CHAPTER XV. "MR. BILLY" AND "MISS MARY JANE"

On the fourteenth of December Billy came down-stairs alert, interested, and happy. She had received a dear letter from Bertram (mailed on 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 the room.

"Aunt Hannah, just listen! Only think—Mary Jane wrote the words himself, so of course I can use them!"

"Billy, dear, can't you say 'Mr. Arkwright'?" pleaded Aunt Hannah.

Billy laughed and gave the anxious-eyed little old lady an impulsive hug.

"Of course! I'll say 'His Majesty' if you like, dear," she chuckled. "But did you hear—did you realize? They're his own words, so there's 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 don't know how good it seems to get into my music again!"

"Yes, yes, dear, of course; but—" Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a vaguely troubled pause.

Billy turned in surprise.

"Why, Aunt Hannah, aren't you glad? You said you'd be glad!"

"Yes, dear; and I am—very glad. It's only—if it doesn't take too much time—and if Bertram doesn't mind."

Billy flushed. She laughed a little bitterly.

"No, it won't take too much time, I fancy, and—so far as Bertram is concerned—if 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."

"Fiddlededee!" bristled Aunt Hannah.

"What did she mean by that?"

Billy smiled ruefully.

"Well, probably I did need it. She said it night before last just 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 be—a perfect absurdity for Bertram to think of marrying anybody."

"Fiddlededee!" ejaculated the irate Aunt Hannah, even more sharply. "I hope you have too much good sense to mind what Kate says, Billy."

"Yes, I know," sighed the girl; "but of course I can see some things for myself, and I suppose I did make—a 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 mind—his giving so much time to his portrait painting. And of course both of those are very reprehensible—in 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 mind—besides Bertram. And of course music would be the most natural thing."

"Yes, of course," agreed Aunt Hannah.

"And it seems actually almost providential that Mary—I mean Mr. Arkwright is here to help me, now that Cyril is gone," went on Billy, still a little wistfully.

"Yes, of course. He isn't like—a stranger," murmured Aunt Hannah. Aunt Hannah's voice sounded as if she were trying to convince herself—of something.

"No, indeed! He seems just like one of the family to me, almost as if he were really—your niece, Mary Jane," laughed Billy.

Aunt Hannah moved restlessly.

"Billy," she hazarded, "he knows, of course, of your engagement?"

"Why, of course he does, Aunt Hannah everybody does!" Billy's eyes were plainly surprised.

"Yes, yes, of course—he 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 it.

"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 wait and see!" she finished gayly, as she tripped from the room.

Left to herself, Aunt Hannah drew a long breath.

"I'm glad she didn't suspect," she was thinking. "I believe she'd consider even the question disloyal to Bertram—dear child! And of course Mary"—Aunt Hannah corrected herself with cheeks aflame—"I mean Mr. Arkwright does—know."

It was just here, however, that Aunt Hannah was mistaken. Mr. Arkwright did not—know. 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 girl—except 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; which was a pity—for Arkwright, and for some others.

Promptly at five o'clock that afternoon, Arkwright rang Billy's doorbell, and was admitted by Rosa to the living-room, where Billy was at the piano.

Billy sprang to her feet with a joyous word of greeting.

"I'm so glad you've come," she sighed happily. "I want you to hear 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 of her hand had brought him.

Billy shook her head and seated herself again at the piano.

"The words are lovely," she declared, sorting out two or three sheets of manuscript music from the quantity on the rack before her. "But there's one place—the rhythm, you know—if 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 melody—with only a chord now and then for accompaniment—filled 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, too—so 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 song—to 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 half-past five, and he was conscious of a vague disappointment as he rose to greet her. Billy, however, turned an untroubled face to the newcomer.

"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 title-page: 'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright'—or will you unveil the mystery for us now?"

"Have you guessed it?" he bantered.

"No—unless it's 'Methuselah John.' We did think of that the other day."

"Wrong again!" he laughed.

"Then it'll have to be 'Mary Jane,'" retorted Billy, with 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 soul-inspiring music!"

"Billy, my dear!" remonstrated Aunt Hannah, faintly.

"Yes, yes, I know; that was bad—and 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, seemed to be full of the twinkling feet of elves.



CHAPTER XVI. A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Billy was summoned to the telephone.

"Oh, good morning, Uncle William," she called, in answer to the masculine voice that replied to her "Hullo."

"Billy, are you very busy this morning?"

"No, indeed—not if you want me."

"Well, I do, my dear." Uncle William's voice was troubled. "I want 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?"

"Of course I will! What time?"

"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 peculiar—the daughter, especially—and may need some careful handling. That's why I wanted you—though I wanted you to see the tea-pot, too,—it'll be yours some day, you know."

Billy, all alone at her end of the line, blushed. That she was one day to be mistress of the Strata and all it contained was still anything but "common" to her.

"I'd love to see it, and I'll come gladly; but I'm afraid I won't 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 all."

"Why, how funny! Well, I'll come. At eleven, you say, at Park Street?"

"Yes; and thank you, my dear. I tried to get Kate to go, too; but 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 somewhere—poor dear. I'll tell her, though, and I'll see you at eleven," finished Billy, as she hung up the receiver.

Promptly at the appointed time Billy met Uncle William at Park Street, and together they set out for the West End street named on the paper in his pocket. But when the shabby house on the narrow little street was reached, the man looked about him with a troubled frown.

