The bent shoulders and bowed head straightened up with a jerk. “Well, well, bless my soul! If it isn't our little bride,” cried Uncle William, fondly. “And the happy bridegroom, too. When did you get home?” “We haven't got home,” retorted Bertram, promptly, before his wife could speak. “Oh, we looked in at the door an hour or so back; but we didn't stay. We've been hunting for you ever since.” “Nonsense, children!” Uncle William spoke with gay cheeriness; but he refused to meet either Billy's or Bertram's eyes. “Uncle William, how could you do it?” reproached Billy, again. “Do what?” Uncle William was plainly fencing for time. “Leave the house like that?” “Ho! I wanted a change.” “As if we'd believe that!” scoffed Billy. “All right; let's call it you've had the change, then,” laughed Bertram, “and we'll send over for your things to-morrow. Come--now let's go home to dinner.” William shook his head. He essayed a gay smile. “Why, I've only just begun. I'm going to stay--oh, I don't know how long I'm going to stay,” he finished blithely. Billy lifted her chin a little. “Uncle William, you aren't playing square. Pete told us what you said when you left.” “Eh? What?” William looked up with startled eyes. “About--about our not _needing_ you. So we know, now, why you left; and we _sha'n't stand_ it.” “Pete? That? Oh, that--that's nonsense I--I'll settle with Pete.” Billy laughed softly. “Poor Pete! Don't. We simply dragged it out of him. And now we're here to tell you that we _do_ want you, and that you _must_ come back.” Again William shook his head. A swift shadow crossed his face. “Thank you, no, children,” he said dully. “You're very kind, but you don't need me. I should be just an interfering elder brother. I should spoil your young married life.” (William's voice now sounded as if he were reciting a well-learned lesson.) “If I went away and stayed two months, you'd never forget the utter freedom and joy of those two whole months with the house all to yourselves.” “Uncle William,” gasped Billy, “what _are_ you talking about?” “About--about my not going back, of course.” “But you are coming back,” cut in Bertram, almost angrily. “Oh, come, Will, this is utter nonsense, and you know it! Come, let's go home to dinner.” A stern look came to the corners of William's mouth--a look that Bertram understood well. “All right, I'll go to dinner, of course; but I sha'n't stay,” said William, firmly. “I've thought it all out. I know I'm right. Come, we'll go to dinner now, and say no more about it,” he finished with a cheery smile, as he rose to his feet. Then, to the bride, he added: “Did you have a nice trip, little girl?” Billy, too, had risen, now, but she did not seem to have heard his question. In the fast falling twilight her face looked a little white.