“I hain't had it any time, steady. It's the comin' an' goin' kind. It seems silly ter mind it at all; only, when it does come, it sort o' takes the backbone right out o' my knees, and they double up so's I have ter set down. There, ye see? I'm pert as a sparrer, now!” And, with stiff celerity, Pete resumed his task. His mistress still frowned. “That isn't right, Pete,” she demurred, with a slow shake of her head. “You should see a doctor.” The old man paled a little. He had seen a doctor, and he had not liked what the doctor had told him. In fact, he stubbornly refused to believe what the doctor had said. He straightened himself now a little aggressively. “Humph! Beggin' yer pardon, Miss--ma'am, but I don't think much o' them doctor chaps.” Billy shook her head again as she smiled and turned away. Then, as if casually, she asked: “Oh, did Mr. Bertram go out, Pete?” “Yes, Miss; about five o'clock. He said he'd be back to dinner.” “Oh! All right.” From the hall the telephone jangled sharply. “I'll go,” said Pete's mistress, as she turned and hurried up-stairs. It was Bertram's voice that answered her opening “Hullo.” “Oh, Billy, is that you, dear? Well, you're just the one I wanted. I wanted to say--that is, I wanted to ask you--” The speaker cleared his throat a little nervously, and began all over again. “The fact is, Billy, I've run across a couple of old classmates on from New York, and they are very anxious I should stay down to dinner with them. Would you mind--very much if I did?” A cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's heart. She caught her breath with a little gasp and tried to speak; but she had to try twice before the words came. “Why, no--no, of course not!” Billy's voice was very high-pitched and a little shaky, but it was surpassingly cheerful. “You sure you won't be--lonesome?” Bertram's voice was vaguely troubled. “Of course not!” “You've only to say the word, little girl,” came Bertram's anxious tones again, “and I won't stay.” Billy swallowed convulsively. If only, only he would _stop_ and leave her to herself! As if she were going to own up that _she_ was lonesome for _him_--if _he_ was not lonesome for _her!_ “Nonsense! of course you'll stay,” called Billy, still in that high-pitched, shaky treble. Then, before Bertram could answer, she uttered a gay “Good-by!” and hung up the receiver. Billy had ten whole minutes in which to cry before Pete's gong sounded for dinner; but she had only one minute in which to try to efface the woefully visible effects of those ten minutes before William tapped at her door, and called: “Gone to sleep, my dear? Dinner's ready. Didn't you hear the gong?” “Yes, I'm coming, Uncle William.” Billy spoke with breezy gayety, and threw open the door; but she did not meet Uncle William's eyes. Her head was turned away. Her hands were fussing with the hang of her skirt.