“Thank you. I knew you wouldn't,” sighed Bertram. Then the door shut. For a long minute Billy stood motionless before she glanced at her watch and sped to the telephone. “Is Miss Greggory there, Rosa?” she called when the operator's ring was answered. “Mis' Greggory, the lame one?” “No; _Miss_ Greggory--Miss Alice.” “Oh! Yes'm.” “Then won't you ask her to come to the telephone, please.” There was a moment's wait, during which Billy's small, well-shod foot beat a nervous tattoo on the floor. “Oh, is that you, Alice?” she called then. “Are you going to be home for an hour or two?” “Why, y-yes; yes, indeed.” “Then I'm coming over. We'll play duets, sing--anything. I want some music.” “Do! And--Mr. Arkwright is here. He'll help.” “Mr. Arkwright? You say he's there? Then I won't--Yes, I will, too.” Billy spoke with renewed firmness. “I'll be there right away. Good-by.” And she hung up the receiver, and went to tell Pete to order John and Peggy at once. “I suppose I ought to have left Alice and Mr. Arkwright alone together,” muttered the young wife feverishly, as she hurriedly prepared for departure. “But I'll make it up to them later. I'm going to give them lots of chances. But to-day--to-day I just had to go--somewhere!” At the Annex, with Alice Greggory and Arkwright, Billy sang duets and trios, and reveled in a sonorous wilderness of new music to her heart's content. Then, rested, refreshed, and at peace with all the world, she hurried home to dinner and to Bertram. “There! I feel better,” she sighed, as she took off her hat in her own room; “and now I'll go find Bertram. Bless his heart--of course he didn't want me to play when he was so busy!” Billy went straight to the studio, but Bertram was not there. Neither was he in William's room, nor anywhere in the house. Down-stairs in the dining-room Pete was found looking rather white, leaning back in a chair. He struggled at once to his feet, however, as his mistress entered the room. Billy hurried forward with a startled exclamation. “Why, Pete, what is it? Are you sick?” she cried, her glance encompassing the half-set table. “No, ma'am; oh, no, ma'am!” The old man stumbled forward and began to arrange the knives and forks. “It's just a pesky pain--beggin' yer pardon--in my side. But I ain't sick. No, Miss--ma'am.” Billy frowned and shook her head. Her eyes were on Pete's palpably trembling hands. “But, Pete, you are sick,” she protested. “Let Eliza do that.” Pete drew himself stiffly erect. The color had begun to come back to his face. “There hain't no one set this table much but me for more'n fifty years, an' I've got a sort of notion that nobody can do it just ter suit me. Besides, I'm better now. It's gone--that pain.” “But, Pete, what is it? How long have you had it?”