ate 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,"