“Y-yes,” she murmured.     

       “I thought so—yet I was expecting to see you with Aunt Hannah. I am M. J. Arkwright, Miss Neilson.”      

       For a brief instant Billy stared dazedly.     

       “You don't mean—Mary Jane?” she gasped.     

       “I'm afraid I do.” His lips twitched.     

       “But I thought—we were expecting—” She stopped helplessly. For one more brief instant she stared; then, suddenly, a swift change came to her face. Her eyes danced.     

       “Oh—oh!” she chuckled. “How perfectly funny! You have evened things up, after all. To think that Mary Jane should be a—” She paused and flashed almost angrily suspicious eyes into his face. “But mine was 'Billy,'” she cried. “Your name isn't really—Mary Jane'?”      

       “I am often called that.” His brown eyes twinkled, but they did not swerve from their direct gaze into her own.     

       “But—” Billy hesitated, and turned her eyes away. She saw then that many curious glances were already being flung in her direction. The color in her cheeks deepened. With an odd little gesture she seemed to toss something aside. “Never mind,” she laughed a little hysterically. “If you'll pick up your bag, please, Mr. Mary Jane, and come with me. John and Peggy are waiting. Or—I forgot—you have a trunk, of course?”      

       The man raised a protesting hand.     

       “Thank you; but, Miss Neilson, really—I couldn't think of trespassing on your hospitality—now, you know.”      

       “But we—we invited you,” stammered Billy.     

       He shook his head.     

       “You invited Miss Mary Jane.”      

       Billy bubbled into low laughter.     

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