned the man, and, as the days passed, she spoke only once of his being at the house. The song, too, she

said little of; and Bertramthough he was ashamed to own it to himselfbreathed more freely.

The real facts of the case were that Billy had told Arkwright that she should have no time to give attention to

the song until after Christmas; and her manner had so plainly shown him that she considered himself

``I'll make her care for me sometimefor something besides a song,'' he told himself with fierce

Aside from Bertram, Christmas filled all of Billy's thoughts these days. There were such a lot of things she

``But, after all, they're only sugarplums, you know, that I'm giving, dear,'' she declared to Bertram one day,

when he had remonstrated with with her for so taxing her time and strength. ``I can't really do much.''

``But it isn't much,, honestlycompared to what there is to do,'' argued Billy. ``You see, dear, it's just this,''

she went on, her bright face sobering a little. ``There are such a lot of people in the world who aren'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've said it all. Books, music, fun, and frosting on their cake they know nothing

``But there are the churches and the charities, and all those longnamed SocietiesI 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 give sugarplums,'' smiled Billy. ``And it's right that

they shouldn't, too,'' she added quickly. ``They have more than they can do now with the roast beef and coal

``And so it's just frosting and sugarplums, is itthese books and magazines and concert tickets and lace

collars for the crippled boy, the spinster lady, the little widow, and all the rest of those people who were here

``I didn't. I just guessed itand it seems `the boy guessed right the very first time,' '' laughed Bertram,

teasingly, but with a tender light in his eyes. ``Oh, and I suppose you'll be sending a frosted cake to the

``How about the Alice ladyor perhaps I should say, the Lady Alice?'' smiled the man.

``Yes, I know,'' she sighed. ``There isthe Lady Alice. But, anyhow, she can't call a Christmas present

`charity'not if it's only a little bit of frosting!'' Billy's chin came up again.

``Yes,'' avowed Billy. ``I'm going down there one of these days, in the morning''

``So it was horridto live in. It was everything that was cheap and mean and forlorn. But it was quiet and

respectable. 'Tisn't as if I didn't know the way, Bertram; and I'm sure that where that poor crippled woman

and daughter are safe, I shall be. Mrs. Greggory is a lady, Bertram, well born and wellbred, I'm sureand

that's the pity of it, to have to live in a place like that! They have seen better days, I know. Those pitiful little

worn crutches of hers were mahogany, I'm sure, Bertram, and they were silver mounted.''

``I know, dear; but if you had some one with you! It wouldn't do for Will, of course, nor me under the

``Bless your dear heart! Aunt Hannah would call for a dozen shawls in that placeif she had breath enough

``Yes, I suppose so,'' rejoined Bertram, with an unwilling smile. ``Stillwell, you _can_ take Rosa,'' he

``How Miss Alice would like thatto catch me going `slumming' with my 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; and after a few more arguments, Billy

It was with Rosa, therefore, that she set out the next morning for the little room up four flights on the narrow

Leaving the maid on the top stair of the fourth flight, Billy tapped at Mrs. Greggory's door. To her joy Mrs.

``Oh! Whywhy, good morning,'' murmured the lady, in evident embarrassment. ``Won't youcome m?''

As she entered the room, Billy threw a hasty look about her. There was no 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 waythat is, I came this way this morning,'' she began a little hastily; ``and I wanted just

to come up and tell you how sorry I was aboutabout that teapot the other day. We didn't want it, of

``Oh, then you didn't come for it againto day,'' she said. ``I'm so glad! I didn't want to refuse_you_.''

``Indeed I didn't come for itand we sha'n't again. Don't worry about that, please.''

``I'm afraid you thought me very rude andand impossible the other day,'' she stammered. ``And please let

me take this opportunity right now to apologize for my daughter. She was overwrought and excited. She

didn't know what she was saying or doing, I'm sure. She was ashamed, I think after you left.''

``But it was our fault that you came. We _asked_ you to comethrough Mr. Harlow,'' rejoined the other,

hurriedly. ``And Mr. Henshaw was that his name?was so kind in every way. I'm glad of this chance to

tell you how much we really did appreciate itand _your_ offer, too, which we could not, of course, accept,''

Again Billy raised a protesting hand; but the little woman in the opposite chair hurried on. There was still

``I hope Mr. Henshaw did not feel too disappointedabout the Lowestoft. We didn't want to let it go if we

``My daughter knew, you see, how much I have always thought of it, and she was determined that I should

not give it up. She said I should have that much left, anyway. You seemy daughter is very unreconciled,

still, to things as they are; and no wonder, perhaps. They are so different from what they were!'' Her voice

``Of course,'' said Billy again, and this time the words were tinged with impatient indignation. ``If only there

``Thank you, my dear, but there isn'tindeed there isn't,'' rejoined the other, quickly; and Billy, looking into

the proudly lifted face, realized suddenly that daughter Alice had perhaps inherited some traits from mother.

``We shall get along very well, I am sure. My daughter has still another pupil. She will be home soon to tell

``Will she? I'm afraid, though, that I sha'n't see her, after all, for I must go. And may I leave these, please?''

she added, hurriedly unpinning the bunch of white carnations from her coat. ``It seems a pity to let them wilt,

when you can put them in water right here.'' Her studiously casual voice gave no hint that those particular

pinks had been bought less than half an hour before of a Park Street florist so that Mrs. Greggory _might_ put

``Oh, oh, how lovely!'' breathed Mrs. Greggory, her face deep in the feathery bed of sweetness. Before she

Christmas came and went; and in a flurry of snow and sleet January arrived. The holidays over, matters and

Miss Winthrop had prolonged her visit in Washington until after Christmas, but she had returned to Boston

nowand with her she had brought a brandnew idea for her portrait; an idea that caused her to sweep aside

with superb disdain all poses and costumes and sketches to date, and announce herself with disarming

Bertram Henshaw was vexed, but helpless. Decidedly he wished to paint Miss Marguerite Winthrop's

portrait; but to attempt to paint it when all matters were not to the lady's liking were worse than useless,

unless he wished to hang this portrait in the gallery of failures along with Anderson's and Fullam'sand that

was not the goal he had set for it. As to the sordid money part of the affairthe great J. G. Winthrop himself

had come to the artist, and in one terse sentence had doubled the original price and expressed himself as

hopeful that Henshaw would put up with ``the child's notions.'' It was the old financier's next sentence,

however, that put the zest of real determination into Bertram, for because of it, the artist saw what this

portrait was going to mean to the stern old man, and how dear was the original of it to a heart that was

Obviously, then, indeed, there was nothing for Bertram Henshaw to do but to begin the new portrait. And he

began itthough still, it must be confessed, with inward questionings. Before a week had passed, however,

every trace of irritation had fled, and he was once again the absorbed artist who sees the vision of his desire

``It's all right,'' he said to Billy then, one evening. ``I'm glad she changed. It's going to be the best, the very

``I'm so glad!'' exclaimed Billy. ``I'm so glad!'' The repetition was so vehement that it sounded almost as if

she were trying to convince herself as well as Bertram of something that was not true.

But it was trueBilly told herself very indignantly that it was; indeed it was! Yet the very fact that she had

to tell herself this, caused her to know how perilously near she was to being actually jealous of that portrait of

Very sternly these days Billy reminded herself of what Kate had said about Bertram's belonging first to his

Art. She thought with mortification, too, that it _did_ look as if she were not the proper wife for an artist if

she were going to feel like thisalways. Very resolutely, then, Billy turned to her music. This was all the

more easily done, for, not only did she have her usual concerts and the opera to enjoy, but she had become

interested in an operetta her club was about to give; also she had taken up the new song again. Christmas

being over, Mr. Arkwright had been to the house several times. He had changed some of the words and she

had improved the melody. The work on the accompaniment was progressing finely now, and Billy was so

glad!when she was absorbed in her music she forgot sometimes that she was ever so unfit an artist's

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 a matter of business took Billy into the neighborhood of Symphony Hall at about

eleven o'clock in the morning. Dismissing John and the car upon her arrival, she said that she would later

walk to the home of a friend near by, where she would remain until it was time for the Symphony Concert.

This friend was a girl whom Billy had known at school. She was studying now at the Conservatory of Music;

and she had often urged Billy to come and have luncheon with her in her tiny apartment, which she shared

with three other girls and a widowed aunt for housekeeper. On this particular Friday it had occurred to Billy

that, owing to her business appointment at eleven and the Symphony Concert at halfpast two, the

intervening time would give her just the opportunity she had been seeking to enable her to accept her friend's

invitation. A question asked, and enthusiastically answered in the affirmative, over the telephone that

morning, therefore, had speedily completed arrangements, and she had agreed to be at her friend's door by

As it happened, business did not take quite so long as she had expected, and halfpast eleven found her well

In spite of the warm sunshine and the slushy snow in the streets, there was a cold, raw wind, and Billy was

beginning to feel thankful that she had not far to go when she rounded a corner and came upon a long line of

humanity that curved itself back and forth on the wide expanse of steps before Symphony Hall and then

``Why, what'' she began under her breath; then suddenly she understood. It was Friday. A worldfamous

pianist was to play with the Symphony Orchestra that afternoon. This must be the line of patient waiters for

the twentyfive cent balcony seats that Mr. Arkwright had told about. With sympathetic, interested eyes,

``What a shame!and after all our struggles to get here! If only we hadn't lost that other train!''

``We're too lateyou no need to hurry!'' the other wailed shrilly to a third girl who was hastening toward

them. ``The line is 'way beyond the Children's Hospital and around the corner nowand the ones there

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 her own symphony ticket from her muff and hurry forward with a ``Here, take mine!'' But

that _would_ hardly do, she knewthough she would like to see Aunt Hannah's aghast face if this girl in the

red sweater and white tamo'shanter should suddenly emerge from among the sumptuous satins and furs

and plumes that afternoon and claim the adjacent orchestra chair. But it was out of the question, of course.

There was only one seat, and there were three girls, besides all those others. With a sigh, then, Billy turned

her eyes back to those othersthose many others that made up the long line stretching its weary length up

There were more women than men, yet the men were there: jolly young men who were plainly students; older

men whose refined faces and threadbare overcoats hinted at cultured minds and starved bodies; other men

who showed no hollows in their cheeks nor nearholes in their garments. It seemed to Billy that women of

almost all sorts were there, young, old, and middleaged; students in tailored suits, widows in crape and veil;

girls that were members of a merry party, women that were plainly forlorn and alone.

Some in the line shuffled restlessly; some stood rigidly quiet. One had brought a camp stool; many were

seated on the steps. Beyond, where the line passed an open lot, a wooden fence afforded a convenient prop.

One read a book, another a paper. Three were studying what was probably the score of the symphony or of

A few did not appear to mind the biting wind, but most of them, by turnedup coatcollars or bent heads,

testified to the contrary. Not far from Billy a woman nibbled a sandwich furtively, while beyond her a group

of girls were hilariously merry over four triangles of pie which they 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 heart ache. 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 knewa face that drooped with such a white misery of spent

``Miss Greggory!'' she exclaimed, when she reached the girl. ``You look actually ill. Are you ill?''

For a brief second only dazed questioning stared from the girl's bluegray eyes. Billy knew when the

Billy threw a hurried glance down the far reaching line that she knew had formed since the girl's two tired

``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 this weather, I knew that many otherswould 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, graypillared building before her, much as if she would pull down the walls if she could,

``Halfpast onealmost two hours more! But, Miss Greggory, you can'thow can you stand it till then?

You've shivered three times since I came, and you look as if you were going to faint away.''

``It is nothing, really,'' she insisted. ``I am quite well. It is onlyI didn't happen to feel like eating much

breakfast this morning; and that, with no luncheon'' She let a gesture finish her sentence.

``No luncheon! Whyoh, you couldn't leave your place, of course,'' frowned Billy.

``No, and''Alice Greggory lifted her head a little proudly``I do not care to eat here.'' Her scornful eyes

``Of course not,'' agreed Billy, promptly. She paused, frowned, and bit her lip. Suddenly her face cleared.

``There! the very thing,'' she exulted. ``You shall have my ticket this afternoon, Miss Greggory, then you

won't have to stay here another minute. Meanwhile, there is an excellent restaurant''

``Thank youno. I couldn't do that,'' cut in the other, sharply, but in a low voice.

``But I want you to, please. I shall be very unhappy if you don't,'' grieved Billy.

``_I_ should be very unhappy if I did,'' she said with cold emphasis. ``Really, Miss Neilson,'' she went on in a

low voice, throwing an apprehensive glance at the man ahead, who was apparently absorbed in his

newspaper, ``I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to let me go on in my own way. You are very kind, but there is

nothing you can do; nothing. You were very kind, too, of course, to send the book and the flowers to mother

``Never mind that, please,'' interrupted Billy, hurriedly. Billy's head was lifted now. Her eyes were no longer

pleading. Her round little chin looked square and determined. ``If you simply will not take my ticket this

afternoon, you _must_ do this. Go to some restaurant near here and get a good luncheonsomething that

Billy smiled radiantly. It was the first time she had ever seen Alice Greggory's haughtily cold reserve break

into anything like naturalness the astonished incredulity of that ``Miss Neilson!'' was plainly straight from

``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 the impression that standing in line for a twenty fivecent seat was a daily habit of

hers. ``There's a restaurant only a little wayright down there,'' she finished. And before the dazed Alice

Greggory knew quite what was happening she found herself outside the line, and the other in her place.

``But, Miss Neilson, I can'tyou mustn't'' she stammered; then, because of something in the

unyieldingness of the square young chin above the sealskin coat, and because she could not (she knew) use

actual force to drag the owner of that chin out of the line, she bowed her head in acquiescence.

``Well, thenI will, long enough for some coffee and maybe a sandwich. Andthank you,'' she choked, as

Billy drew the deep breath of one who has triumphed after long strugglesbut the breath broke off short in a

gasp of dismay: coming straight up the Avenue toward her was the one person in the world Billy wished least

to see at that momentBertram Henshaw. Billy remembered then that she had twice lately heard her lover

speak of calling at the Boston Opera House concerning a commission to paint an ideal head to represent

``Music'' for some decorative purpose. The Opera House was only a short distance up the Avenue. Doubtless

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 Billy was counting on that chanceuntil a gust of wind whirled a loose halfsheet

of newspaper from the hands of the man in front of her, and naturally attracted Bertram's eyes to its

vicinityand to hers. The next moment he was at her side and his dumfounded but softlybreathed

Billy bubbled into low laughterthere were such a lot of funny situations in the world, and of them all this

``Yes, I know,'' she gurgled. ``You don't have to say ityour face is saying even more than your tongue

Bertram frowned. He looked as if he were meditating picking Billy up and walking off with her.

