"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 hur