d in dismay.

"Sh-h!" warned Marie, turning agonized eyes toward the closed door of
Cyril's den.

"But, dear, what is it?" begged Billy, with no less dismay, but with
greater caution.

"Sh-h!" admonished Marie again.

On tiptoe, then, she led the way to a room at the other end of the tiny
apartment. Once there; she explained in a more natural tone of voice:

"Cyril's at work on a new piece for the piano."

"Well, what if he is?" demanded Billy. "That needn't make you cry, need
it?"

"Oh, no--no, indeed," demurred Marie, in a shocked voice.

"Well, then, what is it?"

Marie hesitated; then, with the abandon of a hurt child that longs for
sympathy, she sobbed:

"It--it's just that I'm afraid, after all, that I'm not good enough for
Cyril."

Billy stared frankly.

"Not _good_ enough, Marie Henshaw! Whatever in the world do you mean?"

"Well, not good _for_ him, then. Listen! To-day, I know, in lots of
ways I must have disappointed him. First, he put on some socks that I'd
darned. They were the first since our marriage that I'd found to
darn, and I'd been so proud and--and happy while I _was_ darning them.
But--but he took 'em off right after breakfast and threw 'em in a
corner. Then he put on a new pair, and said that I--I needn't darn any
more; that it made--bunches. Billy, _my darns--bunches!_" Marie's face
and voice were tragic.

"Nonsense, dear! Don't let that fret you," comforted Billy, promptly,
trying not to laugh too hard. "It wasn't _your_ darns; it was just
darns--anybody's darns. Cyril won't wear darned socks. Aunt Hannah told
me so long ago, and I said then there'd be a tragedy when _you_ found it
out. So don't worry over that."

"Oh, but that isn't all," moaned Marie. "Listen! You know how quiet he
must have everything when he's composing--and he ought to have it, too!
But I forgot, this morning, and put on some old shoes that didn't have
any rubber heels, and I ran the carpet sweeper, and I rattled tins in
the kitchen. But I never thought a thing until he opened his door and
asked me _please_ to change my shoes and let the--the confounded dirt
go, and didn't I have any dishes in the house but what were made of that
abominable tin s-stuff," she finished in a wail of misery.

Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie's aghast face and upraised
hand speedily reduced it to a convulsive giggle.

"You dear child! Cyril's always like that when he's composing," soothed
Billy. "I supposed you