e away from her husband's arms.

"Mercy! and here's poor Uncle William, bless his heart, with not a thing
to eat yet!"

They all got dinner then, together, with many a sigh and quick-coming
tear as everywhere they met some sad reminder of the gentle old hands
that would never again minister to their comfort.

It was a silent meal, and little, after all, was eaten, though brave
attempts at cheerfulness and naturalness were made by all three.
Bertram, especially, talked, and tried to make sure that the shadow on
Billy's face was at least not the one his own conduct had brought there.

"For you do--you surely do forgive me, don't you?" he begged, as he
followed her into the kitchen after the sorry meal was over.

"Why, yes, dear, yes," sighed Billy, trying to smile.

"And you'll forget?"

There was no answer.

"Billy! And you'll forget?" Bertram's voice was insistent, reproachful.

Billy changed color and bit her lip. She looked plainly distressed.

"Billy!" cried the man, still more reproachfully.

"But, Bertram, I can't forget--quite yet," faltered Billy.

Bertram frowned. For a minute he looked as if he were about to take
up the matter seriously and argue it with her; but the next moment he
smiled and tossed his head with jaunty playfulness--Bertram, to tell the
truth, had now had quite enough of what he privately termed "scenes"
and "heroics"; and, manlike, he was very ardently longing for the old
easy-going friendliness, with all unpleasantness banished to oblivion.

"Oh, but you'll have to forget," he claimed, with cheery insistence,
"for you've promised to forgive me--and one can't forgive without
forgetting. So, there!" he finished, with a smilingly determined
"now-everything-is-just-as-it-was-before" air.

Billy made no response. She turned hurriedly and began to busy herself
with the dishes at the sink. In her heart she was wondering: could she
ever forget what Bertram had said? Would anything ever blot out those
awful words: "If you would tend to your husband and your home a little
more, and go gallivanting off with Calderwell and Arkwright and Alice
Greggory a little less--"? It seemed now that always, for evermore, they
would ring in her ears; always, for evermore, they would burn deeper and
deeper into her soul. And not once, in all Bertram's apologies, had he
referred to them--those words he had uttered. He had not said he did not
mean them. He had not said he was sorry he spoke them. He had i