``But, Billy,'' he protested just above his breath, ``this isn't sugarplums nor frosting; it's plain

suicidestanding out in this wind like this! Besides'' He stopped with an angrily despairing glance at her

``Yes, I know,'' she nodded, a little soberly, understanding the look and answering that first; ``it isn't pleasant

nor comfortable, in lots of waysbut _she's_ had it all the morning. As for the coldI'm as warm as toast.

It won't be long, anyway; she's just gone to get something to eat. Then I'm going to May Henderson's for

Bertram sighed impatiently and opened his lipsonly to close them with the words unsaid. There was

nothing he could do, and he had already said too much, he thought, with a savage glance at the man ahead

who still had enough of his paper left to serve for a pretence at reading. As Bertram could see, however, the

man was not reading a word he was too acutely conscious of the handsome young woman in the long

sealskin coat behind him. Billy was already the cynosure of dozens of eyes, and Bertram knew that his own

arrival on the scene had not lessened the interest of the owners of those eyes. He only hoped devoutly that no

one in the line knew him ar Billy, and that no one quite knew what had happened. He did not wish to see

himself and his fiance the subject of inchhigh headlines in some evening paper figuring as:

``Talented young composer and her famous artist lover take poor girl's place in a twentyfive cent ticket

He shook his head silently. His eyes were searching the street for the only one whose coming could bring him

It must have been but a coffeeandsandwich luncheon for the girl, for soon 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 moment

``That was Alice Greggory, Bertram,'' she told him, as they walked on swiftly; ``and Bertram, she was

``Pooh! It didn't hurt me any, dearie,'' laughed Billy with a conciliatory pat on his arm as they turned down

the street upon which her friend lived. ``And now can you come in and see May a minute?''

``I'm afraid not,'' regretted Bertram. ``I wish I could, but I'm busier than busy today and I was

_supposed_ to be already late when I saw you. Jove, Billy, I just couldn't believe my eyes!''

``You looked it,'' twinkled Billy. ``It was worth a farm just to see your face!''

``I'd want the farmif I was going through that again,'' retorted the man, grimlyBertram was still seeing

Arkwright called Monday afternoon by appointment; and together he and Billy put the finishing touches to

It was when, with Aunt Hannah, they were having tea before the fire a little later, that Billy told of her

``You knew the girl, of courseI 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

``Alice Greggory?'' Arkwright's eyes showed a sudden interest. ``I used to know an Alice Greggory, but it

``Why, it isit 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 deeper interest. ``I haven't seen them for four

or five years. They used to live in our town. The mother was a little sweet faced woman with young eyes

``That describes my Mrs. Greggory exactly,'' cried Billy's eager voice. ``And the daughter?''

``Alice? Whyas I said, it's been four years since I've seen her.'' A touch of constraint had come into

Arkwright's voice which Billy's keen ear was quick to detect. ``She was nineteen then and very pretty.''

``About my height, and with lightbrown hair and big bluegray eyes that look steely cold when she's

``Then they _are_ the ones,'' declared the girl, plainly excited. ``Isn't that splendid? Now we can know them,

and perhaps do something for them. I love that dear little mother already, and I think I should the

daughterif she didn't put out so many prickers that I couldn't get near her! But tell us about them. How did

``Are you good at answering a dozen questions at once?'' asked Aunt Hannah, turning smiling eyes from Billy

``Well, I can try,'' he offered. ``To begin with, they are Judge Greggory's widow and daughter. They belong

to fine families on both sides, and they used to be well offreally wealthy, for a small town. But the judge

was better at moneymaking than he was at moneykeeping, and when he came to die his income stopped, of

course, and his estate was found to be in bad shape through reckless loans and worthless investments. That

was eight years ago. Things went from bad to worse then, until there was almost nothing left.''

``I knew there was some such story as that back of them,'' declared Billy. ``But how do you suppose they

``To get away fromeverybody, I suspect,'' replied Arkwright. ``That would be like them. They were very

proud; and it isn't easy, you know, to be nobody where you've been somebody. It doesn't hurt quite so

``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 people who

don't, you know. The Greggorys were that kind. They were morbidly so. From their cheap little cottage,

where they did their own work, they stepped out in their shabby garments and oldfashioned hats with heads

even more proudly erect than in the old days when their home and their gowns and their doings were the

``I _do_ see,'' cried Billy, her face aglow with sudden understanding; ``and I don't believe pity would

``It must have been hard, indeed,'' murmured Aunt Hannah with a sigh, as she set down her teacup.

``It was,'' nodded Arkwright. ``Of course Mrs. Greggory, with her crippled foot, could do nothing to bring in

any money except to sew a little. It all depended on Alice; and when matters got to their worst she began to

teach. She was fond of music, and could play the piano well; and of course she had had the best instruction

she could get from city teachers only twenty miles away from our home town. Young as she was about

seventeen when she began to teach, I think she got a few beginners right away, and in two years she had

``They might have carried the thing through, maybe,'' continued Arkwright, ``and never _apparently_ known

that the `pity' existed, if it hadn't been for some ugly rumors that suddenly arose attacking the Judge's honesty

in an old matter that somebody raked up. That was too much. Under this last straw their courage broke

utterly. Alice dismissed every pupil, sold almost all their remaining goodsthey had lots of quite valuable

heirlooms; I suspect that's where your Lowestoft teapot came inand with the money thus gained they left

town. Until they could go, they scarcely showed themselves once on the street, they were never at home to

callers, and they left without telling one soul where they were going, so far as we could ever learn.''

``Why, the poor dears!'' cried Billy. ``How they must have suffered! But things 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 again Billy noticed the odd constraint in

``But they can't refuseif I bring about a meeting just casually, you know,'' she challenged.

``Well, I won't pretend to say as to the consequences of that,'' he rejoined, rising to his feet; ``but they might

be disastrous. Wasn't it you yourself who were telling me a few minutes ago how steely cold Miss Alice's

Billy knew by the way the man spoke that, for some reason, he did not wish to prolong the subject of his

meeting the Greggorys. She made a quick shift, therefore, to another phase of the matter.

``But tell me, please, before you go, how did those rumors come outabout Judge Greggory's honesty, I

``Why, I never knew, exactly,'' frowned Arkwright, musingly. ``Yet it seems, 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 there was a

``Oh, I wish it might,'' sighed Billy. ``Think what it would mean to those women!''

``'Twould mean everything,'' cried Arkwright, warmly; ``and I'll write to mother tonight, I will, and find out

just what there is to itif anything. Then you can tell them,'' he finished a little stiffly.

``Yesor you,'' nodded Billy, lightly. And because she began at once to speak of something else, the first

The door had scarcely closed behind Arkwright when Billy turned to Aunt Hannah a beaming face.

``Aunt Hannah, did you notice?'' she cried, ``how Mary Jane looked and acted whenever Alice Greggory was

spoken of? There was something between themI'm sure there was; and they quarrelled, probably.''

``Well, I did. And I'm going to be the fairy godmother that straightens everything all out, too. See if I'm not!

They'd make a splendid couple, Aunt Hannah. I'm going right down there tomorrow.''

``Billy, my dear!'' exclaimed the more conservative old lady, ``aren't you taking things a little too much for

``Oh, _they_ won't know I'm a fairy godmother not one of them; and of course I wouldn't mention even a

hint to anybody,'' laughed Billy. ``I'm just going down to get acquainted with the Greggorys; that's all. Only

think, Aunt Hannah, what they must have suffered! And look at the place they're living in

``I hope I'll find out that she's really goodat teaching, I meanthe daughter,'' resumed Billy, after a

moment's pause. ``If she is, there's one thing I can do to help, anyhow. I can get some of Marie's old pupils

for 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 sister was at all satisfied with the one their girls _have_ taken. They'd change, I know,

in a minute, at my recommendationthat is, of course, if I can _give_ the recommendation,'' continued Billy,

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 that it would not be necessary. She had not been gone ten minutes,

however, when the telephone bell rang, and Rosa came to say that Mr. Bertram Henshaw wanted to speak

``Rosa says that Billy's not there,'' called Bertram's aggrieved voice, when Aunt Hannah had said, ``Good

``Dear me, no, Bertram. She's in a fever of excitement this morning. She'll probably tell you all about it when

``Oh, you might as well get used to it, Bertram,'' bantered Aunt Hannah, ``for there'll be a good many

``Oh, she'll tell you. It's only that the Greggorys have turned out to be old friends of Mr. Arkwright's.''

``Yes; and there's quite a story to it all, as well. Billy is wildly excited, as you'd know she would be. You'll

``Yes, of course,'' echoed Bertram. But there was no ring of enthusiasm in his voice, neither then, nor when

Billy, meanwhile, on her way to the Greggory home, was, as Aunt Hannah had said, ``wildly excited.'' It

seemed so strange and wonderful and delightfulthe whole affair: that she should have found them because

of a Lowestoft teapot, that Arkwright should know them, and that there should be the chance now that she

might help themin some way; though this last, she knew, could be accomplished only through the exercise

of the greatest tact and delicacy. She had not forgotten that Arkwright had told her of their hatred of pity.

In the sober second thought of the morning, Billy was not sure now of a possible romance in connection with

Arkwright and the daughter, Alice; but she had by no means abandoned the idea, and she meant to keep her

eyes openand if there should be a chance to bring such a thing about! Meanwhile, of course, she should

Just what would be her method of procedure this first morning, Billy had not determined. The pretty potted

azalea in her hand would be excuse for her entrance into the room. After that, circumstances must decide for

Mrs. Greggory was found to be alone at home as before, and Billy was glad. She would rather begin with one

than two, she thought. The little woman greeted her cordially, gave mistyeyed thanks for the beautiful plant,

and also for Billy's kind thoughtfulness Friday afternoon. From that she was very skilfully led to talk more of

the daughter; and soon Billy was getting just the information she wantedinformation concerning the

``You see, we have some moneya very little,'' explained Mrs. Greggory, after a time; ``though to get it we

have had to sell all our treasures but the Lowestoft, ``with a quick glance into Billy's eyes. ``We need not,

perhaps, live in quite so poor a place; but we preferjust now to spend the little money we have for

something other than imitation comfortlessons, for instance, and an occasional concert. My daughter is

studying even while she is teaching. She hopes to train herself for an accompanist, and for a teacher. She does

``She is; very good. She has the best of recommendations.'' A little proudly Mrs. Greggory gave the names of

Unconsciously Billy relaxed. She did not know until that moment how she had worried for fear she could not,

``Of course,'' resumed the mother, ``Alice's pupils are few, and they pay low prices; but she is gaining. She

goes to the houses, of course. She herself practises two hours a day at a house up on Pinckney Street. She

``I see,'' nodded Billy, brightly; ``and I've been thinking, Mrs. Greggorymaybe I know of some pupils she

could get. I have a friend who has just given hers up, owing to her marriage. Sometime, soon, I'm going to

``And here she is right now,'' interposed Mrs. Greggory, as the door opened under a hurried hand.

Billy flushed and bit her lip. She was disturbed and disappointed. She did not particularly wish to see Alice

Greggory just then. She wished even less to see her when she noted the swift change that came to the girl's

``Oh! Whygood morning, Miss Neilson,'' murmured Miss Greggory with a smile so forced that her mother

``My dear, see,'' she stammered, ``what Miss Neilson has brought me. And it's so full of blossoms, too! And

Alice Greggory murmured a low something a something that she tried, evidently, very hard to make

politely appropriate and appreciative. Yet her manner, as she took off her hat and coat and sat down, so

plainly said: ``You are very kind, of course, but I wish you would keep yourself and 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 mindthat is, I'm afraid you'll think you see, she

took cold last week; a bad cold and she isn't over it, yet,'' finished the little woman in painful

``Of course she took coldstanding 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 and fervently wished she had spoken of

anything but that Friday afternoon. It looked almost as if she were _reminding_ them of what she had done

that day. In her confusion, and in her anxiety to say somethinganything that would get their minds off that

ideashe uttered now the first words that came into her head. As it happened, they were the last words that

``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 out for a drive one of these mild, sunny days. You have no idea how much good it

Alice Greggory got suddenly to her feet. Her face was very white now. Her eyes had the steely coldness that

``Miss Neilson, you will think me rude, of course, especially after your great kindness to me the other day;

but I can't help it. It seems to me best to speak now before it goes any further.''

The girl did not turn her head nor hesitate; but she caught the extended hand and held it warmly in both her

``I'm sure mother agrees with me that it is best, for the present, that we keep quite to ourselves. I cannot

question your kindness, of course, after your somewhat unusual favor the other day; but I am very sure that

your friends, Miss Peggy, and Miss Mary Jane, have no real desire to make my acquaintance, norif you'll

``Oh, Alice, Alice,'' began the little mother, in dismay; but a rippling laugh from their visitor brought an

``Pleaseplease, forgive me!'' she choked. ``But you seeyou couldn't, of course, know that Mary Jane and

An unwilling smile trembled on Alice Greggory's lips; but she still stood her ground.

``After all, girls, or men and automobiles, Miss Neilsonit makes little difference. They're charity. And

it's not so long that we've been objects of charity that we quite really enjoy it yet.''

``I never even _thought_charity,'' said Billy, so gently that a faint red stole into the white cheeks opposite.

For a tense minute Alice Greggory held herself erect; then, with a complete change of manner and voice, she

``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 girls againjust as _girls!_ ButI no longer have any business with pride, of course. I

shall be pleased, I'm sure,'' she went on dully, ``to accept anything you may do for us, from automobile rides

Billy almostbut not quitelaughed. Still, the laugh would have been near to a sob, had it been given.

Surprising as was the quick transition in the girl's manner, and absurd as was the juxtaposition of automobiles

and red flannel petticoats, the white misery of Alice Greggory's face and the weary despair of her attitude

were tragic specially to one who knew her story as did Billy Neilson. And it was because Billy did know

her story that she did not make the mistake now of offering pity. Instead, she said with a bright smile, and a

``Well, as it happens, Miss Greggory, what I want today has nothing whatever to do with automobiles or red

flannel petticoats. It's a matter of straight business.'' (How Billy blessed the thought that had so 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 for charity, and we need an accompanist. There is no one in the club who is able, and

at the same time willing, to spend the amount of time necessary for practice and rehearsals. So we had

decided to hire one outside, and I have been given the task of finding one. It has occurred to me that perhaps

Billy knew, at once, from the quick change in the other's face and manner, that she had taken exactly the right

course to relieve the strain of the situation. Despair and lassitude fell away from Alice Greggory almost like a

``Good! Then can you come out to my home sometime tomorrow, and go over the music with me?

