, too, a quaintly-set ring and a
cat's-eye brooch; and to each belonged a story which William was
equally glad to tell. There were other treasures, also: buckles, rings,
brooches, and necklaces, some of dull gold, some of equally dull silver;
but all of odd design and curious workmanship, studded here and there
with bits of red, green, yellow, blue, and flame-colored stones. Very
learnedly then from William's lips fell the new vocabulary that had come
to him with his latest treasures: chrysoprase, carnelian, girasol, onyx,
plasma, sardonyx, lapis lazuli, tourmaline, chrysolite, hyacinth, and
carbuncle.

"They are lovely, perfectly lovely!" breathed Billy, when the last chain
had slipped through her fingers into William's hand. "I think they are
the very nicest things you ever collected."

"So do I," agreed the man, emphatically. "And they are--different, too."

"They are," said Billy, "very--different." But she was not looking at
the jewelry: her eyes were on a small shell hairpin and a brown silk
button half hidden behind a Lowestoft teapot.

On the way down-stairs William stopped a moment at Billy's old rooms.

"I wish you were here now," he said wistfully. "They're all ready for
you--these rooms."

"Oh, but why don't you use them?--such pretty rooms!" cried Billy,
quickly.

William gave a gesture of dissent.

"We have no use for them; besides, they belong to you and Aunt Hannah.
You left your imprint long ago, my dear--we should not feel at home in
them."

"Oh, but you should! You mustn't feel like that!" objected Billy,
hurriedly crossing the room to the window to hide a sudden nervousness
that had assailed her. "And here's my piano, too, and open!" she
finished gaily, dropping herself upon the piano stool and dashing into a
brilliant mazourka.

Billy, like Cyril, had a way of working off her moods at her finger
tips; and to-day the tripping notes and crashing chords told of a
nervous excitement that was not all joy. From the doorway William
watched her flying fingers with fond pride, and it was very reluctantly
that he acceded to Pete's request to go down-stairs for a moment to
settle a vexed question concerning the table decorations.

Billy, left alone, still played, but with a difference. The tripping
notes slowed into a weird melody that rose and fell and lost itself in
the exquisite harmony that had been born of the crashing chords. Billy
was improvising now, and into her music had crept something