matter of course.     

       When Marie Hawthorn stepped from the train at the North Station she greeted Billy with affectionate warmth, though at once her blue eyes swept the space beyond expectantly and eagerly.     

       Billy's lips curved in a mischievous smile.     

       “No, he didn't come,” she said. “He didn't want to—a little bit.”      

       Marie grew actually pale.     

       “Didn't want to!” she stammered.     

       Billy gave her a spasmodic hug.     

       “Goosey! No, he didn't—a little bit; but he did a great big bit. As if you didn't know he was dying to come, Marie! But he simply couldn't—something about his concert Monday night. He told me over the telephone; but between his joy that you were coming, and his rage that he couldn't see you the first minute you did come, I couldn't quite make out what was the trouble. But he's coming to dinner to-night, so he'll doubtless tell you all about it.”      

       Marie sighed her relief.     

       “Oh, that's all right then. I was afraid he was sick—when I didn't see him.”      

       Billy laughed softly.     

       “No, he isn't sick, Marie; but you needn't go away again before the wedding—not to leave him on my hands. I wouldn't have believed Cyril Henshaw, confirmed old bachelor and avowed woman-hater, could have acted the part of a love-sick boy as he has the last week or two.”      

       The rose-flush on Marie's cheek spread to the roots of her fine yellow hair.     

       “Billy, dear, he—he didn't!”      

       “Marie, dear—he—he did!”      

       Marie laughed. She did not say anything, but the rose-flush deepened as she occupied herself very busily in getting her trunk-check from the little hand bag she carried.     

       Cyril was not mentioned again until the two girls, veils tied and coats buttoned, were snugly ensconced in the tonneau, and Peggy's nose was turned toward home. 

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