Rehearsals will not begin until next week; but I can give you the music, and tell you something of what we

``Yes. I could come at ten in the morning for an hour, or at three in the afternoon for two hours or more,''

``Suppose we call it in the afternoon, then,'' smiled Billy, as she rose to her feet. ``And now I must goand

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 saying anything more about the proposed new

pupils. New pupils were not automobile rides nor petticoats, to be surebut she did not care to risk

disturbing the present interested happiness of Alice Greggory's face by mentioning anything that might be

On the whole, Billy felt well pleased with her morning's work. To Aunt Hannah, upon her return, she

``It's splendideven better than I hoped. I shall have a chance tomorrow, of course, to see for myself just

how well she plays, and all that. I'm pretty sure, though, from what I hear, that that part will be all right. Then

the operetta will give us a chance to see a good deal of her, and to bring about a natural meeting between her

and Mary Jane. Oh, Aunt Hannah, I couldn't have _planned_ it betterand there the whole thing just

tumbled into my hands! I knew it had the minute I remembered about the operetta. You know I'm chairman,

and they left me to get the accompanist; 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 to be your accompanist.' And I did. And I'm so

To Billy, Alice Greggory's first visit to Hillside was in every way a delight and a satisfaction. To Alice, it was

even more than that. For the first time in years she found herself welcomed into a home of wealth, culture,

and refinement as an equal; and the frank cordiality and naturalness of her hostess's evident expectation of

meeting a congenial companion was like balm to a sensitive soul rendered morbid by long years of

No wonder that under the cheery friendliness of it all, Alice Greggory's cold reserve vanished, and that in its

place came something very like her old ease and charm of manner. By the time Aunt Hannahaccording to

previous agreement came into the room, the two girls were laughing and chatting over the operetta as if

Much to Billy's delight, Alice Greggory, as a musician, proved to be eminently satisfactory. She was quick at

sight reading, and accurate. She played easily, and with good expression. Particularly was she a good

accompanist, possessing to a marked degree that happy faculty of _accompanying_ a singer: which means

that she neither led the way nor lagged behind, being always exactly in sympathetic stepthan which

It was after the music for the operetta had been wellpractised and discussed that Alice Greggory chanced to

see one of Billy's own songs lying near her. With a pleased smile she picked it up.

``Oh, you know this, too!'' she cried. ``I played it for a lady only the other day. It's so pretty, I thinkall of

hers are, that I have seen. Billy Neilson is a girl, you know, they say, in spite of``She stopped abruptly. Her

eyes grew wide and questioning. ``Miss Neilsonit can't beyou don't meanis your nameit

_isyou!_'' she finished joyously, as the telltale color dyed Billy's face. The next moment her own cheeks

burned scarlet. ``And to think of my letting _you_ stand in line for a twentyfivecent admission!'' she

``Nonsense!'' laughed Billy. ``It didn't hurt me any more than it did you. Come!''in looking about for a

quick something to take her guest's attention, Billy's eyes fell on the manuscript copy of her new song,

bearing Arkwright's name. Yielding to a daring impulse, she drew it hastily forward. ``Here's a new onea

brand new one, not even printed yet. Don't you think the words are pretty?'' she asked.

As she had hoped, Alice Greggory's eyes, after they had glanced halfway through the first page, sought the

`` `Words by M. J.' ''there was a visible start, and a pause before the `` `Arkwright' '' was uttered in a

``Yes; the words are by M. J. Arkwright,'' she said with smooth unconcern, but with a covert glance at the

``Probably notthis one. I used to know an M. J. Arkwright, long ago; but he wasn'ta poet, so far as I

know,'' she finished, with a little catch in her breath that made Billy long to take her into a warm embrace.

Alice Greggory turned then to the music. She had much to say of thisvery much; but she had nothing more

whatever to say of Mr. M. J. Arkwright in spite of the tempting conversation bait that Billy dropped so freely.

After that, Rosa brought in tea and toast, and the little frosted cakes that were always such a favorite with

Billy's guests. Then Alice Greggory said goodbyher eyes full of tears that Billy pretended not to see.

``There!'' breathed Billy, as soon as she had Aunt Hannah to herself again. ``What did I tell you? Did you see

Miss Greggory's start and blush and 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 the reprehensible ``Mary Jane.'' In fact, if the truth were known, Aunt Hannah

herself in her thoughts and sometimes in her wordscalled him ``Mary Jane.'') ``But, indeed, my dear, I

didn't see anything stiff, oror repelling about Miss Greggory, as you said there was.''

``There wasn'ttoday,'' smiled Billy. ``Honestly, Aunt Hannah, I should never have known her for the

same girlwho showed me the door that first morning,'' she finished merrily, as she turned to go upstairs.

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 very pretty, convenient home which was,

according to Bertram, ``electrified to within an inch of its life, and equipped with everything that was fireless,

smokeless, dustless, and laborless.'' In it Marie had a spotlessly white kitchen where she might make

Marie hadagain according to Bertram ``a visiting acquaintance with a maid.'' In other words, a stout

woman was engaged to come two days in the week to wash, iron, and scrub; also to come in each night to

wash the dinner dishes, thus leaving Marie's evenings free``for the shaded lamp,'' Billy said.

Marie had not arrived at thisto her, delightful arrangement of a ``visiting acquaintance'' without some

``But, my dear, won't it be hard for you, to do so much?'' she argued one day. ``You know you aren't very

``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 I want to do

myself, I should feel just like like a hungry man who sees another 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't expect to. Of

course, when we have a houseI'm not sure, then, though, that I sha'n't dress up the maid and order her to

receive the calls and go to the pink teas, while I make her puddings,'' she finished saucily, as Billy began to

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 ``At Homes'' should begin, the devoted couple settled down to quiet days by

themselves, with only occasional visits from the family to interrupt``interrupt'' was Bertram's word, not

Marie's. Though it is safe to say it was not far different from the one Cyril usedin his thoughts.

Bertram himself, these days, was more than busy. Besides working on Miss Winthrop's portrait, and on two

or three other commissions, he was putting the finishing touches to four pictures which he was to show in the

exhibition soon to be held by a prominent Art Club of which he was the acknowledged ``star'' member.

Naturally, therefore, his time was well occupied. Naturally, too, Billy, knowing this, lashed herself more

sternly than ever into a daily reminder of Kate's assertion that he belonged first to his Art.

In pursuance of this idea, Billy was careful to see that no engagement with herself should in any way interfere

with the artist's work, and that no word of hers should attempt to keep him at her side when ART called.

(Billy always spelled that word now in her mind with tall, black letters the way it had sounded when it fell

from Kate's lips.) That these tactics on her part were beginning to fill her lover with vague alarm and a very

definite unrest, she did not once suspect. Eagerly, therefore,even with conscientious delight she

welcomed the new songwords that Arkwright broughtthey would give her something else to take up her

time and attention. She welcomed them, also, for another reason: they would bring Arkwright more often to

the house, and this would, of course, lead to that ``casual meeting'' between him and Alice Greggory when

the rehearsals for the operetta should commence which would be very soon now. And Billy did so long to

To Billy, all this was but ``occupying her mind,'' and playing Cupid's assistant to a worthy young couple torn

cruelly apart by an unfeeling fate. To Bertramto Bertram it was terror, and woe, and all manner of torture;

for in it Bertram saw only a growing fondness on the part of Billy for Arkwright, Arkwright's music,

The first rehearsal for the operetta came on Wednesday evening. There would be another on Thursday

afternoon. Billy had told Alice Greggory to arrange her pupils so that she could stay Wednesday night at

Hillside, if the crippled mother could get along aloneand she could, Alice had said. Thursday forenoon,

therefore, Alice Greggory would, in all probability, be at Hillside, specially as there would doubtless be an

appointment or two for private rehearsal with some nervous soloist whose part was not progressing well.

Such being the case, Billy had a plan she meant to carry out. She was highly pleased, therefore, when

Thursday morning came, and everything, apparently, was working exactly to her mind.

Alice was there. She had an appointment at quarter of eleven with the leading tenor, and another later with

``Now, if you please, Miss Greggory, I'm going to put you upstairs on the couch in the sewing room for a

``I know you have,'' smiled Billy; ``but you were very late to bed last night, 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 door and not

come downstairs till I send for you. Mr. Johnson isn't due till quarter of eleven, is he?''

``Then come with me,'' directed Billy, leading the way upstairs. ``There, now, don't come down till I call

you,'' she went on, when they had reached the little room at the end of the hall. ``I'm going to leave Aunt

Hannah's door open, so you'll have good airshe isn't in there. She's writing letters in my room, Now here's

a book, and you _may_ read, but I should prefer you to sleep,'' she nodded brightly as she went out and shut

the door quietly. Then, like the guilty conspirator she was, she went downstairs to wait for Arkwright.

It was a fine plan. Arkwright was due at ten o'clockBilly had specially 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 Billy meant to

excuse herself for a moment, slip upstairs and send Alice Greggory down for a book, a pair of scissors, a

shawl for Aunt Hannahanything would do for a pretext, anything so that the girl might walk into the

livingroom and find Arkwright waiting for her alone. And then What happened next was, in Billy's mind,

All this was, indeed, a fine plan; but (If only fine plans would not so often have a ``but''!) In Billy's case

the ``but'' had to do with things so apparently unrelated as were Aunt Hannah's clock and a negro's coal

wagon. The clock struck eleven at halfpast ten, and the wagon dumped itself to destruction directly in front

of a trolley car in which sat Mr. M. J. Arkwright, hurrying to keep his appointment with Miss Billy Neilson.

It was almost halfpast ten when Arkwright finally rang the bell at Hillside. Billy greeted him so eagerly, and

at the same time with such evident disappointment at his late arrival, that Arkwright's heart sang with joy.

``But there's a rehearsal at quarter of eleven,'' exclaimed Billy, in answer to his hurried explanation of the

delay; ``and this gives so little time forforso little time, you know,'' she finished in confusion, casting

frantically about in her mind for an excuse to hurry upstairs and send Alice Greggory down before it should

No wonder that Arkwright, noting the sparkle in her eye, the agitation in 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 a diminished

seventh; for so long had she blithely accepted his every word and act as devotion to music, not herselffor

so long had she done all this that he had come to fear that never would she do anything else. No wonder then,

that now, in the soft radiance of the strange, new light on her face, his own face glowed ardently, and that he

``I'm afraid I kept you waiting,'' interrupted the hurried voice of Alice Greggory from the hall doorway. ``I

was asleep, I think, when a clock somewhere, striking eleven Why, Mr.Arkwright!''

Not until Alice Greggory had nearly crossed the room did she see that the man standing by her hostess

wasnot the tenor she had expected to findbut an old acquaintance. Then it was that the tremulous

Billy and Arkwright had turned at her first words. At her last, Arkwright, with a half despairing,

At the first opportunity Billy murmured a hasty excuse and left the room. To Aunt Hannah she flew with a

``Oh, Aunt Hannah, Aunt Hannah,'' she wailed, half laughing, half crying; ``that wretched little fibteller of a

``My first meeting between Mary Jane and Miss Greggory. I had it all arranged that they were to have it

_alone_; but that miserable little fibber upstairs struck eleven at halfpast ten, and Miss Greggory heard it

and thought she was fifteen minutes late. So down she hurried, half awake, and spoiled all my plans. Now

she's sitting in there with him, in chairs the length of the room apart, discussing the snowstorm last night or

the moonrise this morningor some other such silly thing. And I had it so beautifully planned!''

``Well, well, dear, I'm sorry, I'm sure,'' smiled Aunt Hannah; ``but I can't think any real harm is done. Did

Only the faintest flicker of Billy's eyelid testified that the everyday accustomedness of that ``Mary Jane'' on

``No, nothing definite. Yet there was a little. Friends are still trying to clear his name, and I believe are

meeting with increasing success. I don't know, of course, whether he'll say anything about it today_now_.

To think I had to be right round under foot like that when they met!'' went on Billy, indignantly. ``I shouldn't

have been, in a minute more, though. I was just trying to think up an excuse to come up and send down Miss

Greggory, when Mary Jane began to tell me somethingI haven't the faintest idea what then _she_

appeared, and it was all over. And there's the doorbell, and the tenor, I suppose; so of course it's all over

As it chanced, however, it was not the tenor, but a message from hima message that brought dire

consternation to the Chairman of the Committee of Arrangements. The tenor had thrown up his part. He

could not take it; it was too difficult. He felt that this should be toldat once rather than to worry along for

``But what shall we do, Miss Greggory?'' appealed Billy. ``It _is_ a hard part, you know; but if Mr. Tobey

can't take it, I don't know who can. We don't want to hire a singer for it, if we can help it. The profits are to

go to the Home for Crippled Children, you know,'' she explained, turning to Arkwright, ``and we decided to

``As if he didn't nowa perfectly glorious tenor,'' retorted Billy. ``But as if _he_ would take _this!_''

``Yes, I think I wouldunder the circumstances,'' he smiled. ``I think I 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 convince the

powersthatbe that singing in this operetta will be just the stepping stone I need to success in Grand

``Well,'' said Arkwright, his eyes on Billy's frankly delighted face, ``as I said beforeunder the

``Thank you! Then it's all beautifully settled,'' rejoiced Billy, with a happy sigh; and unconsciously she gave

In Billy's mind the ``circumstances'' of Arkwright's acceptance of the part were Alice Greggory and her

position as accompanist, of course. Billy would have been surprised indeedand dismayedhad she known

that in Arkwright's mind the ``circumstances'' were herself, and the fact that she, too, had a part in the

operetta, necessitating her presence at rehearsals, and hinting at a delightful comradeship impossible, perhaps,

February came The operetta, for which Billy was working so hard, was to be given the twentieth. The Art

Exhibition, for which Bertram was preparing his four pictures, was to open the sixteenth, with a private view

On the eleventh day of February Mrs. Greggory and her daughter arrived at Hillside for a ten days' visit. Not

until after a great deal of pleading and argument, however, had Billy been able to bring this about.

``But, my dears, both of you,'' Billy had at last said to them; ``just listen. We shall have numberless rehearsals

during those last ten days before the thing comes off. They will be at all hours, and of all lengths. You, Miss

Greggory, will have to be on hand for them all, of course, 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 ten days; and I shall feel seriously hurt and offended if you

``You can go in town from my home at any time to give your lessons, and a little shifting about and arranging

for those ten days will enable you to set the hours conveniently one after another, I am sure, so you can attend

to several on one trip. Meanwhile your mother will be having a lovely time teaching Aunt Hannah how to

After all, it had been the great good and pleasure which the visit would bring to Mrs. Greggory that had been

the final straw to tip the scales. On the eleventh of February, therefore, in the company of the once scorned

Ever since the first meeting of Alice Greggory and Arkwright, Billy had been 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 two

were civility itself to each other, but very plainly they were not at ease in each other's company; and Billy,

much to her surprise, had to admit 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,

``I suppose you don't ever call him `Mary Jane,' '' she said to the girl, a little mischievously, one day.