"I declare, Billy, I'm not sure but we'd better turn back," he fretted. "I didn't mean to take you to such a place as this."

Billy shivered a little; but after one glance at the man's disappointed face she lifted a determined chin.

"Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don't mind—for myself; but only think of the people whose homes are here," she finished, just above her breath.

Mrs. Greggory was found to be living in two back rooms at the top of four flights of stairs, up which William Henshaw toiled with increasing weariness and dismay, punctuating each flight with a despairing: "Billy, really, I think we should turn back!"

But Billy would not turn back, and at last they found themselves in the presence of a white-haired, sweet-faced 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 denying her assertion.

Mrs. Greggory was a cripple. Her slender little body was poised on two once-costly crutches. Both the worn places on the crutches, and the skill with which the little woman swung herself about the room testified that the crippled condition was not a new one.

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:

"We—er—I came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to understand you had an—er—teapot that—er—" With his eyes on the cracked white crockery pitcher on the table, William Henshaw came to a helpless pause.

A curious expression, or rather, series of expressions crossed Mrs. Greggory's face. Terror, joy, dismay, and relief seemed, one after the other to fight for supremacy. Relief in the end conquered, though even yet there was a second hurriedly apprehensive glance toward the door before she spoke.

"The Lowestoft! Yes, I'm so glad!—that is, of course I must be glad. I'll get it." Her voice broke as she pulled herself from her chair. There was only despairing sorrow on her face now.

The man rose at once.

"But, madam, perhaps—don't let me—" I he began stammeringly. "Of course—Billy!" he broke off in an entirely different voice. "Jove! What a beauty!"

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 tray-like plate of the same ware and decoration.

"If you'll lift it down, please, yourself," motioned Mrs. Greggory. "I don't like to—with these," she explained, tapping the crutches at her side.

With fingers that were almost reverent in their appreciation, the collector reached for the teapot. His eyes sparkled.

"Billy, look, what a beauty! And it's a Lowestoft, too, the real thing—the genuine, true soft paste! And there's the tray—did you notice?" he exulted, turning back to the shelf. "You don't see that every day! They get separated, most generally, you know."

"These pieces have been in our family for generations," said Mrs. Greggory with an accent of pride. "You'll find them quite perfect, I think."

"Perfect! I should say they were," cried the man.

"They are, then—valuable?" Mrs. Greggory's voice shook.

"Indeed they are! But you must know that."

"I have been told so. Yet to me their chief value, of course, lies in their association. My mother and my grandmother owned that teapot, sir." Again her voice broke.

William Henshaw cleared his throat.

"But, madam, if you do not wish to sell—" He stopped abruptly. His longing eyes had gone back to the enticing bit of china.

Mrs. Greggory gave a low cry.

"But I do—that is, I must. Mr. Harlow says that it is valuable, and that it will bring in money; and we need—money." 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 is—is inclined to shirk a little," she finished with a wistful whimsicality.

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 it—if he did not buy it.

"And so you see, I do very much wish to sell."

Mrs. Greggory said then. "Perhaps you will tell me what it would be worth to you," she concluded tremulously.

The collector's eyes glowed. He picked up the teapot with careful rapture and examined it. Then he turned to the tray. After a moment he spoke.

"I have only one other in my collection as rare," he said. "I paid a hundred dollars for that. I shall be glad to give you the same for this, madam."

Mrs. Greggory started visibly.

"A hundred dollars? So much as that?" she cried almost joyously. "Why, nothing else that we've had has brought—Of course, if it's worth 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 twenty-three or twenty-four years old, burst into the room.

"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 the door quickly and hurried forward.

"Mother, what is it? Who are these people?" she asked sharply.

Billy lifted her chin the least bit. She was conscious of a 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. He, also, was not in the habit of being referred to as "these people."

"My name is Henshaw, Miss—Greggory, 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. Henshaw," she hastened on, in embarrassed introduction; "and Miss—"

"Neilson," supplied the man, as she looked at Billy, and hesitated.

A swift red stained Alice Greggory's face. With barely an acknowledgment of the introductions she turned to her mother.

"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 door.

William Henshaw frowned angrily—that was the man; but his eyes—the collector's eyes—sought the teapot longingly. Before either the man or the collector could speak, however; Mrs. Greggory interposed quick words of remonstrance.

"But, Alice, my dear," she almost sobbed. "You didn't wait to let me tell you. Mr. Henshaw says it is worth a hundred dollars to him. He will give us—a hundred dollars."

"A hundred dollars!" echoed the girl, faintly.

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 poverty spot in sight, or out of sight, which that glance did not encompass.

Billy was wondering which she herself desired more—that 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."

Alice Greggory turned as if stung.

"Wished to sell!" She repeated the words with superb disdain. She was plainly very angry. Her blue-gray 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 the last visible reminder of the days when she was living—not merely existing?"

"Alice, Alice, my love!" protested the sweet-faced cripple, agitatedly.

"I can't help it," stormed the girl, hotly. "I know how much you 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!"

"Alice!" gasped Mrs. Greggory in dismayed horror.

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 to-day."

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, Billy sprang forward.

"Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let me buy the teapot? And then—won't you keep it for me—here? 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 reasonableness; but it was one that might be expected, perhaps, from Billy.

Mrs. Greggory must have divined, in a way, the spirit that prompted it, for her eyes grew wet, and with a choking "Dear child!" she reached out and caught Billy's hand in both her own—even while she shook her head in denial.

