Miss Billy's voice shook a little as she finished reading, and there was something suspiciously shiny in her eyes as she glanced at her brother. But Ted was looking serenely the other way. Francis' package held a fat pocketbook labelled: "Sing a song of sixpence. Pocketful of mon., Rent day Francis has it all, Cherry Street has none. Never mind! His praises loud Cherry Street doth sing-- Francis may not be a count, But he is a king." "Goodness!" said the reader, "I don't know whether I dare eat another cake after that. I'm already bursting with _pride_; Miss Billy, won't you share this with me?" He held out the last pancake on the plate invitingly. Miss Billy's knife divided it evenly and a slender circlet tinkled out on the dish. "The ring!" said Marie Jean. "You'll have to draw lots." "Or else share your fate," suggested Margaret. "Now me," said Ted in a tone of mock anticipation. "You haven't seen my souvenir yet." He unrolled a box of French bonbons, and passed it around the table, as he read: "There was a young person named Ted. 'I'll write some fine doggerel,' he said. But his verse read aloud In the midst of the crowd Was all pronounced mongrel instead." "And that's the truest one of all," said Margaret. CHAPTER XXII WAITING "The strange white solitude of peace That settles over all." "IF it was anybody else but Miss Billy," sighed Mrs. Canary. Mrs. Hennesy pulled her shawl down over her swollen eyes, and made no reply. "I've just been in there, an' her fever's higher. She just raved an' tossed all night," went on Mrs. Canary. "I was on me way there, now," said Mrs. Hennesy,--"but I guess I'll not go in, afther hearing how she is. Folks around a sick house is only a clutter." "I know it,--but I can't hardly keep away. Seems as if I _must_ do something fer that poor lamb, after all the times she's helped me, takin' care of the childurn an' all. She's just worked herself to death tryin' to keep Cherry Street clean, an' all this summer, that's what she has,--an' no pertic'lar thanks fer it, neither." "I guess it's not all work that's done it," said Mrs. Hennesy significantly. "It's that ould ciss-pool between us and the Lee's that's been p'isoning her. The wondher is we're not all dead. And afther all the times we've spoke about it to old man Schultzsky, too. Well, I hope he'll mate his reward in the nixt wurld, if he don't in this." "Do you know, they say he feels awful bad about it. Just walks 'round like a hen on a hot griddle. Don't ask fer no news of her, but just can't settle down easy anywhere. I should think he _would_ be _prosterated_ with grief! An' he wouldn't be the only one! Everybody on the street feels the same way. Her sickness has just cast a shadder over everything. I never seen the beat of it."