`` `Mary Jane'? Mr. Arkwright? No, I don't,'' rejoined Miss Greggory, with an odd smile. Then, after a

``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,'' she finished, when Alice Greggory had done laughing over the tale, ``he always will be

``Why, it's'' She stopped short, her eyes questioning. ``Why, hasn't he ever told you?'' she queried.

``No. He told us to guess it, and we have guessed everything we can think of, even up to `Methuselah John';

``Well, I'm sure that's a nice, solid name,'' defended Billy, her chin still at a challenging tilt. ``If it isn't

But Alice Greggory shook her head. She, too, it seemed, could be firm, on occasion. And though she smiled

``Oh, well, I can still call him `Mary Jane,' '' retorted Billy, with airy disdain.

All this, however, so far as Billy could see, was not in the least helping along the cause that had become so

dear to herthe reuniting of a pair of lovers. It occurred to her then, one day, that perhaps, after all, they

were not lovers, and did not wish to be reunited. At this disquieting thought Billy decided, suddenly, to go

almost to headquarters. She would speak to Mrs. Greggory if ever the opportunity offered. Great was her joy,

therefore, when, a day or two after the Greggorys arrived at the house, Mrs. Greggory's chance reference to

``They used to know each other long ago, Mr. Arkwright tells me,'' Billy began warily.

The quietly polite monosyllable was not very encouraging, to be sure; but Billy, secure in her conviction that

``I think it was so romantictheir 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 wasa romance!''

Billy held her breath. It was what she had meant to say, but now that she had said it, the words seemed very

fearsome indeedto say to Mrs. Greggory. Then Billy remembered her Cause, and took heartBilly was

For a long minute Mrs. Greggory did not answerfor so long a minute that Billy's breath dropped into a

fluttering sigh, and her Cause became suddenly ``IMPERTINENCE'' spelled in black capitals. Then Mrs.

``I don't mind saying to you that I did hope, once, that there would be a romance there. They were the best of

friends, and they were well suited to each other in tastes and temperament. I think, indeed, that the romance

was well under way (though there was never an engagement) when'' Mrs. Greggory paused and wet her

lips. Her voice, when she resumed, carried the stern note so familiar to Billy in her first acquaintance with

this woman and her daughter. ``As I presume Mr. Arkwright has told you, we have met with many changes in

our lifechanges which necessitated a new home and a new mode of living. Naturally, under those

``But, Mrs. Greggory,'' stammered Billy, ``I'm sure Mr. Arkwright would want'' An up lifted hand

``Mr. Arkwright was very kind, and a gentleman, always,'' interposed the lady, coldly; ``but Judge Greggory's

daughter would not allow herself to 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.

She understood it all now. Arkwright and Alice Greggory had been almost lovers when the charges against

the Judge's honor had plunged the family into despairing humiliation. Then had come the time when,

according to Arkwright's own story, the two women had shut themselves indoors, refused to see their friends,

and left town as soon as possible. Thus had come the breaking of whatever tie there was between Alice

Greggory and Arkwright. Not to have broken it would have meant, for Alice, the placing of herself in a

position where, sometime, apologies must be made for her father. This was what Mrs. Greggory had

Was not her way clear now before her? Did she not have it in her power, possiblyeven probablyto bring

happiness where only sadness was before? As if it would not be a simple thing to rekindle the old flameto

Not now was the Cause an IMPERTINENCE in tall black letters. It was, instead, a shining beacon in letters

Billy went to sleep that night making plans for Alice Greggory and Arkwright 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 Bertram Henshaw, in the Strata, was, as it

happened, not falling asleep. He was lying broadly and unhappily awake Bertram very frequently lay broadly

and unhappily awake these daysor rather nights. He told himself, on these occasions, that it was perfectly

naturalindeed it was!that Billy should be with Arkwright and his friends, the Greggorys, so much. There

were the new songs, and the operetta with its rehearsals as a cause for it all. At the same time, deep within his

fearful soul was the consciousness that Arkwright, the Greggorys, and the operetta were but MusicMusic,

With Billy's behavior toward himself, Bertram could find no fault. She was always her sweet, loyal, lovable

self, eager to hear of his work, earnestly solicitous that it should be a success. She evenas he sometimes

halfirritably rememberedhad once told him that she realized he belonged to Art before he did to himself;

and when he had indignantly denied this, she had only laughed and thrown a kiss at him, with the remark that

he ought to hear his sister Kate's opinion of that matter. As if he wanted Kate's opinion on that or anything

Once, torn by jealousy, and exasperated at the frequent interruptions of their quiet hours together, he had

``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 different wig,

or a telephone message that the sopranos have quarrelled again. I loathe that operetta!''

``I know, dear; I don't like that part. I wish they _would_ let me alone when 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 great successI

can say that because my part is only a small one, you know. We shall make lots of money for the Home, too,

``Nonsense! I like it; besides, when I'm doing this I'm not telephoning you to come and amuse me. Just think

``But the _work_ may,'' retorted Billy, showing all her dimples. ``Never mind, though; it'll all be over after

the twentieth. _This_ isn't an understudy like Marie's wedding, you know,'' she finished demurely.

``Thank heaven for that!'' Bertram had breathed fervently. But even as he said 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, had really

Bertram knew that however secure might seem Billy's affection for himself, there was still in his own mind a

horrid fear lest underneath that security were an unconscious, growing fondness for something he could not

give, for some one that he was nota fondness that would one day cause Billy to awake. As Bertram, in his

morbid fancy pictured it, he realized only too well what that awakening would mean to himself.

The private view of the paintings and drawings of the Brush and Pencil Club on the evening of the fifteenth

was a great success. Society sent its fairest women in frocks that were pictures in themselves. Art sent its

severest critics and its most ardent devotees. The Press sent reporters that the World might know what Art

Before the canvases signed with Bertram Henshaw's name there was always to be found an admiring group

representing both Art and Society with the Press on the outskirts to report. William Henshaw, coming

unobserved upon one such group, paused a moment to smile at the various more or less disconnected

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 in

``Oh, Bertram, isn't it splendid! I'm so proud of you,'' she whispered softly, when a moment's lull gave her

``Just as if they weren't all true!'' she bridled, turning to greet William, who came up at that moment. ``Isn't it

``We are, indeed,'' smiled the man. ``But if you and Bertram want to get the real opinion of this crowd, you

should go and stand near one of his pictures five minutes. As a sort of crazy quilt criticism it can't be beat.''

``Sure! As if every young artist at the first didn't don goggles or a false mustache and study the pictures on

``What didn't I hear?'' laughed her lover. ``But I didn't do it but once or twice. I lost my head one day and

began to argue the question of perspective with a couple of old codgers who were criticizing a bit of

foreshortening that was my special pet. I forgot my goggles and sailed in. The game was up then, of course;

and I never put them on again. But it was worth a farm to see their faces when I stood `discovered' as the

``It was gratifying, of course, Billy, and I liked it. It would be absurd to say I didn't like the many pleasant

words of apparently sincere appreciation I heard tonight. But I couldn't help thinking of the next

``That I exhibit, I mean. The Bohemian Ten hold their exhibition next month, you know. I shall show just one

``It'll be `Oh, Bertram!' then, dear, if it isn't a success,'' he sighed. ``I don't believe you realize yet what that

``Well, I should think I might,'' retorted Billy, a little tremulously, ``after all I've heard about it. I should think

_everybody_ knew you were doing it, Bertram. Actually, I'm not sure Marie's scrublady won't ask me some

``That's the dickens of it, in a way,'' sighed Bertram, with a faint smile. ``I am amazed and a little

frightened, I'll admitat the universality of the interest. You see, the Winthrops have been pleased to spread

it, for one reason or another, and of course many already know of the failures of Anderson and Fullam. That's

``No, I know I'm not. I only said `if,' '' fenced the man, his voice not quite steady.

``There isn't going to be any `if,' '' settled Billy. ``Now tell me, when is the exhibition?''

``March twentieththe private view. Mr. Winthrop is not only willing, but anxious, that I show it. I wasn't

sure that he'd want me to in an exhibition. But it seems he does. His daughter says he has every confidence

``That's where he shows his good sense,'' declared Billy. Then, with just a touch of constraint, she asked:

``Very well, I think,'' answered Bertram, a little hesitatingly. ``We've had so many, many interruptions,

though, that it is surprising how slow it is moving. In the first place, Miss Winthrop is gone more than half

the time (she goes again tomorrow for a week!), and in this portrait I'm not painting a stroke without my

model before me. I mean to take no chances, you see; and Miss Winthrop is perfectly willing to give me all

the sittings I wish for. Of course, if she hadn't changed the pose and costume so many times, it would have

``Of courseshe knows it,'' murmured Billy, a little faintly, but with a peculiar intonation in her voice.

``And so you see,'' sighed Bertram, ``what the twentieth of March is going to mean for me.''

``It's going to mean a splendid triumph!'' asserted Billy; and this time her voice was not faint, and it carried

``You blessed comforter!'' murmured Bertram, giving with his eyes the caress that his lips would so much

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. Each afternoon

and every evening saw rehearsals in whole, or in parts. A friend of the Clubpresident's sisterinlawa

woman whose husband was stage manager of a Boston theatrehad consented to come and ``coach'' the

performers. At her appearance the performerspromptly thrown into nervous spasms by this fearsome

nearness to the ``real thing''forgot half their cues, and conducted themselves generally like frightened

school children on ``piece day,'' much to their own and every one else's despair. Then, on the evening of the

nineteenth, came the final dress rehearsal on the stage of the pretty little hall that had been engaged for the

The dress rehearsal, like most of its kind, was, for every one, nothing but a nightmare of discord,

discouragement, and disaster. Everybody's nerves were on edge, everybody was sure the thing would be a

``flat failure.'' 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 dirgelike solemnity, and danced as if legs and feet were made of wood. The lovers, after the fashion of

Billy, when the dismal thing had dragged its way through the final note, sat ``down front,'' crying softly in the

semidarkness while she was waiting for Alice Greggory to ``run it through just once more'' with a pair of

tiredfaced, fluffy skirted fairies who could _not_ learn that a duet meant a _duet_not two solos,

To Billy, just then, life did not look to be even half worth the living. Her head ached, her throat was

goingtobesore, her shoe hurt, and her dress the trailing frock that had been under the basso's

footcould not possibly be decently repaired before tomorrow 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 be sure, Bertram and happiness were supposed to be somewhere in the dim and

uncertain future; but between her and them lay all these other woes, chief of which was the unutterable

It was to be a failure, of course. Billy had calmly made up her mind to that, now. But then, she was used to

failures, she told herself. Was she not plainly failing every day of her life to bring about even friendship

between Alice Greggory and Arkwright? Did they not emphatically and systematically refuse to be ``thrown

together,'' either naturally, or unnaturally? And yet whenever again could she expect such opportunities to

further her Cause as had been hers the past few weeks, through the operetta and its rehearsals? Certainly,

never again! It had been a failure like all the rest; like the operetta, in particular.

Billy did not mean that any one should know she was crying. She supposed that all the performers except

herself and the two earthbound fairies by the piano with Alice Greggory were gone. She knew that John

with Peggy was probably waiting at the door outside, and she hoped that soon the fairies would decide to go

home and go to bed, and let other people do the same. For her part, she did not see why they were struggling

so hard, anyway. Why needn't they go ahead and sing their duet like two solos if they wanted to? As if a little

thing like that could make a feather's weight of difference in the grand total of tomorrow night's

``Miss Neilson, you aren'tcrying!'' exclaimed a low voice; and Billy turned to find Arkwright standing by

``Oh, noyeswell, maybe I was, a little,'' stammered Billy, trying to speak very unconcernedly. ``How

warm it is in here! Do you think it's going to rain?that is, outdoors, of course, I mean.''

Arkwright dropped into the seat behind Billy and leaned forward, his eyes striving to read the girl's

halfaverted face. If Billy had turned, she would have seen that Arkwright's own face showed white and a

little drawnlooking in the feeble rays from the light by the piano. But Billy did not turn. She kept her eyes

``Dear me, if those girls _would_ only pull together! But then, what's the difference? I supposed you had

``Miss Neilson, you _are_ crying!'' Arkwright's voice was low and vibrant. ``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 to

slay the offender.'' His words were light, but his voice still shook with emotion.

Billy gave an hysterical little giggle. Angrily she brushed the persistent tears from her eyes.

``All right, then; I'll dub you my Sir Knight,'' she faltered. ``But I'll warn youyou'll have your hands full.

You'll have to slay my headache, and my throatache, and my shoe that hurts, and the man who stepped on

``Everybodyin the operetta!'' Arkwright did look a little startled, at this wholesale slaughter.

``Yes. Did you ever see such an awful, awful thing as that was tonight?'' moaned the girl.

``Oh, so _that's_ what it is!'' he laughed lightly. ``Then it's only a bogy of fear that I've got to slay, after all;

and I'll despatch that right now with a single blow. Dress rehearsals always go like that tonight. I've been in

a dozen, and I never yet saw one go half decent. Don't you worry. The worse the rehearsal, the better the

``A corker,'' helped out Arkwright, promptly; ``and it will be, too. You poor child, you're worn out; and no

wonder! But don't worry another bit about the operetta. Now is there anything else I can do for you?

``Nno, thank you; not that you canslay, I fancy,'' she sighed. ``That isnot that you _will_,'' she

amended wistfully, with a sudden remembrance of the Cause, for which he might do so muchif he only

Arkwright bent a little nearer. His breath stirred the loose, curling hair behind Billy's ear. His eyes had

``But you don't know what I'd do if I could,'' he murmured unsteadily. ``If you'd let me tell youif you only

``Miss Neilson, please,'' called the despairing voice of one of the earthbound fairies; ``Miss Neilson, you

``Yes, I'm right here,'' answered Billy, wearily. Arkwright answered, too, but not aloudwhich was wise.

``Oh dear! you're tired, I know,'' wailed the fairy, ``but if you would please come and help us just a minute!