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, infinitely, to—charity!"

"Oh, but, please, I didn't mean—you didn't understand," faltered Billy.

For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately to the door and held it open.

"Oh, Alice, my dear," pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly.

"Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies," said William Henshaw then, decisively. And Billy, with a little wistful pat on Mrs. Greggory's clasped hands, went.

Once down the long four flights of stairs and out on the sidewalk, William Henshaw drew a long breath.

"Well, by Jove! Billy, the next time I take you curio hunting, it won't be to this place," he fumed.

"Wasn't it awful!" choked Billy.

"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 so—so queer!" she sighed, with a frown. Billy was puzzled. For the first time, perhaps, in her life, she knew what it was to have her proffered "ice cream" disdainfully refused.



CHAPTER XVII. ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT—

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 poverty-stricken furnishings and its crippled mistress was very vivid in Billy's memory. Equally vivid were the flashing eyes of Alice Greggory as she had opened the door at the last.

"For," as Billy explained to Bertram that evening, after she had told him the story of the morning's adventure, "you see, dear, I had never been really turned out of a house before!"

"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 again!"

Bertram's jaw dropped.

"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 teapot—it'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, either—except patches. It's awful, Bertram!"

"I know, darling; but you don't expect to buy them new rugs and new tablecloths, do you?"

Billy gave one of her unexpected laughs.

"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 course—though 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 smile—which I fancy will be the best gift of the lot," amended Bertram, fondly.

Billy dimpled and shook her head.

"Smiles—my smiles—are not so valuable, I'm afraid—except to you, perhaps," she laughed.

"Self-evident facts need no proving," retorted Bertram. "Well, and what else has happened in all these ages I've been away?"

Billy brought her hands together with a sudden cry.

"Oh, and I haven't told you!" she exclaimed. "I'm writing a new song—a love song. Mary Jane wrote the words. They're beautiful."

Bertram stiffened.

"Indeed! And is—Mary 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 dearest little melody right away. So I'm writing the music for them."

"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 title-page say, 'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright'?" he finished.

"That's what I asked him," laughed Billy.

"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 it—to 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 singing—as she said she had sung—that 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 first—the very first. He had boldly scorned the idea then, and had said:

"So it's music—a cold, senseless thing of spidery marks on clean white paper—that is my only rival!"

He had said, too, that he was going to win. And he had won—but not until after long weeks of fearing, hoping, striving, and despairing—this 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, indeed, won. That is, he had supposed that he knew—until Arkwright came.

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, too—and 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 blood—a 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 ago, had declared she loved best of all—music?

Bertram shivered as with a sudden chill; then Billy rose from the piano.

"There!" she breathed, her face shyly radiant with the glory of the song. "Did you—like 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 had miserably failed when he heard her falter:

"Of course, dear, I—I haven't got it nearly perfected yet. It'll be much better, later."

"But it s{sic} fine, now, sweetheart—indeed it is," protested Bertram, hurriedly.

"Well, of course I'm glad—if you like it," murmured Billy; but the glow did not come back to her face.



CHAPTER XVIII. SUGARPLUMS

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 confusion of the Christmas preparations.

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 Bertram—though he was ashamed to own it to himself—breathed 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 synonymous with the song, that he had reluctantly taken the hint and kept away.

"I'll make her care for me sometime—for something besides a song," he told himself with fierce consolation—but Billy did not know this.

Aside from Bertram, Christmas filled all of Billy's thoughts these days. There were such a lot of things she wished to do.

"But, after all, they're only sugarplums, you know, that I'm giving, dear," she declared to Bertram one day, when he had remonstrated with with her for so taxing her time and strength. "I can't really do much."

"Much!" scoffed Bertram.

"But it isn't much, honestly—compared to what there is to do," 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 about—except to long for them."

"But there are the churches and the charities, and all those long-named Societies—I thought that was what they were for," declared Bertram, still a little aggrievedly, his worried eyes on Billy's tired face.

"Oh, but the churches and charities don't frost cakes nor 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 flannel petticoats that are really necessary."

"And so it's just frosting and sugarplums, is it—these 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 last summer?"

Billy turned in confused surprise.

"Why, Bertram, however in the world did you find out about all—that?"

"I didn't. I just guessed it—and it seems 'the boy guessed right 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 Lowestoft lady, too, eh?"

Billy's chin rose to a defiant stubbornness.

"I'm going to try to—if I can find out what kind of frosting she likes."

"How about the Alice lady—or perhaps I should say, the Lady Alice?" smiled the man.

Billy relaxed visibly.

"Yes, I know," she sighed. "There is—the Lady Alice. But, anyhow, she can't call a Christmas present 'charity'—not if it's only a little bit of frosting!" Billy's chin came up again.

"And you're going to, really, dare to send her something?"

"Yes," avowed Billy. "I'm going down there one of these days, in the morning—"

"You're going down there! Billy—not alone?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"But, dearie, you mustn't. It was a horrid place, Will says."

"So it was horrid—to live in. It was everything that was cheap and 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 well-bred, I'm sure—and 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."

Bertram made a restless movement.

"I know, dear; but if you had some one with you! It wouldn't do for Will, of course, nor me—under the circumstances. But there's Aunt Hannah—" He paused hopefully.

Billy chuckled.

