springing to her feet.     

       “But what if we—we shouldn't like her?”      

       “Nonsense! What if she shouldn't like us?” laughed Billy. “However, if you'd feel better, just ask her to come and stay with us a month. We shall keep her all right, afterwards. See if we don't!”      

       Slowly Aunt Hannah got to her feet.     

       “Very well, dear. I'll write, of course, as you tell me to; and it's lovely of you to do it. Now I'll leave you to your letters. I've hindered       you far too long, as it is.”      

       “You've rested me,” declared Billy, flinging wide her arms.     

       Aunt Hannah, fearing a second dizzying whirl impelled by those same young arms, drew her shawls about her shoulders and backed hastily toward the hall door.     

       Billy laughed.     

       “Oh, I won't again—to-day,” she promised merrily. Then, as the lady reached the arched doorway: “Tell Mary Jane to let us know the day and train and we'll meet her. Oh, and Aunt Hannah, tell her to wear a pink—a white pink; and tell her we will, too,” she finished gayly.     

  

       CHAPTER III. BILLY AND BERTRAM     

       Bertram called that evening. Before the open fire in the living-room he found a pensive Billy awaiting him—a Billy who let herself be kissed, it is true, and who even kissed back, shyly, adorably; but a Billy who looked at him with wide, almost frightened eyes.     

       “Why, darling, what's the matter?” he demanded, his own eyes growing wide and frightened.     

       “Bertram, it's—done!”      

       “What's done? What do you mean?”      

       “Our engagement. It's—announced. I wrote stacks of notes to-day, and even now there are some left for to-morrow. And then there's—the newspapers. Bertram, right away, now, everybody will know it.” Her voice was tragic.     

       Bertram relaxed visibly. A tender light came to his eyes.     

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