Arkwright touched her arm. She turned and saw his face. It was very whiteso white that her eyes widened

``I can't, now, of course,'' he said. ``But there _is_ something I want to saya story I want to tell youafter

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: Alice Greggory. Her face, therefore, was a glory of tender sympathy as she reached

``Of course you may,'' she cried. ``Come any time after tomorrow night, please,'' she smiled encouragingly,

Behind her, Arkwright stumbled twice as he walked up the incline toward the outer door stumbled, not

because of the semidarkness of the little theatre, but because of the blinding radiance of a girl's illumined

A little more than twentyfour hours later, Billy Neilson, in her own room, drew a long breath of relief. It

To Billy, life was eminently worth living to night. Her head did not ache, her throat was not sore, her shoe

did not hurt, her dress had been mended so successfully by Aunt Hannah, and with such comforting celerity,

that long before night one would never have suspected the filmy thing had known the devastating tread of any

man's foot. Better yet, the soprano had sung exactly to key, the alto had shrieked ``Beware!'' to thrilling

purpose, Arkwright had shown all his old charm and vim, and the chorus had been prodigies of joyousness

and marvels of lightness. Even the lovers had lost their stiffness, while the two earthbound fairies of the

night before had found so amiable a meeting point 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, made life worth the living: Arkwright had begged permission that evening to

come up the following afternoon to tell her his ``story''; and Billy, who was so joyously confident that this

story meant the final crowning of her 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 really free, comfortable evening together, with nothing to interrupt. Doubtless, too,

after Arkwright's visit of the afternoon, she would be in a position to tell Bertram the story of the suspended

romance between Arkwright and Miss Greggory, and perhaps something, also, of her own efforts to bring the

couple together again. On the whole, life did, indeed, look decidedly worth the living as Billy, with a

Promptly at the suggested hour on the day after the operetta, Arkwright rang Billy Neilson's doorbell.

Billy was in white todaya soft, creamy white wool with a touch of black velvet at her throat and in her

hair. The man thought she had never looked so lovely: Arkwright was still under the spell wrought by the soft

Until the night before the operetta Arkwright had been more than doubtful of the way that story would be

received, should he ever summon the courage to tell it. Since then his fears had been changed to rapturous

hopes. It was very eagerly, therefore, that he turned now to greet Billy as she came into the room.

``Suppose we don't have any music today. Suppose we give the whole time up to the story,'' she smiled

Arkwright's heart leaped; but almost at once it throbbed with a vague uneasiness. He would have preferred to

see her blush and be a little shy over that story. Stillthere was a chance, of course, that she did not know

what the story was. But if that were the case, what of the radiance in her face? What of Finding himself in

a tangled labyrinth that led apparently only to disappointment and disaster, Arkwright pulled himself up with

``You are very kind,'' he murmured, as he relinquished her fingers and seated himself near her. ``You are

Arkwright hesitated. Again he longed to see a little embarrassment in the bright face opposite. Suddenly it

came to him, however, that if Billy knew what he was about to say, it would manifestly not be her part to act

``By all means! I never dip into books, nor peek at the ending. I don't think it's fair to the author.''

``Then I will, indeed, begin at the beginning,'' smiled Arkwright, ``for I'm specially anxious that you shall

beeven more than `fair' to me.'' His voice shook a little, but he hurried on. ``There's agirlin it; a very

``Again of courseif it's interesting.'' Billy laughed mischievously, but she flushed a little.

``Still, the man doesn't amount to much, after all, perhaps. I might as well own up at the beginningI'm the

``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 I shall saythe personal touch only adds to the interest.''

``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 thought that part must bother the story writersto get the couple to

``Perhapson paper; but, you see, my story has been _lived_, so far. So it's quite different.''

``I was trying to thinkof the first thing. You see it began with a picture, a photograph of the girl. Mother

had it. I saw it, and wanted it, and'' Arkwright had started to say ``and took it.'' But he stopped with the last

two words unsaid. It was not time, yet, he deemed, to tell this 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 this girl a lot; and I

``You meanyou didn't know herat the first?'' Billy's eyes were surprised. Billy had supposed that

``No, I didn't know the girltill afterwards. Before that I was always dreaming and wondering what she

``Oh!'' Billy subsided into her chair, still with the puzzled questioning in her eyes.

``She didn't careor knowfor a long time. I'm not really sure she caresor knowseven now.''

``Oh, but you can't tell, always, about girls,'' murmured Billy, hurriedly. A faint pink had stolen to her

forehead. She was thinking of Alice Greggory, and wondering if, indeed, Alice did care; and if she, Billy,

might dare to assure this manwhat she believed to be truethat his sweetheart was only waiting for him to

Arkwright saw the color sweep to Billy's forehead, and took sudden courage. He leaned forward eagerly. A

Billy gave a visible start. A quick something like shocked terror came to her eyes. She drew back and would

have risen to her feet had the thought not come to her that twice before she had supposed a man was making

love to her, when subsequent events proved that she had been mortifyingly mistaken: once when Cyril had

told her of his love for Marie; and again when William had asked her to come back as a daughter to the house

Telling herself sternly now not to be for the third time a ``foolish little simpleton,'' she summoned all her

``Well, really, Mr. Arkwright, of course I can't answer for the girl, so I'm not the one to give hope; and''

``But you are the one,'' interrupted the man, passionately. ``You're the only one! As if from the very first I

``No, no, not thatnot that! I'm mistaken! I'm not understanding what you mean,'' pleaded a horrorstricken

voice. Billy was on her feet now, holding up two protesting hands, palms outward.

``Miss Neilson, you don't meanthat you haven't knownall this timethat it was you?'' The man, now,

Billy paled. She began slowly to back away. Her eyes, still fixed on his, carried the shrinking terror of one

``But you knowyou _must_ know that I am not yours to win!'' she reproached him sharply. ``I'm to be

Bertram Henshaw's_wife_.'' From Billy's shocked young lips the word dropped with a ringing force that

was at once accusatory and prohibitive. It was as if, by the mere utterance of the word, wife, she had drawn a

``Wife! You are to be Bertram Henshaw's wife!'' he exclaimed. There was no mistaking the amazed

Billy caught her breath. The righteous indignation in her eyes fled, and a terrified appeal took its place.

There was a moment's silence. A power quite outside herself kept Billy's eyes on Arkwright's face, and forced

her to watch the change there from unbelief to belief, and from belief to set misery.

``No, I did not know,'' said the man then, dully, as he turned, rested his arm on the mantel behind him, and

Billy sank into a low chair. Her fingers fluttered nervously to her throat. Her piteous, beseeching eyes were

``But II don't see how you could have helpedknowing,'' she stammered at last. ``I don't see how such a

``I've been trying to think, myself,'' returned the man, still in a dull, emotionless voice.

``It's been soso much a matter of course. I supposed everybody knew it,'' maintained Billy.

``Perhaps that's just itthat it wasso much a matter of course,'' rejoined the man. ``You see, I know very

``But the announcementsoh, you weren't here then,'' moaned Billy. ``But you must have known thatthat

``To a certain extent, yes,'' sighed Arkwright. ``But I took your friendship with him and his brothers asas a

matter of course. _That_ was _my_ `matter of course,' you see,'' he went on bitterly. ``I knew you were Mr.

William Henshaw's namesake, and Calderwell had told me the story of your coming to them when you were

left alone in the world. Calderwell had said, too, that'' Arkwright paused, then hurried on a little

constrainedly``well, he said something that led me to think Mr. Bertram Henshaw was not a marrying

Billy winced and changed color. She had noticed the pause, and she knew very well what it was that

Calderwell had said to occasion that pause. Must _always_ she be reminded that no one expected Bertram

``Very likely, but I have not happened to hear from him since my arrival in Boston. We do not correspond.''

``I think I understand nowmany things. I wonder I did not see them before; but I never thought of Bertram

Henshaw's being If Calderwell hadn'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 my own I've been a blind fool; that's

``Miss Neilson, don'tplease,'' he begged. ``There is no need that you should suffertoo.''

``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 was blind, too. I was wrapped up in my own affairs. I never suspected. I never

even _thought_ to suspect! I thought of course you knew. It was just the music that brought us together, I

supposed; and you were just like one of the family, anyway. I always thought of you as Aunt Hannah's''

``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 to despair. ``When a boy at

school I got heartily sick of the `Mike' and the `Jerry' and the even worse `Tom and Jerry' that my young

friends delighted 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 little better, for they became at once the biggest sort of whet to people's

curiosity. Naturally, the more determined persistent inquirers were to know the name, the more determined I

became that they shouldn't. All very silly and very foolish, of course. Certainly it seems so now,'' he finished.

Billy was silent. She was trying to find something, _anything_, to say, when Arkwright began speaking

again, still in that dull, hopeless voice that Billy thought would break her heart.

``As for the `Mary Jane'that was another foolishness, of course. My small brothers and sisters originated it;

others followed, on occasion, even Calderwell. Perhaps you did not know, but he was the friend who, by his

laughing question, `Why don't you, Mary Jane?' put into my head the crazy scheme of writing to Aunt

Hannah and letting her think I was a real Mary Jane. You see what I stooped to do, Miss Neilson, for the

Billy gave a low cry. She had suddenly remembered the beginning of Arkwright's story. For the first time she

``Yes, I cared then. I had heard of you. I had sung your songs. I was determined to meet you. So I cameand

met you. After that I was more determined than ever to win you. Perhaps you see, now, why I was so blind

toto any other possibility. But it doesn't do any goodto talk like this. I understand now. Only, please,

don't blame yourself,'' he begged as he saw her eyes fill with tears. The next moment he was gone.

Bertram called that evening. Billy had no story now to tellnothing of the interrupted romance between

Alice Greggory and Arkwright. Billy carefully, indeed, avoided mentioning Arkwright's name.

Ever since the man's departure that afternoon, Billy had been frantically trying to assure herself that she was

not to blame; that she would not be supposed to know he cared for her; that it had all been as he said it

washis foolish blindness. But even when she had partially comforted herself by these assertions, she could

not by any means escape the haunting vision of the man's sternset, suffering face as she had seen it that

afternoon; nor could she keep from weeping at the memory of the words he had said, and at the thought that

never again could their pleasant friendship be quite the sameif, indeed, there could be any friendship at all

But if Billy expected that her red eyes, pale cheeks, and generally troubled appearance and unquiet manner

were to be passed unnoticed by her lover's keen eyes that evening, she found herself much mistaken.

``Sweetheart, what _is_ the matter?'' demanded Bertram resolutely, at last, when his more indirect questions

had been evasively turned aside. ``You can't make me think there isn't something the trouble, because I know

``Well, then, there is, dear,'' smiled Billy, tearfully; ``but please just don't let us talk of it. II want to forget

``But I want to know so _I_ can forget it,'' persisted Bertram. ``What is it? Maybe I could help.''

``But, sweetheart, you don't know. Perhaps I could. Won't you _tell_ me about it?''

Billy hesitated. To her mind, a girl who would tell of the unrequited love of a man for herself, was

unspeakably base. To tell Bertram Arkwright's love story was therefore impossible. Yet, in some way, she

``Dearest,'' she began slowly, her eyes wistfully pleading, ``just what it is, I can't tell you. In a way it's

another's secret, and I don't feel that I have the right to tell it. It's just something that I learned this afternoon.''

``No, I couldn't help itnow; though I might haveonce.'' Billy spoke this last just above her breath. Then

she went on, beseechingly: ``Bertram, please, please don't talk of it any more. Itit's just spoiling our happy

``All right, dear; you know best, of course since I don't know _anything_ about it,'' he finished a little

Billy began to talk then very brightly of Aunt Hannah and her shawls, and of a visit she had made to Cyril

``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 a letter 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 Cousin Jane has fixed _her_ clock, and she sleeps like a top, just because she

knows there'll never be but half an hour that she doesn't know what time it is!''

Bertram smiled, and murmured a polite ``Well, I'm sure that's fine!''; but the 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 a

``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 not to hear the word ``operetta'' for a year.

Operetta, to Bertram, meant interruptions, interferences, and the constant presence of Arkwright, the

Greggorys, and innumerable creatures who wished to rehearse or to change wigsall of which Bertram

abhorred. No wonder, therefore, that he smiled, and that the frown disappeared from his brow. He thought he

As the days, however, began to pass, one by one, Bertram Henshaw found them to be anything but serene and

blissful. The operetta, with its rehearsals and its interruptions, was gone, certainly; but he was becoming

Billy did not act natural. Sometimes she seemed like her old self; and he 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, all this seemed to be connected in some

strange way with Arkwright. He found this out by accident one day. She had been talking and laughing

``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 to find, to his great surprise, that her

He had said nothing more at the time, but he had not forgotten. Several times, after that, he had introduced

the man's name, and never had it failed to bring a rush of color, a biting of the lip, or a quick change of

position followed always by the troubled eyes and nervous manner that he had learned to dread. He noticed

then that never, of her own free will, did she herself mention the man; never did she speak of him with the old

By casual questions asked from time to time, Bertram had learned that Arkwright never came there now, and

that the songwriting together had been given up. Curiously enough, this discovery, which would once have

filled Bertram with joy, served now only to deepen his distress. That there was anything inconsistent in the

fact that he was more frightened now at the man's absence than he had been before at his presence, did not

Bertram had not forgotten the evening after the operetta, and Billy's tearstained face on that occasion. He

dated the whole thing, in fact, from that evening. He fell to wondering one day if that, too, had anything to do

with Arkwright. He determined then to find out. Shamelessly for the good of the causehe set a trap for

Very adroitly one day he led the talk straight to Arkwright; then he asked abruptly:

``Where is the chap, I wonder! Why, he hasn't shown up once since the operetta, has he?''

Billy, always truthful,and just now always embarrassed when Arkwright's name was mentioned, walked

``Oh, yes; well, he was here oncethe day after the operetta. I haven't seen him since.''

Bertram answered a light something, but his face grew a little white. Now that the trap had been sprung and

He knew now it was true. Arkwright had been with Billy the day after the operetta, and her tears and her

distress that evening had been caused by something Arkwright had said. It was Arkwright's secret that she

could not tell. It was Arkwright to whom she must be fair. It was Arkwright's sorrow that she ``could not

Naturally, with these tools in his hands, and aided by days of brooding and nights of sleeplessness, it did not

take Bertram long to fashion The Thing that finally loomed before him as The Truth.

He understood it all now. Music had conquered. Billy and Arkwright had found that they loved each other.

On the day after the operetta, they had met, and had had some sort of scene together doubtless Arkwright

had declared his love. That was the ``secret'' that Billy could not tell and be ``fair.'' Billy, of course,loyal

little soul that she was,had sent him away at once. Was her hand not already pledged? That was why she

could not ``help itnow.'' (Bertram writhed in agony at the thought.) Since that meeting Arkwright had not

been near the house. Billy had found, however, that her heart had gone with Arkwright; hence the shadow in

her eyes, the nervousness in her manner, and the embarrassment that she always showed at the mention of his

That Billy was still outwardly loyal to himself, and that she still kept to her engagement, did not surprise

Bertram in the least. That was like Billy. Bertram had not forgotten how, less than a year before, this same

Billy had held herself loyal and true to an engagement with William, because a wretched mistake all around

had caused her to give her promise to be William's wife under the impression that she was carrying out

William's dearest wish. Bertram remembered her face as it had looked all those long summer days while her

heart was being slowly broken; and he thought he could see that same look in her eyes now. All of which

only goes to prove with what woeful skill Bertram had fashioned this Thing that was looming before him as

The exhibition of ``The Bohemian Ten'' was to open with a private view on the evening of the twentieth of

March. Bertram Henshaw's one contribution was to be his portrait of Miss Marguerite Winthropthe piece

of work that had come to mean so much to him; the piece of work upon which already he felt the focus of

Miss Winthrop was in Boston now, and it was during these early March days that Bertram was supposed to

be putting in his best work on the portrait; but, unfortunately, it was during these same early March days that

The Thing, indeed, was a jealous creature, and would brook no rival. She filled his eyes with horrid visions,

and his brain with sickening thoughts. Between him and his model she flung a veil of fear; and she set his

hand to trembling, and his brush to making blunders with the paints on his palette.