"Bless your dear heart! Aunt Hannah would call for a dozen shawls in that place—if she had breath enough to call for any after she got to the top of those four flights!"

"Yes, I suppose so," rejoined Bertram, with an unwilling smile. "Still—well, you can take Rosa," he concluded decisively.

"How Miss Alice would like that—to catch me going 'slumming' 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 finally agreed to this.

It was with Rosa, therefore, that she set out the next morning for the little room up four flights on the narrow West End street.

Leaving the maid on the top stair of the fourth flight, Billy tapped at Mrs. Greggory's door. To her joy Mrs. Greggory herself answered the knock.

"Oh! Why—why, good morning," murmured the lady, in evident embarrassment. "Won't you—come m?"

"Thank you. May I?—just a minute?" smiled Billy, brightly.

As she entered the room, Billy threw a hasty look about her. There 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 way—that 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 about—about that teapot the other day. We didn't want it, of course—if you didn't want us to have it."

A swift change crossed Mrs. Greggory's perturbed face.

"Oh, then you didn't come for it again—to-day," she said. "I'm so glad! I didn't want to refuse—you."

"Indeed I didn't come for it—and we sha'n't again. Don't worry about that, please."

Mrs. Greggory sighed.

"I'm afraid you thought me very rude and—and impossible the other day," she stammered. "And please let me take this opportunity right now 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."

Billy raised a quick hand of protest.

"Don't, please don't, Mrs. Greggory," she begged.

"But it was our fault that you came. We asked you to come—through Mr. Harlow," rejoined the other, hurriedly. "And Mr. Henshaw—was that his name?—was so kind in every way. I'm glad of this chance to tell you how much we really did appreciate it—and your offer, too, which we could not, of course, accept," she finished, the bright color flooding her delicate face.

Again Billy raised a protesting hand; but the little woman in the opposite chair hurried on. There was still more, evidently, that she wished to say.

"I hope Mr. Henshaw did not feel too disappointed—about the Lowestoft. We didn't want to let it go if we could help it; and we hope now to keep it."

"Of course," murmured Billy, sympathetically.

"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 see—my daughter is very unreconciled, still, to things as they are; and no wonder, perhaps. They are so different—from what they were!" Her voice broke a little.

"Of course," said Billy again, and this time the words were tinged with impatient indignation. "If only there were something one could do to help!"

"Thank you, my dear, but there isn't—indeed 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 you herself, perhaps."

Billy rose with a haste so marked it was almost impolite, as she murmured:

"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 them in water—right there.

"Oh, oh, how lovely!" breathed Mrs. Greggory, her face deep in the feathery bed of sweetness. Before she could half say "Thank you," however? she found herself alone.



CHAPTER XIX. ALICE GREGGORY

Christmas came and went; and in a flurry of snow and sleet January arrived. The holidays over, matters and things seemed to settle down to the winter routine.

Miss Winthrop had prolonged her visit in Washington until after Christmas, but she had returned to Boston now—and with her she had brought a brand-new 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 winsomeness as "all ready now to really begin!"

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's—and that was not the goal he had set for it. As to the sordid money part of the affair—the 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 commonly reported "on the street" to be made of stone.

Obviously, then, indeed, there was nothing for Bertram Henshaw to do but to begin the new portrait. And he began it—though 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 taking palpable shape at the end of his brush.

"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 best thing I've ever done—I think! by the sketches."

"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 true—Billy 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 Marguerite Winthrop. And it shamed her.

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 this—always. 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 sweetheart as to be—jealous of a portrait.

It was quite early in the month that the usually expected "January thaw" came, and it was on a comparatively mild Friday at this time that 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 half-past 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 twelve o'clock, or before.

As it happened, business did not take quite so long as she had expected, and half-past eleven found her well on her way to Miss Henderson's home.

In spite of the warm sunshine and the slushy snow in the streets, 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 stretched itself far up the Avenue.

"Why, what—" she began under her breath; then suddenly she understood. It was Friday. A world-famous pianist was to play with the Symphony Orchestra that afternoon. This must be the line of patient waiters for the twenty-five-cent balcony seats that Mr. Arkwright had told about. With sympathetic, interested eyes, then, Billy stepped one side to watch the line, for a moment.

Almost at once two girls brushed by her, and one was saying:

"What a shame!—and after all our struggles to get here! If only we hadn't lost that other train!"

"We're too late—you 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 now—and the ones there never get in!"

At the look of tragic disappointment that crossed the third girl's face, Billy's heart ached. Her first impulse, of course, was to pull her own symphony ticket from her muff and hurry forward with a "Here, take mine!" But that would hardly do, she knew—though she would like to see Aunt Hannah's aghast face if this girl in the red sweater and white tam-o'-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 others—those many others that made up the long line stretching its weary length up the Avenue.

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 near-holes in their garments. It seemed to Billy that women of almost all sorts were there, young, old, and middle-aged; students in tailored suits, widows in crape and veil; girls that were members of a merry party, women that were 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 the concerto they expected to hear that afternoon.

A few did not appear to mind the biting wind, but most of them, by turned-up coat-collars 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 knew—a face that drooped with such a white misery of spent strength that she hurried straight toward it with a low cry.

"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 blue-gray eyes. Billy knew when the recognition came, for she saw the painful color stain the white face red.

"Thank you, no. I am not ill, Miss Neilson," said the girl, coldly.

