“He ought not to be. I told him long, long ago, the very first time, that—that I couldn't.”      

       “I know, dear; but—they don't always understand.” Aunt Hannah sighed in sympathy with the far-away Hugh Calderwell, as she looked down at the bright young face near her.     

       There was a moment's silence; then Billy gave a little laugh.     

       “He will be surprised,” she said. “He told me once that Bertram wouldn't ever care for any girl except to paint. To paint, indeed! As if Bertram didn't love me—just me!—if he never saw another tube of paint!”      

       “I think he does, my dear.”      

       Again there was silence; then, from Billy's lips there came softly:     

       “Just think; we've been engaged almost four weeks—and to-morrow it'll be announced. I'm so glad I didn't ever announce the other two!”      

       “The other two!” cried Aunt Hannah.     

       Billy laughed.     

       “Oh, I forgot. You didn't know about Cyril.”      

       “Cyril!”      

       “Oh, there didn't anybody know it, either not even Cyril himself,” dimpled Billy, mischievously. “I just engaged myself to him in imagination, you know, to see how I'd like it. I didn't like it. But it didn't last, anyhow, very long—just three weeks, I believe. Then I broke it off,”        she finished, with unsmiling mouth, but dancing eyes.     

       “Billy!” protested Aunt Hannah, feebly.     

       “But I am glad only the family knew about my engagement to Uncle William—oh, Aunt Hannah, you don't know how good it does seem to call him 'Uncle' again. It was always slipping out, anyhow, all the time we were engaged; and of course it was awful then.”      

       “That only goes to prove, my dear, how entirely unsuitable it was, from the start.”      

       A bright color flooded Billy's face.     

       “I know; but if a girl will think a man 

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