and ended with something that sounded very
much like the last strain of "Home, Sweet Home." Then he wheeled about
on the piano stool.

"Billy, that's exactly where you're wrong--I DON'T want that kind of
wife. I don't want a brilliant one, and--now, Billy, this sounds like
horrible heresy, I know, but it's true--I don't care whether she can
play, or not; but I should prefer that she shouldn't play--much!"

"Why, Cyril Henshaw!--and you, with your music! As if you could be
contented with a woman like that!"

"Oh, I want her to like music, of course," modified Cyril; "but I don't
care to have her MAKE it. Billy, do you know? You'll laugh, of course,
but my picture of a wife is always one thing: a room with a table and
a shaded lamp, and a little woman beside it with the light on her hair,
and a great, basket of sewing beside her. You see I AM domestic!" he
finished a little defiantly.

"I should say you were," laughed Billy. "And have you found her?--this
little woman who is to do nothing but sit and sew in the circle of the
shaded lamp?"

"Yes, I've found her, but I'm not at all sure she's found me. That's
where I want your help. Oh, I don't mean, of course," he added, "that
she's got to sit under that lamp all the time. It's only that--that I
hope she likes that sort of thing."

"And--does she?"

"Yes; that is, I think she does," smiled Cyril. "Anyhow, she told me
once that--that the things she liked best to do in all the world were to
mend stockings and to make puddings."

Billy sprang to her feet with a little cry. Now, indeed, had Cyril kept
his promise and made "many things clear" to her.

"Cyril, come here," she cried tremulously, leading the way to the open
veranda door. The next moment Cyril was looking across the lawn to the
little summerhouse in the midst of Billy's rose garden. In full view
within the summerhouse sat Marie--sewing.

"Go, Cyril; she's waiting for you," smiled Billy, mistily. "The light's
only the sun, to be sure, and maybe there isn't a whole basket of sewing
there. But--SHE'S there!"

"You've--guessed, then!" breathed Cyril.

"I've not guessed--I know. And--it's all right."

"You mean--?" Only Cyril's pleading eyes finished the question.

"Yes, I'm sure she does," nodded Billy. And then she added under her
breath as the man passed swiftly down the steps: "'Marie Henshaw'
indeed! So 'twas Cyril all the time--and never Bertram--who was the
inspiration of that bit of paper give-