"But you look so tired out!"

"I have been standing here some time; that is all."

Billy threw a hurried glance down the far-reaching line that she knew had formed since the girl's two tired feet had taken their first position.

"But you must have come—so early! It isn't twelve o'clock yet," she faltered.

A slight smile curved Alice Greggory's lips.

"Yes, it was early," she rejoined a little bitterly; "but it had to be, you know. I wanted to hear the music; and with this soloist, and this weather, I knew that many others—would want to hear the music, too."

"But you look so white! How much longer—when will they let you in?" demanded Billy, raising indignant eyes to the huge, gray-pillared building before her, much as if she would pull down the walls if she could, and make way for this tired girl at her side.

Miss Greggory's thin shoulders rose and fell in an expressive shrug.

"Half-past one."

Billy gave a dismayed cry.

"Half-past one—almost two hours more! But, Miss Greggory, you can't—how 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."

Miss Greggory shook her head.

"It is nothing, really," she insisted. "I am quite well. It is only—I 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! Why—oh, 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 were on one of the pieces of pie down the line—no longer a triangle.

"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 you—no. I couldn't do that," cut in the other, sharply, but in a low voice.

"But you'll take my ticket," begged Billy.

Miss Greggory shook her head.

"Certainly not."

"But I want you to, please. I shall be very unhappy if you don't," grieved Billy.

The other made a peremptory gesture.

"I should be very unhappy if I did," she said with cold emphasis. "Really, Miss Neilson," she went on in a low voice, throwing 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 at Christmas; but—"

"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 luncheon—something that will sustain you. I will take your place here."

"Miss Neilson!"

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 the heart; so, too, were the amazed words that followed.

"You—will stand here?"

"Certainly; I will keep your place. Don't worry. You sha'n't lose it." Billy spoke with a smiling indifference that was meant to convey the impression that standing in line for a twenty-five-cent seat was a daily habit of hers. "There's a restaurant only a little way—right 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't—you 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, then—I will, long enough for some coffee and maybe a sandwich. And—thank you," she choked, as she turned and hurried away.

Billy drew the deep breath of one who has triumphed after long struggles—but 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 moment—Bertram 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 on his way there now.

He was very near by this time, and Billy held her breath suspended. There was a chance, of course, that he might not notice her; and Billy was counting on that chance—until a gust of wind whirled a loose half-sheet of newspaper from the hands of the man in front of her, and naturally attracted Bertram's eyes to its vicinity—and to hers. The next moment he was at her side and his dumfounded but softly-breathed "Billy!" was in her ears.

Billy bubbled into low laughter—there were such a lot of funny situations in the world, and of them all this one was about the drollest, she thought.

"Yes, I know," she gurgled. "You don't have to say it-your face is saying even more than your tongue could! This is just for a girl I know. I'm keeping her place."

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 suicide—standing out in this wind like this! Besides—" He stopped with an angrily despairing glance at her surroundings.

"Yes, I know," she nodded, a little soberly, understanding the look and answering that first; "it isn't pleasant nor comfortable, in lots of ways—but she's had it all the morning. As for the cold—I'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 luncheon."

Bertram sighed impatiently and opened his lips—only 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 fiancee the subject of inch-high headlines in some evening paper figuring as:

"Talented young composer and her famous artist lover take poor girl's place in a twenty-five-cent ticket line."

He shivered at the thought.

"Are you cold?" worried Billy. "If you are, don't stand here, please!"

He shook his head silently. His eyes were searching the street for the only one whose coming could bring him relief.

It must have been but a coffee-and-sandwich 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 later the girl was in Billy's place, and Billy herself was at his side.

"That was Alice Greggory, Bertram," she told him, as they walked on swiftly; "and Bertram, she was actually almost crying when she took my place."

"Humph! Well, I should think she'd better be," growled Bertram, perversely.

"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 to-day—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 farm—if I was going through that again," retorted the man, grimly—Bertram was still seeing that newspaper heading.

But Billy only laughed again.



CHAPTER XX. ARKWRIGHT TELLS A STORY

Arkwright called Monday afternoon by appointment; and together he and Billy put the finishing touches to the new song.

It was when, with Aunt Hannah, they were having tea before the fire a little later, that Billy told of her adventure the preceding Friday afternoon in front of Symphony Hall.

"You knew the girl, of course—I think you said you knew the girl," ventured Arkwright.

"Oh, yes. She was Alice Greggory. I met her with Uncle William first, over a Lowestoft teapot. Maybe you'd like to know how I met her," smiled Billy.

"Alice Greggory?" Arkwright's eyes showed a sudden interest. "I used to know an Alice Greggory, but it isn't the same one, probably. Her mother was a cripple."

Billy gave a little cry.

"Why, it is—it must be! My Alice Greggory's mother is a cripple. Oh, do you know them, really?"

"Well, it does look like it," rejoined Arkwright, showing even 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 and prematurely white hair."

"That describes my Mrs. Greggory exactly," cried Billy's eager voice. "And the daughter?"

"Alice? Why—as I said, it's been four years since I've seen her." 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 light-brown hair and big blue-gray eyes that look steely cold when she's angry?" questioned Billy.

"I reckon that's about it," acknowledged the man, with a faint smile.

"Then they are the ones," declared the girl, plainly excited. "Isn'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 daughter—if she didn't put out so many prickers that I couldn't get near her! But tell us about them. How did they come here? Why didn't you know they were here?"