Bertram saw The Thing, and saw, too, the grievous result of her presence. Despairingly he fought against her

and her work; but The Thing had become full grown now, and was The Truth. Hence she was not to be

banished. She even, in a taunting way, seemed sometimes to be justifying her presence, for she reminded

``After all, what's the difference? What do you care for this, or anything again if Billy is lost to you?''

But the artist told himself fiercely that he did carethat he must carefor his work; and he struggledhow

he struggled!to ignore the horrid visions and the sickening thoughts, and to pierce the veil of fear so that

And so he worked. Sometimes he let his work remain. Sometimes one hour saw only the erasing of what the

hour before had wrought. Sometimes the elusive something in Marguerite Winthrop's face seemed right at the

tip of his brushon the canvas, even. He saw success then so plainly that for a moment it almostbut not

quite blotted out The Thing. At other times that elusive something on the highbred face of his model was

a veritable willo'thewisp, refusing to be caught and held, even in his eye. The artist knew then that his

But the portrait was, irrefutably, nearing completion, and it was to be exhibited the twentieth of the month.

If for Billy those first twenty days of March did not carry quite the tragedy they contained for Bertram, they

were, nevertheless, not really happy ones. She was vaguely troubled by a curious something in Bertram's

behavior that she could not name; she was grieved over Arkwright's sorrow, and she was constantly probing

her own past conduct to see if anywhere she could find that she was to blame for that sorrow. She missed,

too, undeniably, Arkwright's cheery presence, and the charm and inspiration of his music. Nor was she

finding it easy to give satisfactory answers to the questions Aunt Hannah, William, and Bertram so often

Even her music was little comfort to her these days. She was not writing 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 completed song, which had not, fortunately, gone

to the publishers. Billy had waited, intending to send them together. She was so glad, now, that she had

waited. Just once, since Arkwright's last call, she had tried to sing 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 swept over her then, and

she had snatched up the manuscript and hidden it under the bottom pile of music in her cabinet . . . And she

Arkwright had written Billy oncea kind, courteous, manly note that had made her cry. He had begged her

again not to blame herself, and he had said that he hoped he should be strong enough sometime to wish to call

occasionally if she were willingand renew their pleasant hours with their music; but, for the present, he

knew there was nothing for him to do but to stay away. He had signed himself ``Michael Jeremiah

Arkwright''; and to Billy that was the most pathetic thing in the letterit sounded so hopeless and dreary to

Alice Greggory, Billy saw frequently. Billy and Aunt Hannah were great friends with the Greggorys now,

and had been ever since the Greggorys' tendays' visit at Hillside. The cheery little cripple, with the gentle

tap, tap, tap of her crutches, had won everybody's heart the very first day; and Alice was scarcely less of a

favorite, after the sunny friendliness of Hillside had thawed her stiff reserve into naturalness.

Billy had little to say to Alice Greggory of Arkwright. Billy was no longer trying to play Cupid's assistant.

The Cause, for which she had so valiantly worked, had been felled by Arkwright's own handbut that there

were still some faint stirrings of life in it was evidenced by Billy's secret delight when one day Alice

Greggory chanced to mention that 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

``Of course,'' murmured Billy, carefully excluding from her voice any hint of the delight she felt, but hoping,

Alice, however, had nothing more to say; and Billy was left in entire ignorance of what the news was that

Arkwright had brought. She suspected, though, that it had something to do with Alice's fathercertainly she

Billy had found a new home for the Greggorys; although at first they had drawn sensitively back, and had

said that they preferred to remain where they were, they had later gratefully accepted it. A little couple from

South Boston, to whom Billy had given a two weeks' outing the summer before, had moved into town and

taken a flat in the South End. They had two extra rooms which they had told Billy they would like to let for

light house keeping, if only they knew just the right people to take into such close quarters with themselves.

Billy at once thought of the Greggorys, and spoke of them. The little couple were delighted, and the

Greggorys were scarcely less so when they at last became convinced that only a very little more money than

they were already paying would give themselves a much pleasanter home, and would at the same time be a

real boon to two young people who were trying to meet expenses. So the change was made, and general

happiness all round had resultedso much so, that Bertram had said to Billy, when he heard of it:

``And the new pupils you have found for Miss Alicethey're business, too, I suppose?''

``Certainly,'' retorted Billy, with decision. Then she had given a low laugh 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 tonight to carry back the tables and chairs herself to those wretched rooms she left last

Bertram had smiled, but the smile had been a fleeting one, and the brooding look of gloom that Billy had

Billy was not a little disturbed over Bertram these days. He did not seem to be his natural, cheery self at all.

He talked little, and what he did say seldom showed a trace of his usually whimsical way of putting things.

He was kindness itself to her, and seemed particularly anxious to please her in every way; but she frequently

found his eyes fixed on her with a sombre questioning that almost frightened her. The more she thought of it,

the more she wondered what the question was, that he did not dare to ask; and whether it was of herself or

himself that he would ask itif he did dare. Then, with benumbing force, one day, a possible solution 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

The minute this thought came to her, Billy thrust it indignantly away. It was disloyal to Bertram and

unworthy of herself, even to think such a thing. She told herself then that it was only the portrait of Miss

Winthrop that was troubling him. She knew that he was worried over that. He had confessed to her that

actually sometimes he was beginning to fear his hand had lost its cunning. As if that were not enough to bring

No sooner, however, had Billy arrived at this point in her mental argument, than a new element enteredher

old lurking jealousy, of which she was heartily ashamed, but which she had never yet been able quite to

subdue; her jealousy of the beautiful girl with the beautiful name (not Billy), whose portrait had needed so

much time and so many sittings to finish. What if Bertram had found that he loved _her?_ What if that were

why his hand had lost its cunningbecause, though loving her, he realized that he was bound to another,

This thought, too, Billy cast from her at once as again disloyal and unworthy. But both thoughts, having once

entered her brain, had made for themselves roads over which the second passing was much easier than the

firstas Billy found to her sorrow. Certainly, as the days went by, and as Bertram's face and manner became

more and more a tragedy of suffering, Billy found it increasingly difficult to keep those thoughts from

Only with William and Marie, now, could Billy escape from it all. With William she sought new curios and

catalogued the old. With Marie she beat eggs and whipped cream in the shining kitchen, and tried to think

that nothing in the world mattered except that the cake in the oven should not fall.

Bertram feared that he knew, before the portrait was hung, that it was a failure. He was sure that he knew it

on the evening of the twentieth when he encountered the swiftly averted eyes of some of his artist friends,

and saw the perplexed frown on the faces of others. But he knew, afterwards, that he did not really know

There was praiseoh, yes; the faint praise that kills. There was some adverse criticism, too; but it was of the

light, insincere variety that is given to mediocre work by unimportant artists. Then, here and there, appeared

the signed critiques of the men whose opinion counted and Bertram knew that he had failed. Neither as a

work of art, nor as a likeness, was the portrait the success that Henshaw's former work would seem to

indicate that it should have been. Indeed, as one caustic pen put it, if this were to be taken as a sample of what

was to followthen the famous originator of ``The Face of a Girl'' had ``a most distinguished future behind

Seldom, if ever before, had an exhibited portrait attracted so much attention. As Bertram had said, uncounted

eyes were watching for it before it was hung, because it was a portrait of the noted beauty, Marguerite

Winthrop, and because two other wellknown artists had failed where he, Bertram Henshaw, was hoping to

succeed. After it was hung, and the uncounted eyes had seen iteither literally, or through the eyes of the

criticsinterest seemed rather to grow than to lessen, for other uncounted eyes wanted to see what all the

fuss was about, anyway. And when these eyes had seen, their owners talked. Nor did they, by any means, all

talk against the portrait. Some were as loud in its praise as were others in its condemnation; all of which, of

For Bertram and his friends these days were, naturally, trying ones. William finally dreaded to open his

newspaper. (It had become the fashion, when murders and divorces were scarce, occasionally to ``feature''

somebody's opinion of the Henshaw portrait, on the first pagesomething that had almost never been known

to happen before.) Cyril, according to Marie, played ``perfectly awful things on his piano every day, now.''

Aunt Hannah had said ``Oh, my grief and conscience!'' so many times that it melted now into a wordless

groan whenever a new unfriendly criticism of the portrait met her indignant eyes.

Of all Bertram's friends, Billy, perhaps not unnaturally, was the angriest. 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

As to the artist himself, Bertram's face showed drawn lines and his eyes sombre shadows, but his words and

manner carried a stolid indifference that 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?''

``I don't know, of course,'' sighed Billy. ``But I know what I'd like to do. I should like to go out andfight

So fierce were words and manner, coupled as they were with a pair of gentle eyes ablaze and two soft little

``What a fiery little champion it is, to be sure,'' he said tenderly. ``But as if fighting could do any goodin

``No, I don't suppose it would,'' she choked, beginning to cry, so that Bertram had to turn comforter.

``Come, come, dear,'' he begged; ``don't take it so to heart. It's not so bad, after all. I've still my good right

``But _this_ one isn't bad,'' stormed Billy. ``It's splendid! I'm sure, I think it's a bbeautiful portrait, and I

``Thank you, dear. But I knowand you know, reallythat it isn't a splendid portrait. I've done lots better

``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.

``Mr. Winthrop's been a trump all through, dear. He's already insisted on paying for this and he's ordered

``Yes. The old fellow never minces his words, as you may know. He came to me one day, put his hand on my

shoulder, and said tersely: `Will you give me another, same terms? Go in, boy, and win. Show 'em! I lost the

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 about his having a `heart of stone'! I don't believe another man in the country would

have done thatand done it in the way he didin the face of all this talk,'' finished Bertram, his eyes

``Perhaps,'' nodded Bertram. ``She, too, has been very kind, all the way through.''

``But I thoughtit was going so splendidly,'' she faltered, in a halfstifled voice.

``Then whatailed it, at the last, do you suppose?'' Billy was holding her breath till he should answer.

``Billy, don'tdon't ask me,'' he begged. ``Please don't let's talk of it any more. It can't do any good! I just

flunkedthat's all. My hand failed me. Maybe I tried too hard. Maybe I was tired. Maybe

somethingtroubled me. Never mind, dear, what it was. It can do no good even to think of thatnow. So

And Billy dropped itso far as words were concerned; but she could not drop it from her

Kate's letter was addressed to Billy, and it said, after speaking of various other matters:

``And now about poor Bertram's failure.'' (Billy frowned. In Billy's presence no one was allowed to say

``Bertram's failure''; but a letter has a most annoying privilege of saying what it pleases without let or

hindrance, unless one tears it upand a letter destroyed unread remains always such a tantalizing mystery of

possibilities! So Billy let the letter talk.) ``Of course we have heard of it away out here. I do wish if Bertram

_must_ paint such famous people, he would manage to flatter them upin the painting, I mean, of

``The technical part of all this criticism I don't pretend to understand in the least; but from what I hear and

read, he must, indeed, have made a terrible mess of it, and of course I'm very sorry and some surprised,

``Still, on the other hand, Billy, I'm not surprised. William says that Bertram has been completely out of fix

over something, and as gloomy as an owl, for weeks past; and of course, under those circumstances, the poor

boy could not be expected to do good work. Now William, being a man, is not supposed to understand what

the trouble is. But I, being a woman, can see through a pane of glass when it's held right up before me; and I

can guess, of course, that a woman is at the bottom of itshe always is!and that you, being his special

fancy at the moment'' (Billy almost did tear the letter nowbut not quite), ``are that woman.

``Now, Billy, you don't like such frank talk, of course; but, on the other 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 quarrels that lovers so

delight indo, please, for the good of the cause, make up quick, or else quarrel harder and break it off

``There, there, my dear child, don't bristle up! I am very fond of you, and would dearly love to have you for a

sisterif you'd only take William, as you should! But, as you very well know, I never did approve of this

``He can't make you happy, my dear, and you can't make him happy. Bertram never was and never will

bea marrying man. He's too temperamentaltoo thoroughly wrapped up in his Art. Girls have never

meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. And they never will. They can't. He's made that way.

Listen! I can prove it to you. 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 tied himself to any one girl till last fall. Then

``Now what has it been since? William wrote me himself not a fortnight ago 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 unlike himself.

And his picture has _failed_ dismally. Of course William doesn't understand; but I do. I know you've

probably quarrelled, or something. 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 Bertram is in his. You're utterly unsuited to him. If Bertram is to marry _anybody_, it should be

some quiet, staid, sensible girl who would be a _help_ to him. But when I think of you two flyaway

``Now, for heaven's sake, Billy, _do_ make up or somethingand do it now. Don't, for pity's sake, let

Bertram ever put out another such a piece of work to shame us all like this. Do you want to ruin his career?

``P. S. _I_ think William's the one for you. He's devoted to you, and his 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 objecting to, my dear. It's just _you

Billy was shaking with anger and terror by the time she had finished reading Kate's letter. Anger was

uppermost at the moment, and with one sweeping wrench of her trembling fingers she tore the closely written

sheets straight through the middle, and flung them into the little wicker basket by her desk. Then she went

downstairs and played her noisiest, merriest Tarantella, and tried to see how fast she could make her fingers

But Billy could not, of course, play tarantellas all day; and even while she did play them she could not forget

that wastebasket upstairs, and the horror it contained. The anger was still uppermost, but the terror was

prodding her at every turn, and demanding to know just what it was that Kate had written in that letter,

anyway. It is not strange then, perhaps, that before two hours passed, Billy went upstairs, took the letter

from the basket, matched together the torn halfsheets and forced her shrinking eyes to read every word

At the end of the second reading, Billy reminded herself with stern calmness that it was only Kate, after all;

that nobody ought to mind what Kate said; that certainly _she_, Billy, ought notafter the experience she

had already had with her unpleasant interference! Kate did not know what she was talking about, anyway.

This was only another case of her trying ``to manage.'' She did so love to manageeverything!

