Miss Billy — Married - Eleanor H. Porter

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music, and I shall ask Mrs. Greggory to teach him books; and I shall tell them both that I positively need them to keep you company.”

      “Oh, but Billy,” bridled Aunt Hannah, with prompt objection.

      “Tut, tut!—I know you'll be willing to be thrown as a little bit of a sop to the Greggorys' pride,” coaxed Billy. “You just wait till I get the Overflow Annex in running order. Why, Aunt Hannah, you don't know how busy you're going to be handing out all that extra happiness that I can't use!”

      “You dear child!” Aunt Hannah smiled mistily. The black shawl had fallen unheeded to the floor now. “As if anybody ever had any more happiness than one's self could use!”

      “I have,” avowed Billy, promptly, “and it's going to keep growing and growing, I know.”

      “Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy, don't!” exclaimed Aunt Hannah, lifting shocked hands of remonstrance. “Rap on wood—do! How can you boast like that?”

      Billy dimpled roguishly and sprang to her feet.

      “Why, Aunt Hannah, I'm ashamed of you! To be superstitious like that—you, a good Presbyterian!”

      Aunt Hannah subsided shamefacedly.

      “Yes, I know, Billy, it is silly; but I just can't help it.”

      “Oh, but it's worse than silly, Aunt Hannah,” teased Billy, with a remorseless chuckle. “It's really heathen! Bertram told me once that it dates 'way back to the time of the Druids—appealing to the god of trees, or something like that—when you rap on wood, you know.”

      “Ugh!” shuddered Aunt Hannah. “As if I would, Billy! How is Bertram, by the by?”

      A swift shadow crossed Billy's bright face.

      “He's lovely—only his arm.”

      “His arm! But I thought that was better.”

      “Oh, it is,” drooped Billy, “but it gets along so slowly, and it frets him dreadfully. You know he never can do anything with his left hand, he says, and he just hates to have things done for him—though Pete and Dong Ling are quarreling with each other all the time to do things for him, and I'm quarreling with both of them to do them for him myself! By the way, Dong Ling is going to leave us next week. Did you know it?”

      “Dong Ling—leave!”

      “Yes. Oh, he told Bertram long ago he should go when we were married; that he had plenty much money, and was going back to China, and not be Melican man any longer. But I don't think Bertram thought he'd do it. William says Dong Ling went to Pete, however, after we left, and told him he wanted to go; that he liked the little Missee plenty well, but that there'd be too much hen-talk when she got back, and—”

      “Why, the impudent creature!”

      Billy laughed merrily.

      “Yes; Pete was furious, William says, but Dong Ling didn't mean any disrespect, I'm sure. He just wasn't used to having petticoats around, and didn't want to take orders from them; that's all.”

      “But, Billy, what will you do?”

      “Oh, Pete's fixed all that lovely,” returned Billy, nonchalantly. “You know his niece lives over in South Boston, and it seems she's got a daughter who's a fine cook and will be glad to come. Mercy! Look at the time,” she broke off, glancing at the clock. “I shall be late to dinner, and Dong Ling loathes anybody who's late to his meals—as I found out to my sorrow the night we got home. Good-by, dear. I'll be out soon again and fix it all up—about the Annex, you know.” And with a bright smile she was gone.

      “Dear me,” sighed Aunt Hannah, stooping to pick up the black shawl; “dear me! Of course everything will be all right—there's a girl coming, even if Dong Ling is going. But—but—Oh, my grief and conscience, what an extraordinary child Billy is, to be sure—but what a dear one!” she added, wiping a quick tear from her eye. “An Overflow Annex, indeed, for her 'extra happiness'! Now isn't that just like Billy?”

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      September passed and October came, bringing with it cool days and clear, crisp evenings royally ruled over by a gorgeous harvest moon. According to Billy everything was just perfect—except, of course, poor Bertram's arm; and even the fact that that gained so slowly was not without its advantage (again according to Billy), for it gave Bertram more time to be with her.

      “You see, dear, as long as you can't paint,” she told him earnestly, one day, “why, I'm not really hindering you by keeping you with me so much.”

      “You certainly are not,” he retorted, with a smile.

      “Then I may be just as happy as I like over it,” settled Billy, comfortably.

      “As if you ever could hinder me,” he ridiculed.

      “Oh, yes, I could,” nodded Billy, emphatically. “You forget, sir. That was what worried me so. Everybody, even the newspapers and magazines, said I would do it, too. They said I'd slay your Art, stifle your Ambition, destroy your Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally. And Kate said—”

      “Yes. Well, never mind what Kate said,” interrupted the man, savagely.

      Billy laughed, and gave his ear a playful tweak.

      “All right; but I'm not going to do it, you know—spoil your career, sir. You just wait,” she continued dramatically. “The minute your arm gets so you can paint, I myself shall conduct you to your studio, thrust the brushes into your hand, fill your palette with all the colors of the rainbow, and order you to paint, my lord, paint! But—until then I'm going to have you all I like,” she finished, with a complete change of manner, nestling into the ready curve of his good left arm.

      “You witch!” laughed the man, fondly. “Why, Billy, you couldn't hinder me. You'll be my inspiration, dear, instead of slaying it. You'll see. This time Marguerite Winthrop's portrait is going to be a success.”

      Billy turned quickly.

      “Then you are—that is, you haven't—I mean, you're going to—paint it?”

      “I just am,” avowed the artist. “And this time it'll be a success, too, with you to help.”

      Billy drew in her breath tremulously.

      “I didn't know but you'd already started it,” she faltered.

      He shook his head.

      “No. After the other one failed, and Mr. Winthrop asked me to try again, I couldn't then. I was so troubled over you. That's the time you did hinder me,” he smiled. “Then came your note breaking the engagement. Of course I knew too much to attempt a thing like that portrait then. But now—now—!” The pause and the emphasis were eloquent.

      “Of course, now,” nodded Billy, brightly, but a little feverishly. “And when do you begin?”

      “Not till January. Miss Winthrop won't be back till then. I saw J. G. last week, and I told him I'd accept his offer to try again.”

      “What did he say?”

      “He gave my left hand a big grip and said: 'Good!—and you'll win out this time.'”

      “Of course you will,” nodded Billy, again, though still a little feverishly. “And this time I sha'n't mind a bit if you do stay to luncheon, and break engagements with me, sir,” she went on, tilting her chin archly, “for I shall know it's the portrait and not the sitter that's really keeping you. Oh, you'll see what a fine artist's wife I'll make!”

      “The

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