"Are you good at answering a dozen questions at once?" asked Aunt Hannah, turning smiling eyes from Billy to the man at her side.

"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 off—really wealthy, for a small town. But the judge was better at money-making than he was at money-keeping, 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 came here?"

"To get away from—everybody, 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 hard—to be nobody where you've never been anything but nobody."

"I suppose so," sighed Billy. "Still—they must have had friends."

"They did, of course; but when the love of one's friends becomes too highly seasoned with pity, it doesn't make a pleasant morsel to swallow, specially if you don't like the taste of the pity—and there are 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 old-fashioned hats with heads even more proudly erect than in the old days when their home and their gowns and their doings were the admiration and envy of the town. You see, they didn't want—that pity."

"I do see," cried Billy, her face aglow with sudden understanding; "and I don't believe pity would be—nice!" Her own chin was held high as she spoke.

"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 worked up quite a class, meanwhile keeping on with her own studies, herself.

"They might have carried the thing through, maybe," continued Arkwright, "and never apparently known that the 'pity' existed, if it hadn't 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 goods—they had lots of quite valuable heirlooms; I suspect that's where your Lowestoft teapot came in—and 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 his voice.

"But they wouldn't mind you—here," argued Billy.

"I'm afraid they would. In fact, I'm sure they'd refuse entirely to see me."

Billy's eyes grew determined.

"But they can't refuse—if I bring about a meeting just casually, you know," she challenged.

Arkwright laughed.

"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 eyes got when she was angry?"

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 out—about Judge Greggory's honesty, I mean?"

"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 prospect that the Judge's good name might be saved, after all."

"Oh, I wish it might," sighed Billy. "Think what it would mean to those women!"

"'Twould mean everything," cried Arkwright, warmly; "and I'll write to mother to-night, I will, and find out just what there is to it-if anything. Then you can tell them," he finished a little stiffly.

"Yes—or you," nodded Billy, lightly. And because she began at once to speak of something else, the first part of her sentence passed without comment.

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 them—I'm sure there was; and they quarrelled, probably."

"Why, no, dear; I didn't see anything unusual," murmured the elder lady.

"Well, I did. And I'm going to be the fairy godmother that straightens everything all out, too. See if I'm not! They'd make a splendid couple, Aunt Hannah. I'm going right down there to-morrow."

"Billy, my dear!" exclaimed the more conservative old lady, "aren't you taking things a little too much for granted? Maybe they don't wish for—for a fairy godmother!"

"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 now—gentlewomen like them!"

"Yes, yes, poor things, poor things!" sighed Aunt Hannah.

"I hope I'll find out that she's really good—at teaching, I mean—the 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 recommendation—that is, of course, if I can give the recommendation," continued Billy, with a troubled frown. "Anyhow, I'm going down to begin operations to-morrow."



CHAPTER XXI. A MATTER OF STRAIGHT BUSINESS

True to her assertion, Billy went down to the Greggorys' the next day. This time she did not take Rosa with her. Even Aunt Hannah conceded 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 with Mrs. Stetson.

"Rosa says that Billy's not there," called Bertram's aggrieved voice, when Aunt Hannah had said, "Good morning, my boy."

"Dear me, no, Bertram. She's in a fever of excitement this morning. She'll probably tell you all about it when you come out here to-night. You are coming out to-night, aren't you?"

"Yes; oh, yes! But what is it? Where's she gone?"

Aunt Hannah laughed softly.

"Well, she's gone down to the Greggorys'."

"The Greggorys'! What—again?"

"Oh, you might as well get used to it, Bertram," bantered Aunt Hannah, "for there'll be a good many 'agains,' I fancy."

"Why, Aunt Hannah, what do you mean?" Bertram's voice was not quite pleased.

"Oh, she'll tell you. It's only that the Greggorys have turned out to be old friends of Mr. Arkwright's."

"Friends of Arkwright's!" Bertram's voice was decidedly displeased now.

"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 hear all about it to-night, of course."

"Yes, of course," echoed Bertram. But there was no ring of enthusiasm in his voice, neither then, nor when he said good-by a moment later.

Billy, meanwhile, on her way to the Greggory home, was, as Aunt Hannah had said, "wildly excited." It seemed so strange and wonderful and delightful—the 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 them—in 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 open—and if there should be a chance to bring such a thing about—! Meanwhile, of course, she should not mention the matter, even to Bertram.

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 themselves.

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 misty-eyed 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 wanted—information concerning the character, aims, and daily life of Alice Greggory.

"You see, we have some money—a very little," explained Mrs. Greggory, after a time; "though to get it we have had to sell all 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 prefer—just now—to spend the little money we have for something other than imitation comfort—lessons, 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 not aspire to concert solo work. She understands her limitations."

"But she is probably—very good—at teaching." Billy hesitated a little.

"She is; very good. She has the best of recommendations." A little proudly Mrs. Greggory gave the names of two Boston pianists—names that would carry weight anywhere.

Unconsciously Billy relaxed. She did not know until that moment how she had worried for fear she could not, conscientiously, recommend this Alice Greggory.

"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 gives lessons to a little girl in return."

"I see," nodded Billy, brightly; "and I've been thinking, Mrs. Greggory—maybe I know of some pupils she could get. I have a friend who has just given hers up, owing to her marriage. Sometime, soon, I'm going to talk to your daughter, if I may, and—"

"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 face at sight of herself.

