Still there was no answer. Then, slowly, Alice shook her head. Her face was turned quite away--which was a pity, for if Arkwright could have seen the sudden tender mischief in her eyes, his own would not have become so somber. “Not even a little bit?” “I couldn't ever--begin,” answered a half-smothered voice. “Alice!” cried the man, heart-brokenly. Alice turned now, and for a fleeting instant let him see her eyes, glowing with the love so long kept in relentless exile. “I couldn't, because, you see-I began--long ago,” she whispered. “Alice!” It was the same single word, but spoken with a world of difference, for into it now was crowded all the glory and the wonder of a great love. “Alice!” breathed the man again; and this time the word was, oh, so tenderly whispered into the little pink and white ear of the girl in his arms. “I got delayed,” began Billy, in the doorway. “Oh-h!” she broke off, beating a hushed, but precipitate, retreat. Fully thirty minutes later, Billy came to the door again. This time her approach was heralded by a snatch of song. “I hope you'll excuse my being gone so long,” she smiled, as she entered the room where her two guests sat decorously face to face at the chess-table. “Well, you know you said you'd be gone ten minutes,” Arkwright reminded her, politely. “Yes, I know I did.” And Billy, to her credit, did not even smile at the man who did not know ten minutes from fifty. CHAPTER XXX. BY A BABY'S HAND After all, it was the baby's hand that did it, as was proper, and perhaps to be expected; for surely, was it not Bertram, Jr.'s place to show his parents that he was, indeed, no Wedge, but a dear and precious Tie binding two loving, loyal hearts more and more closely together? It would seem, indeed, that Bertram, Jr., thought so, perhaps, and very bravely he set about it; though, to carry out his purpose, he had to turn his steps into an unfamiliar way--a way of pain, and weariness, and danger. It was Arkwright who told Bertram that the baby was very sick, and that Billy wanted him. Bertram went home at once to find a distracted, white-faced Billy, and a twisted, pain-racked little creature, who it was almost impossible to believe was the happy, laughing baby boy he had left that morning. For the next two weeks nothing was thought of in the silent old Beacon Street house but the tiny little life hovering so near Death's door that twice it appeared to have slipped quite across the threshold. All through those terrible weeks it seemed as if Billy neither ate nor slept; and always at her side, comforting, cheering, and helping wherever possible was Bertram, tender, loving, and marvelously thoughtful.