It was a formal, cold little letter, not at all the sort that Billy's friends usually received. It thanked Kate for her

advice, and for her ``kind willingness'' to have Billy for a sister; but it hinted that perhaps Kate did not realize

that as long as Billy was the one who would have to _live_ with the chosen man, it would be pleasanter to

take the one Billy loved, which happened in this case to be Bertramnot William. As for any ``quarrel''

being the cause of whatever fancied trouble there was with the new picture the letter scouted that idea in

no uncertain terms. There had been no suggestion of a quarrel even once since the engagement.

For the first few minutes after the letter had been dropped into the green box at the corner, Billy held her head

high, and told herself that the matter was now closed. She had sent Kate a courteous, dignified, conclusive,

effectual answer, and she thought with much satisfaction of the things she had said.

Very soon, however, she began to thinknot so much of what _she_ had saidbut of what Kate had said.

Many of Kate's sentences were unpleasantly vivid in her mind. They seemed, indeed, to stand out in letters of

``William says that Bertram has been completely out of fix over something, and as gloomy as an owl for

``Girls have never meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. And they never will.''

``Up to this winter he's always been a carefree, happy, jolly fellow, and you _know_ what beautiful work he

``He's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike himself; and his picture has failed,

Billy began to see now that she had not really answered Kate's letter at all. The matter was not closed. Her

reply had been, perhaps, courteous and dignifiedbut it had not been conclusive nor effectual.

Billy had reached home now, and she was crying. Bertram _had_ acted strangely, of late. Bertram _had_

seemed troubled over something. His picture _had_ With a little shudder Billy tossed aside these thoughts,

and dug at her teary eyes with a determined hand. Fiercely she told herself that the matter _was_ settled. Very

scornfully she declared that it was ``only Kate,'' after all, and that she _would not_ let Kate make her unhappy

As it chanced, however, even here Billy found no peace; for the first article she opened to was headed in huge

With a little cry Billy flung the magazine far from her, and picked up another. But even ``The Elusiveness of

Chopin,'' which she found here, could not keep her thoughts nor her eyes from wandering to the discarded

thing in the corner, lying ignominiously face down with crumpled, outflung leaves.

Billy knew that in the end she should go over and pick that magazine up, and read that article from beginning

to end. She was not surprised, therefore, when she did itbut she was not any the happier for having done it.

The writer of the article did not approve of marriage and the artistic temperament. He said the artist belonged

to his Art, and to posterity through his Art. The essay fairly bristled with manylettered words and

highsounding phrases, few of which Billy really understood. She did understand enough, however, to feel,

guiltily, when the thing was finished, that already she had married Bertram, and by so doing had committed a

Crime. She had slain Art, stifled Ambition, destroyed Inspiration, and been a nuisance generally. In

consequence of which Bertram would henceforth and forevermore be doomed to Littleness.

Naturally, in this state of mind, and with this vision before her, Billy was anything but her bright, easy self

when she met Bertram an hour or two later. Naturally, too, Bertram, still the tormented victim of the bugaboo

his jealous fears had fashioned, was just in the mood to place the worst possible construction on his

sweetheart's very evident unhappiness. With sighs, unspoken questions, and frequently averted eyes,

During the days that followed, Billy thought that the world itself must be in league with Kate, so often did

she encounter Kate's letter masquerading under some thin disguise. She did not stop to realize that because

she was so afraid she _would_ find it, she _did_ find it. In the books she read, in the plays she saw, in the

chance words she heard spoken by friend or stranger always there was something to feed her fears in one

way or another. Even in a yellowed newspaper that had covered the top shelf in her closet she found one day

a symposium on whether or not an artist's wife should be an artist; and she shudderedbut she read every

Some writers said no, and some, yes; and some said it all dependedon the artist and his wife. Billy found

much food for thought, some for amusement, and a little that made for peace of mind. On the whole it opened

up a new phase of the matter, perhaps. At all events, upon finishing it she almost sobbed:

``One would think that just because I write a song now and then, I was going to let Bertram starve, and go

It was that afternoon that Billy went to see Marie; but even there she did not escape, for the gentle Marie all

``Shh!'' warned Marie, turning agonized eyes toward the closed door of Cyril's den.

``But, dear, what is it?'' begged Billy, with no less dismay, but with greater caution.

On tiptoe, then, she led the way to a room at the other end of the tiny apartment. Once there; she explained in

``Well, what if he is?'' demanded Billy. ``That needn't make you cry, need it?''

Marie hesitated; then, with the abandon of a hurt child that longs for sympathy, she sobbed:

``Well, not good _for_ him, then. Listen! Today, I know, in lots of ways I must have disappointed him.

First, he put on some socks that I'd darned. They were the first since our marriage that I'd found to darn, and

I'd been so proud andand happy while I _was_ darning them. Butbut he took 'em off right after

breakfast and threw 'em in a corner. Then he put on a new pair, and said that II needn't darn any more; that

``Nonsense, dear! Don't let that fret you,'' comforted Billy, promptly, trying not to laugh too hard. ``It wasn't

_your_ darns; it was just darnsanybody's darns. Cyril won't wear darned socks. Aunt Hannah told me so

long ago, and I said then there'd be a tragedy when _you_ found it out. So don't worry over that.''

``Oh, but that isn't all,'' moaned Marie. ``Listen! You know how quiet he must have everything when he's

composingand he ought to have it, too! But I forgot, this morning, and put on some old shoes that didn't

have any rubber heels, and I ran the carpet sweeper, and I rattled tins in the kitchen. But I never thought a

thing until he opened his door and asked me _please_ to change my shoes and let thethe confounded dirt

go, and didn't I have any dishes in the house but what were made of that abominable tin sstuff,'' she finished

Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie's aghast face and upraised hand speedily reduced it to a convulsive

``You dear child! Cyril's always like that when he's composing,'' soothed Billy. ``I supposed you knew it,

dear. Don't you fret! Run along and make him his favorite pudding, and by night both of you will have

forgotten there ever were such things in the world as tins and shoes and carpet sweepers that clatter.''

``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 today I readhere, look!'' she faltered, going to the table and picking up

Billy recognized it by the cover at onceanother like it had been flung not 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:

Billy did not give a ringing laugh this time. She gave an involuntary little shudder, though she tried valiantly

to turn it all off with a light word of scorn, and a cheery pat on Marie's heaving shoulders. But she went home

very soon; and it was plain to be seen that her visit to Marie had not brought her peace.

Billy knew Kate's letter, by heart, now, both in the original, and in its different versions, and she knew that,

despite her struggles, she was being forced straight toward Kate's own verdict: that she, Billy, _was_ the

cause, in some way, of the deplorable change in Bertram's appearance, manner, and work. Before she would

quite surrender to this heartsickening belief, however, she determined to ask Bertram himself. Falteringly,

``Bertram, once you hinted that the picture did not go right because you were troubled over something; and

Billy had her answer before the man spoke. She had it in the quick terror that sprang to his eyes, and the dull

red that swept from his neck to his forehead. His reply, so far as words went did not count, for it evaded

everything and told nothing. But Billy knew without words. She knew, too, what she must do. For the time

being she took Bertram's evasive answer as he so evidently wished it to be taken; but that evening, after he

had gone, she wrote him a little note and broke the engagement. So heartbroken was sheand so fearful was

she that he should suspect thisthat her note, when completed, was a cold little thing of few words, which

carried no hint that its very coldness was but the heartbreak in the disguise of pride.

This was like Billy in all ways. Billy, had she lived in the days of the Christian martyrs, would have been the

first to walk with head erect into the Arena of Sacrifice. The arena now was just everyday living, the lions

From Bertram's own self she had it nowthat she had been the cause of his being troubled; so she could

doubt no longer. The only part that was uncertain was the reason why he had been troubled. Whether his

bond to her had become irksome because of his love for another, or because of his love for no girlexcept to

paint, Billy did not know. But that it was irksome she did not doubt now. Besides, as if she were going to slay

his Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally just so that _she_ might be

``DEAR BERTRAM:You won't make the move, so I must. I knew, from the way you spoke today, that it

_was_ about me that you were troubled, even though you generously tried to make me think it was not. And

``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 tomorrow, and I'm writing this letter tonight. Please don't

try to see me just yet. You _know_ what I am doing is bestall round. ``Always your friend, ``BILLY.''

Billy feared if she did not mail the letter at once she would not have the courage to mail it at all. So she

slipped downstairs very quietly and went herself to the post box a little way down the street; then she came

back and sobbed herself to sleep though not until after she had sobbed awake for long hours of

When she awoke in the morning, heavyeyed and unrested, there came to her first the vague horror of some

shadow hanging over her, then the sickening consciousness of what that shadow was. For one wild minute

Billy felt that she must run to the telephone, summon Bertram, and beseech him to return unread the letter he

would receive from her that day. Then there came to her the memory of Bertram's face as it had looked the

night before when she had asked him if she were the cause of his being troubled. There came, too, the

memory of Kate's scathing ``Do you want to ruin his career?'' Even the hated magazine article and Marie's

tragic ``I've _hindered_ him!'' added their mite; and Billy knew that she should not go to the telephone, nor

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, there would be a scene that Billy felt she had not the courage to face. She must,

therefore, manage in some way not to see Bertramnot to let him see her until she felt more sure of her

selfcontrol no matter what he said. 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 not tell 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 for another shawl; and Billy just now felt as if

she should scream if she heard Aunt Hannah say ``Oh, my grief and conscience!''over that. Billy went

down to breakfast, therefore, with a determination to act exactly as usual, so that Aunt Hannah should not

When people try to ``act exactly as usual,'' they generally end in acting quite the opposite; and Billy was no

exception to the rule. Hence her attempted cheerfulness became flippantness, and her laughter giggles that

rang too frequently to be quite sincerethough from Aunt Hannah it all elicited only an affectionate smile at

A little later, when Aunt Hannah was glancing over the morning papernow no longer barred from the

``Billy, just listen to this!'' she exclaimed, reading from the paper in her hand. `` `A new tenor in ``The Girl of

the Golden West.'' Appearance of Mr. M. J. Arkwright at the Boston Opera House tonight. Owing to the

sudden illness of Dubassi, who was to have taken the part of Johnson tonight, an exceptional opportunity has

come to a young tenor singer, one of the most promising pupils at the Conservatory school. Arkwright is said

to have a fine voice, a particularly good stage presence, and a purity of tone and smoothness of execution that

few of his age and experience can show. Only a short time ago he appeared as the duke at one of the

popularpriced Saturday night performances of ``Rigoletto''; and his extraordinary success on that occasion,

coupled with his familiarity with, and fitness for the part of Johnson in ``The Girl of the Golden West,'' led to

his being chosen to take Dubassi's place tonight. His performance is awaited with the greatest of interest.'

``Of course we're glad!'' cried Billy. ``And didn't it come just in time? This is the last week of opera, anyway,

``But it says he sang beforeon a Saturday night,'' declared Aunt Hannah, going back to the paper in her

hand. ``Now wouldn't you have thought we'd have heard of it, or read of it? And wouldn't you have thought

``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 Aunt Hannah, frowning. ``You know how much

``Oh, but he must have been so busy, with all this, you know. And of course we didn't see it in the

paperbecause we didn't have any paper at 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, of course, I wish it had been on

our regular seasonticket night, but I fancy we can get seats somewhere; and I'm going to ask Alice Greggory

and her mother, too. I'll go down there this morning to tell them, and to get the tickets. I've got it all planned.''

Billy had, indeed, ``got it all planned.'' She had been longing for something that would take her away from

the houseand if possible away from herself. This would do the one easily, and might help on the other. She

``But, my dear,'' frowned Aunt Hannah, anxiously, ``I don't believe I can go tonightthough I'd love to,

``I'm tired and half sick with a headache this morning. I didn't sleep, and I've taken cold somewhere,'' sighed

``Oh, no. I sha'n't even ask him. He said last night he had a banquet on for tonightone of his art clubs, I

``But you'll have the Greggorysthat is, Mrs. Greggory _can_ go, can't she?'' inquired Aunt Hannah.

``Oh, yes; I'm sure she can,'' nodded Billy. ``You know she went to the operetta, and this is just the

``Dear me! How can she get about so on those two wretched little sticks? She's a perfect marvel to me.''

Billy was, indeed, in a hurry. To herself she said she wanted to get awayaway! And she got away as soon

She had her plans all made. She would go first to the Greggorys' and invite them to attend the opera with her

that evening. Then she would get the tickets. Just what she would do with the rest of the day she did not

know. She knew only that she would not go home until time to dress for dinner and the opera. She did not tell

Aunt Hannah this, however, when she left the house. She planned to telephone it from somewhere down

town, later. She told herself that she _could not_ stay all day under the sharp eyes of Aunt Hannah but she

managed, nevertheless, to bid that lady a particularly blithe and brightfaced goodby.

Billy had not been long gone when the telephone bell rang. Aunt Hannah answered it.

``Why, Bertram, is that you?'' she called, in answer to the words that came to her across the wire. ``Why, I

``Oh!'' So evident was the disappointment in the voice that Aunt Hannah added hastily:

``No, thank you. There's nomessage.'' The voice hesitated, then went on a little constrainedly.

``Bless your dear heart, yes, my boy! Has it been such a _long_ time since last eveningwhen you saw her

yourself? Yes, she's all right. In fact, I was thinking at the breakfast table how pretty she looked with her pink

An inarticulate something that Aunt Hannah could not quite catch came across the line; then a somewhat

``Aunt Hannah, don't wait luncheon for me, please. I shall get it in town. And don't expect me till five

``Please tell John to bring Peggy around early enough tonight so we can go down and get the Greggorys. I

``So'm I. Goodby,'' sighed Aunt Hannah, as she hung up the receiver and turned away.

It was after five o'clock when Billy got home, and so hurried were the dressing and the dinner that Aunt

Hannah forgot to mention Bertram's telephone call till just as Billy was ready to start for the Greggorys'.

``There! and I forgot,'' she confessed. ``Bertram called you up just after you left this morning, my dear.''

``Yes. Oh, he didn't want anything special,'' smiled the lady, ``onlywell, he did ask if you were all right

``Did he?'' murmured Billy again. This time there was a little sound after the words, which Aunt Hannah

At eight o'clock the doorbell rang, and a minute later Rosa came up to say that Mr. Bertram Henshaw was

``Why, my dear boy,'' she exclaimed, as she entered the room; ``Billy said you had a banquet on for

``Yes, I know; butI didn't go.'' Bertram's face was pale and drawn. His voice did not sound natural.

``Why, Bertram, you look ill! _Are_ you ill?'' The man made an impatient gesture.

``The _opera!_'' There was a grieved hurt in Bertram's voice that Aunt Hannah quite misunderstood. She

``Yes. She would have told youshe would have asked you to join them, I'm sure, but she said you were

Aunt Hannah frowned a little. Still more anxiously she endeavored to explain to this disappointed lover why

``Well, then, of course, my boy, she'd never think of your coming here tonight; and when she found Mr.