"Oh! Why-good morning, Miss Neilson," murmured Miss Greggory with a smile so forced that her mother hurriedly looked to the azalea in search of a possible peacemaker.

"My dear, see," she stammered, "what Miss Neilson has brought me. And it's so full of blossoms, too! And she says it'll remain so for a long, long time—if we'll only keep it wet."

Alice Greggory murmured a low something—a something that she tried, evidently, very hard to make politely appropriate and appreciative. 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 mind—that 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 embarrassment.

"Of course she took cold—standing all those hours in that horrid wind, Friday!" cried Billy, indignantly.

A quick red flew to Alice Greggory's face. Billy saw it at once 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 something—anything that would get their minds off that idea—she uttered now the first words that came into her head. As it happened, they were the last words that sober second thought would have told her to say.

"Never mind, Mrs. Greggory. We'll have her all well and strong soon; never fear! Just wait till I send Peggy and Mary Jane to take her out for a drive one of these mild, sunny days. You have no idea how much good it will do her!"

Alice Greggory got suddenly to her feet. Her face was very white now. Her eyes had the steely coldness that Billy knew so well. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and sternly controlled.

"Miss Neilson, you will think me rude, of course, especially after 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."

"Alice, dear," remonstrated Mrs. Greggory, extending a frightened hand.

The girl did not turn her head nor hesitate; but she caught the extended hand and held it warmly in both her own, with gentle little pats, while she went on speaking.

"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, nor—if you'll pardon me—have I, under the circumstances, any wish to make theirs."

"Oh, Alice, Alice," began the little mother, in dismay; but a rippling laugh from their visitor brought an angry flush even to her gentle face.

Billy understood the flush, and struggled for self-control.

"Please—please, forgive me!" she choked. "But you see—you couldn't, of course, know that Mary Jane and Peggy aren't girls. They're just a man and an automobile!"

An unwilling smile trembled on Alice Greggory's lips; but she still stood her ground.

"After all, girls, or men and automobiles, Miss Neilson—it 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."

There was a moment's hush. Billy's eyes had filled with tears.

"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 released her mother's hand, dropped into her own chair again, and said wearily:

"I know you didn't, Miss Neilson. It's all my foolish pride, of course. It's only that I was thinking how dearly I would love to meet girls again—just as girls! But—I no longer have any business with pride, of course. I shall be pleased, I'm sure," she went on dully, "to accept anything you may do for us, from automobile rides to—to red flannel petticoats."

Billy almost—but not quite—laughed. 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 casual manner that gave no hint of studied labor:

"Well, as it happens, Miss Greggory, what I want to-day 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 you would be willing to undertake it for us. Would you?"

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 garment. Her countenance became alert and interested.

"Indeed I would! I should be glad to do it."

"Good! Then can you come out to my home sometime to-morrow, 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 are planning to do."

"Yes. I could come at ten in the morning for an hour, or at three in the afternoon for two hours or more," replied Miss Greggory, after a moment's hesitation.

"Suppose we call it in the afternoon, then," smiled Billy, as she rose to her feet. "And now I must go—and here's my address," she finished, taking out her card and laying it on the table near her.

For reasons of her own Billy went away that morning without saying anything more about the proposed new pupils. New pupils were not automobile rides nor petticoats, to be sure—but she did not care to risk disturbing the present interested happiness of Alice Greggory's face by mentioning anything that might be construed as too officious an assistance.

On the whole, Billy felt well pleased with her morning's work. To Aunt Hannah, upon her return, she expressed herself thus:

"It's splendid—even better than I hoped. I shall have a chance to-morrow, 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 better—and 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 glad I did! Oh, Aunt Hannah, it's coming out lovely!—I know it is."



CHAPTER XXII. PLANS AND PLOTTINGS

To Billy, Alice Greggory's first visit to Hillside was in every way 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 superciliousness and snubbing.

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 Hannah—according to previous agreement—came into the room, the two girls were laughing and chatting over the operetta as if they had known each other for years.

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 step—than which nothing is more soul-satisfying to the singer.

It was after the music for the operetta had been well-practised 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 think—all 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 Neilson—it can't be—you don't mean—is your name—it is—you!" she finished joyously, as the telltale color dyed Billy's face. The next moment her own cheeks burned scarlet. "And to think of my letting you stand in line for a twenty-five-cent admission!" she scorned.

"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 one—a 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 half-way through the first page, sought the name at the left side below the title.

"'Words by M. J.—'"—there was a visible start, and a pause before the "'Arkwright'" was uttered in a slightly different tone.

Billy noted both the start and the pause—and gloried in them.

"Yes; the words are by M. J. Arkwright," she said with smooth unconcern, but with a covert glance at the other's face. "Ever hear of him?"

Alice Greggory gave a short little laugh.

"Probably not—this one. I used to know an M. J. Arkwright, long ago; but he wasn't—a poet, so far as I know," she finished, with a 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 this—very 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 good-by—her 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 words—called him "Mary Jane.") "But, indeed, my dear, I didn't see anything stiff, or—or repelling about Miss Greggory, as you said there was."

"There wasn't—to-day," smiled Billy. "Honestly, Aunt Hannah, I should never have known her for the same girl—who showed me the door that first morning," she finished merrily, as she turned to go up-stairs.

