“I know that,” nodded Bertram; “and I'm with you and Cyril on this. The whole thing is absurd. The idea of thrusting a silly, eighteen-year-old girl here into our lives in this fashion! But you know what Will is when he's really roused. You might as well try to move a nice good-natured mountain by saying 'please,' as to try to stir him under certain circumstances. Most of the time, I'll own, we can twist him around our little fingers. But not now. You'll see. In the first place, she's the daughter of his dead friend, and she DID write a pathetic little letter. It got to the inside of me, anyhow, when I thought she was a boy.” “A boy! Who wouldn't think she was a boy?” interposed Cyril. “'Billy,' indeed! Can you tell me what for any sane man should have named a girl 'Billy'?” “For William, your brother, evidently,” retorted Bertram, dryly. “Anyhow, he did it, and of course our mistake was a very natural one. The dickens of it is now that we've got to keep it from her, so Will says; and how--hush! here they are,” he broke off, as there came the sound of wheels stopping before the house. There followed the click of a key in the lock and the opening of a heavy door; then, full in the glare of the electric lights stood a plainly nervous man, and a girl with startled, appealing eyes. “My dear,” stammered William, “this is my sister, Kate, Mrs. Hartwell; and here are Cyril and Bertram, whom I've told you of. And of course I don't need to say to them that you are Billy.” It was over. William drew a long breath, and gave an agonized look into his brothers' eyes. Then Billy turned from Mrs. Hartwell and held out a cordial hand to each of the men in turn. “Oh, you don't know how lovely this is--to me,” she cried softly. “And to think that you were willing I should come!” The two younger men caught their breath sharply, and tried not to see each other's eyes. “You look so good--all of you; and I don't believe there's one of you that's got nerves or a heart,” she laughed. Bertram rallied his wits to respond to the challenge. “No heart, Miss Billy? Now isn't that just a bit hard on us--right at first?” “Not a mite, if you take it the way I mean it,” dimpled Billy. “Hearts that are all right just keep on pumping, and you never know they are there. They aren't worth mentioning. It's the other kind--the kind that flutters at the least noise and jumps at the least bang! And I don't believe any of you mind noises and bangs,” she finished merrily, as she handed her hat and coat to Mrs. Hartwell, who was waiting to receive them. Bertram laughed. Cyril scowled, and occupied himself in finding a chair. William had already dropped himself wearily on to the sofa near his sister. Billy still continued to talk. “Now when Spunk and I get to training--oh, and you haven't seen Spunk!” she interrupted herself suddenly. “Why, the introductions aren't half over. Where is he, Uncle William--the basket?”