“But, really, listen--it's sensible,” urged Billy. “First, there's Tommy. His mother died last month. He's at a neighbor's now, but they're going to send him to a Home for Crippled Children; and he's grieving his heart out over it. I'm going to bring him here to a real home--the kind that doesn't begin with a capital letter. He adores music, and he's got real talent, I think. Then there's the Greggorys.” Aunt Hannah looked dubious. “You can't get the Greggorys to--to use any of that happiness, Billy. They're too proud.” Billy smiled radiantly. “I know I can't get them to _use_ it, Aunt Hannah, but I believe I can get them to _give_ it,” she declared triumphantly. “I shall ask Alice Greggory to teach Tommy 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!”