``Yes. Didn't you see it in the paper? Such a splendid chance for him! His picture was there, too.''

``Then you don't know about it, of course,'' smiled Aunt Hannah. ``But he's to take the part of Johnson in

`The Girl of the Golden West.' Isn't that splendid? I'm so glad! And Billy was, too. She hurried right off this

``Oh!'' Bertram got to his feet a little abruptly, and held out his hand. ``Well, then, I might as well say

goodby then, I suppose,'' he suggested with a laugh that Aunt Hannah thought was a bit forced. Before she

could remind him again, though, that Billy was really not to blame for not being there to welcome him, he

was gone. And Aunt Hannah could only go upstairs and meditate on the unreasonableness of lovers in

Aunt Hannah had gone to bed, but she was still awake, when Billy came home, so she heard the automobile

come to a stop before the door, and she called to Billy when the girl came upstairs.

Billy stopped in the doorway. The light from the hall struck her face. There was no brightness in her eyes

``Why, Billy, how queer you answer! What was the matter? Wasn't Mary Janeall right?''

`` `Very good,' indeed!'' echoed the lady, indignantly. ``He must have been!when you speak as if you'd

Billy had forgottenalmost. Billy had found that, in spite of her getting away from the house, she had not

got away from herself once, all day. She tried now, however, to summon her acting powers of the morning.

``But it was splendid, really, Aunt Hannah,'' she cried, with some show of animation. ``And they clapped and

cheered and gave him any number of curtain calls. We were so proud of him! But you see, I _am_ tired,'' she

``You poor child, of course you are, and you look like a ghost! I won't keep you another minute. Run along to

bed. OhBertram didn't go to that banquet, after all. He came here,'' she added, as Billy turned to go.

``Yes. He wanted you, of course. I found I didn't do, at all,'' chuckled Aunt Hannah. ``Did you suppose I

In the long night watches Billy fought it out with herself. (Billy had always fought things out with herself.)

She must go away. She knew that. Already Bertram had telephoned, and called. He evidently meant to see

herand she could not see him. She dared not. If she didBilly knew now how pitifully little it would take

to make her actually _willing_ to slay Bertram's Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a

nuisance generallyif only she could have Bertram while she was doing it all. Sternly then she asked herself

if she had no pride; if she had forgotten that it was because of her that the Winthrop portrait had not been a

successbecause of her, either for the reason that he loved now Miss Winthrop, or else that he loved no

Very early in the morning a whitefaced, red eyed Billy appeared at Aunt Hannah's bedside.

``Aunt Hannah,'' she began in a monotonous voice as if she were reciting a lesson she had learned by heart,

``please listen, and please try not to be too surprised. You were saying the other day that you would like to

visit your old home town. Well, I think that's a very nice idea. If you don't mind we'll go today.''

``Yes,'' nodded Billy, unsmilingly. ``We shall have to go somewhere today, and I thought you would like

``Yes, I understand. You'll have to know the rest, of course. I've broken my engagement. I don't want to see

``Oh, my grief and conscience_Billy!_ Won't you please pull up that blanket,'' she moaned. ``Billy, what

``I can't tell any more now, really, Aunt Hannah. Please don't ask me; and don'ttalk. You _will_go with

me, won't you?'' And Aunt Hannah, with her terrified eyes on Billy's piteously agitated face, nodded her head

``Why, of course I'll goanywherewith you, Billy; butwhy did you do it, why did you do it?''

``DEAR BERTRAM:I'm going away today. 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

Bertram, when he read it, grew only a shade more white, a degree more sick at heart. Then he kissed the letter

To Bertram, the thing was very clear. Billy had come now to the conclusion that it would be wrong to give

herself where she could not give her heart. And in this he agreed with herbitter as it was for him. Certainly

he did not want Billy, if Billy did not want him, he told himself. He would now, of course, accede to her

request. He would not write to herand make her suffer more. But to Bertram, at that moment, it seemed

One by one the weeks passed and became a month. Then other weeks became other months. It was July when

Home looked wonderfully good to Billy, in spite of the fact that she had so dreaded to see it. Billy had made

up her mind, however, that, come sometime 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 could not be any harder. She was convinced

Billy had received only meagre news from Boston since she went away. Bertram had not written at all.

William had written twicehurt, grieved, puzzled, questioning letters that were very hard to answer. From

Marie, too, had come letters of much the same sort. By far the cheeriest epistles had come from Alice

Greggory. They contained, indeed, about the only comfort Billy had known for weeks, for they showed very

plainly 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 for his wounded feelings. From these letters Billy learned, too, that Judge

Greggory's honor had been wholly vindicated; and, as Billy told Aunt Hannah, ``anybody could put two and

It was eight o'clock on a rainy July evening that Billy and Aunt Hannah arrived at Hillside; and it was only a

little past eight that Aunt Hannah was summoned to the telephone. When she came back to Billy she was

For answer, Aunt Hannah covered her face with her hands and began to sob aloud. Billy, almost beside

herself now with terror and anxiety, dropped on her knees and tried to pull away the shaking hands.

``Yes. Rosa had told him we were coming, and he called me up. He said maybe I could do something. So he

``I couldn't hear all, but I think 'twas an accidentautomobile. And, Billy, BillyPete says it's his armhis

``Ohh!'' Billy fell back as if the words had been a blow. ``Not that, Aunt Hannahnot 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 headthough he

``Yes. Over and over again he called for you while he was crazy, you know. That's why Pete told me. He

said he didn't rightly understand what the 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 could hear him, and know how he

Billy was on her feet now. Her fingers were on the electric pushbutton that would summon Rosa. Her face

``Tell John to bring Peggy to the door at once, please,'' directed her mistress.

``Billy!'' gasped Aunt Hannah again, as the maid disappeared. Billy was tremblingly putting on the hat she

``To Bertram! But it's nearly halfpast eight, child, and it rains, and everything!''

``But Bertram _wants_ me!'' exclaimed Billy. ``As if I'd mind rain, or time, or anything else, _now!_''

``Butbutoh, my grief and conscience!'' groaned Aunt Hannah, beginning to wring her hands again.

``But, Billy, if you'd only wait till tomorrow,'' she quavered, putting out a feebly restraining hand.

``Tomorrow!'' The young voice rang with supreme scorn. ``Do you think I'd wait till to morrowafter all

``But you broke it off, dearyou said you did; and to go down there tonightlike this''

Billy lifted her head. Her eyes shone. Her whole face was a glory of love and pride.

``That was before. I didn't know. He _wants_ me, Aunt Hannah. Did you hear? He _wants_ me! And now I

won't evenhinder him, if he can't ppaint again!'' Billy's voice broke. The glory left her face. Her eyes

brimmed with tears, but her head was still bravely uplifted. ``I'm going to Bertram!''

Blindly Aunt Hannah got to her feet. Still more blindly she reached for her bonnet and cloak on the chair near

``Oh, will you go, too?'' asked Billy, abstractedly, hurrying to the window to look for the motor car.

``Will I go, too!'' burst out Aunt Hannah's indignant voice. ``Do you think I'd let you go alone, and at this

``I don't know, I'm sure,'' murmured Billy, still abstractedly, peering out into the rain.

``Don't know, indeed! Oh, my grief and conscience!'' groaned Aunt Hannah, setting her bonnet hopelessly

But Billy did not even answer now. Her face was pressed hard against the windowpane.

With stiffly pompous dignity Pete opened the door. The next moment he fell back in amazement before the

``Miss Billy!'' gasped the old man. Then he saw Aunt HannahAunt Hannah with her bonnet askew, her

neckbow awry, one hand bare, and the other half covered with a glove wrong side out. Aunt Hannah's

cheeks, too, were flushed, and her eyes starry, but with dismay and anger the last because she did not like

the way Pete had said Miss Billy's name. It was one matter for her to object to this thing Billy was

``Of course it's she!'' retorted Aunt Hannah, testily. ``As if you yourself didn't bring her here with your crazy

``Pete, where is he?'' interposed Billy. ``Tell Mr. Bertram I am hereor, wait! I'll go right in and surprise

Pete had recovered himself by now, but he did not even glance toward Aunt Hannah. His face was beaming,

``Miss Billy, Miss Billy, you're an angel straight from heaven, you areyou are! Oh, I'm so glad you came!

Billy turned eagerly, but before she could take so much as one step toward the door at the end of the hall,

``Billystop! You're not an angel; you're a young womanand a crazy one, at that! Whatever angels do,

young women don't go unannounced and unchaperoned into young men's rooms! Pete, go tell your master

Pete's lips twitched. The emphatic ``we'' and ``us'' were not lost on him. But his face was preternaturally

Pete, once again the punctilious butler, stalked to the door of Bertram's den and threw it wide open.

Opposite the door, on a low couch, lay Bertram, his head bandaged, and his right arm in a sling. His face was

turned toward the door, but his eyes were closed. He looked very white, and his features were pitifully drawn

``Mr. Bertram,'' began Petebut he got no further. A flying figure brushed by him and fell on its knees by

Bertram's eyes flew open. Across his face swept such a radiant look of unearthly joy that Pete sobbed audibly

and fled to the kitchen. Dong Ling found him there a minute later polishing a silver teaspoon with a fringed

napkin that had been spread over Bertram's tray. In the hall above Aunt Hannah was crying into William's

gray linen duster that hung on the hallrackAunt Hannah's handkerchief was on the floor back at Hillside.

In the den neither Billy nor Bertram knew or cared what had become of Aunt Hannah and Pete. There were

just two people in their worldtwo people, 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

``But, dearest, what does it meanyou here like this?'' asked Bertram then. As if to make sure that she was

``here, like this,'' he drew her even closerBertram was so thankful that he did have one arm that was

Billy, on her knees by the couch, snuggled into the curve of the one arm with 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 frown showed below the fantastic bandage

about his head. `` `As soon as,' '' he quoted then scornfully. ``Were you ever by any possible chance thinking

``Why, Bertram, dear, don't you see? When you were so troubled that the picture didn't go well, and I found

``Why, ofof course,'' stammered Billy, ``I couldn't help thinking that maybe you had found out you

``_Didn't want you!_'' groaned Bertram, his tense muscles relaxing. ``May I ask why?''

``I wasn't quite sure why,'' she faltered; ``only, of course, I thought ofof Miss Winthrop, you know, or that

maybe it was because you didn't care for _any_ girl, only to paintoh, oh, Bertram! Pete told us,'' she broke

``Pete told you that I didn't care for any girl, only to paint?'' demanded Bertram, angry and mystified.

``No, no,'' sobbed Billy, ``not that. It was all the others that told me that! Pete told Aunt Hannah about the

accident, you know, and he said he said Oh, Bertram, I _can't_ say it! But that's one of the things that

made me know I _could_ come now, you see, because II wouldn't hinder you, nor slay your Art, nor any

other of those dreadful things ifif you couldn't everppaint again,'' finished Billy in an uncontrollable

``There, there, dear,'' comforted Bertram, patting the bronzegold head on his breast. ``I haven't the faintest

idea what you're talking about except the last; but I know there _can't_ be anything that ought to make you

cry like that. As for my not painting againyou didn't understand Pete, dearie. That was what they were

afraid of at firstthat I'd lose my arm; but that danger is all past now. I'm loads better. Of course I'm going

Billy lifted her head. A look that was almost terror came to her eyes. She pulled herself half away from

``Why, Billy,'' cried the man, in pained surprise. ``You don't mean to say you're _sorry_ I'm going to paint

``No, no! Oh, no, Bertramnever that!'' she faltered, still regarding him with fearful eyes. ``It's onlyfor

_me_, you know. I _can't_ go back now, and not have youafter this!even if I do hinder you, and''

``Yyes, I said so, too. But, Bertram, what she wrote was true. I found it everywhere, afterwards in

``Humph! Well, dearie, I don't know yet what you found, but I do know you wouldn't have found it at all if it

``I don'tnot _right_ here,'' she cooed, nestling comfortably against her lover's arm. ``But you see, dear, she

``Well, who's doing the marryingshe, or I?'' ``That's what I said, tooonly in another way,'' sighed Billy.

``But she called us flyaway flutterbudgets, 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 that miserable portrait. I was so worriedfor fear I'd lose you.''

``Well, I suppose I might as well own up now as any time. I was scared blue, Billy, with jealousy

Billy laughed gaylybut she shifted her position and did not meet her lover's eyes.

``Arkwright? Nonsense!'' she cried. ``Why, he's going to marry Alice Greggory. I know he is! I can see it as

``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 been slow to mark that swift lowering of her eyelids. But Billy looked him now

``Never, dear,'' she said firmly. (Billy was so glad Bertram had turned the question on _her_ love instead of

``Thank God for that,'' breathed Bertram, as he drew the bright head nearer and held it close.

``Er`people who live in _glass houses_,' you know,'' she reminded him, with roguish eyes.

``Nooh, she said it, all right, but, you see, _everybody_ said that to me, Bertram; and that's what made me

soso worried sometimes when you talked about the tilt of my chin, and all that.''

``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 from Kate after breakfast tomorrow morning, that will set you `saving me' again;

and I don't want to be saved that way. I'm going to marry you tomorrow. I'll get'' He stopped short,

with a sudden frown. ``Confound that law! I forgot. Great Scott, Billy, I'll have to trust you five days, after

all! There's a new law about the license. We've _got_ to wait five daysand maybe more, counting in the

``Five days, indeed, sir! I wonder if you think I can get ready to be married in five days.''

``Don't want you to get ready,'' retorted Bertram, promptly. ``I saw Marie get ready, and I had all I wanted of

it. If you really must have all those miles of tablecloths and napkins and doilies and lace rufflings we'll do it

The tender glow on Billy's face told its own story, and Bertram's eager eyes were not slow to read it.

``Sweetheart, see here, dear,'' he cried softly, tightening his good left arm. And forthwith he began to tell her

``Billy, my dear!'' It was Aunt Hannah's plaintive voice at the doorway, a little later. ``We must go home; and

``Yes, Aunt Hannah, I'll come; besides'' she glanced at Bertram mischievously'' I shall need all the time

``Your wedding! You mean it'll be before October?'' Aunt Hannah glanced from one to the other

uncertainly. Something in their smiling faces sent a quick suspicion to her eyes.

``But, child, your trousseauthe wedding thethea week!'' Aunt Hannah could not articulate further.

``Yes, I know; that is a good while,'' cut in Bertram, airily. ``We wanted it tomorrow, but we had to wait, on

But Aunt Hannah was gone. With a low breathed ``Long! Oh, my grief and conscience _William!_'' she

``Well, it _is_ long,'' maintained Bertram, with tender eyes, as he reached out his hand to say goodnight.