It was the next day that Cyril and Marie came home from their honeymoon. They went directly to their pretty little apartment on Beacon Street, Brookline, within easy walking distance of Billy's own cozy home.

Cyril intended to build in a year or two. Meanwhile they had a 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 puddings to her heart's content.

Marie had—again 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 this—to her, delightful—arrangement of a "visiting acquaintance" without some opposition from her friends. Even Billy had stood somewhat aghast.

"But, my dear, won't it be hard for you, to do so much?" she argued one day. "You know you aren't very strong."

"I know; but it won't be hard, as I've planned it," replied Marie, "specially when I've been longing for years to do this very thing. Why, Billy, if I had to stand by and watch a maid do all these things 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 house—I'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 laugh again.

The bride and groom, as was proper, were, soon after their arrival, invited to dine at both William's and Billy's. Then, until Marie's "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 used—in 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 song-words that Arkwright brought—they 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 bring about that meeting!

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 Bertram—to 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, Arkwright's words, and Arkwright's friends.

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 alone—and 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 the alto. After breakfast, therefore, Billy said decisively:

"Now, if you please, Miss Greggory, I'm going to put you up-stairs on the couch in the sewing-room for a nap."

"But I've just got up," remonstrated Miss Greggory.

"I know you have," smiled Billy; "but you were very late to bed 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 down-stairs till I send for you. Mr. Johnson isn't due till quarter of eleven, is he?"

"N-no."

"Then come with me," directed Billy, leading the way up-stairs. "There, now, don't come down till I call you," she went on, when they 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 air—she 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 down-stairs to wait for Arkwright.

It was a fine plan. Arkwright was due at ten o'clock—Billy 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 up-stairs and send Alice Greggory down for a book, a pair of scissors, a shawl for Aunt Hannah—anything would do for a pretext, anything so that the girl might walk into the living-room and find Arkwright waiting for her alone. And then—What happened next was, in Billy's mind, very vague, but very attractive as a nucleus for one's thoughts, nevertheless.

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 half-past 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 half-past 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 for—for—so little time, you know," she finished in confusion, casting frantically about in her mind for an excuse to hurry up-stairs and send Alice Greggory down before it should be quite too late.

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 herself—for 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 leaned forward with an impetuous rush of eager words.

"But there is time, Miss Billy—if you'd give me leave—to say—"

"I'm afraid I kept you waiting," interrupted the hurried voice of 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 was—not the tenor she had expected to find—but an old acquaintance. Then it was that the tremulous "Mr.-Arkwright!" fell from her lips.

Billy and Arkwright had turned at her first words. At her last, Arkwright, with a half-despairing, half-reproachful glance at Billy, stepped forward.

"Miss Greggory!—you are Miss Alice Greggory, I am sure," he said pleasantly.

At the first opportunity Billy murmured a hasty excuse and left the room. To Aunt Hannah she flew with a woebegone face.

"Oh, Aunt Hannah, Aunt Hannah," she wailed, half laughing, half crying; "that wretched little fib-teller of a clock of yours spoiled it all!"

"Spoiled it! Spoiled what, child?"

"My first meeting between Mary Jane and Miss Greggory. I had it all arranged that they were to have it alone; but that miserable little fibber up-stairs struck eleven at half-past 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 morning—or 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 Mary Jane have anything to tell her—about her father, I mean?"

Only the faintest flicker of Billy's eyelid testified that the everyday accustomedness of that "Mary Jane" on Aunt Hannah's lips had not escaped her.

"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 to-day—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 something—I 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 now," she sighed, rising to go down-stairs.

As it chanced, however, it was not the tenor, but a message from him—a 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 told—at once rather than to worry along for another week or two, and then give up. So he had told it.

"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 hire only the accompanist."

An odd expression flitted across Miss Greggory's face.

"Mr. Arkwright used to sing—tenor," she observed quietly.

"As if he didn't now—a perfectly glorious tenor," retorted Billy. "But as if he would take this!"

For only a brief moment did Arkwright hesitate; then blandly he suggested:

"Suppose you try him, and see."

Billy sat suddenly erect.

"Would you, really? Could you—take the time, and all?" she cried.

"Yes, I think I would—under the circumstances," he smiled. "I 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 powers-that-be that singing in this operetta will be just the stepping-stone I need to success in Grand Opera."

"Oh, if you only would take it," breathed Billy, "we'd be so glad!"

"Well," said Arkwright, his eyes on Billy's frankly delighted face, "as I said before—under the circumstances I think I would."

"Thank you! Then it's all beautifully settled," rejoiced Billy, with a happy sigh; and unconsciously she gave Alice Greggory's hand near her a little pat.

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 indeed—and dismayed—had 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, otherwise.



CHAPTER XXIII. THE CAUSE AND BERTRAM

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 for specially invited friends the evening before.

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 do not consent to do it."

"But—my pupils," Alice Greggory had demurred.

"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 knit a new shawl; so you won't have to be worrying about her."

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 "Peggy and Mary Jane," Alice Greggory and her mother had arrived at Hillside.

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, that, of course, did not "signify," Billy declared to herself.

"I suppose you don't ever call him 'Mary Jane,'" she said to the girl, a little mischievously, one day.

"'Mary Jane'? Mr. Arkwright? No, I don't," rejoined Miss Greggory, with an odd smile. Then, after a moment, she added: "I believe his brothers and sisters used to, however."