“Then I'll tell you now,” smiled Alice. “I'm not. Furthermore, perhaps it's just as well that you should know right now that I don't intend to marry--ever.” “Oh, Alice!” “No.” There was determination, and there was still that curious note of relief in the girl's voice. It was as if, somewhere, a great danger had been avoided. “I have my music. That is enough. I'm not intending to marry.” “Oh, but Alice, while I will own up I'm glad it isn't Hugh Calderwell, there _is_ Mr. Arkwright, and I did hope--” But Alice shook her head and turned resolutely away. At that moment, too, Aunt Hannah came in from the street, so Billy could say no more. Aunt Hannah dropped herself a little wearily into a chair. “I've just come from Marie's,” she said. “How is she?” asked Billy. Aunt Hannah smiled, and raised her eyebrows. “Well, just now she's quite exercised over another rattle--from her cousin out West, this time. There were four little silver bells on it, and she hasn't got any janitor's wife now to give it to.” Billy laughed softly, but Aunt Hannah had more to say. “You know she isn't going to allow any toys but Teddy bears and woolly lambs, of which, I believe, she has already bought quite an assortment. She says they don't rattle or squeak. I declare, when I see the woolen pads and rubber hushers that that child has put everywhere all over the house, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. And she's so worried! It seems Cyril must needs take just this time to start composing a new opera or symphony, or something; and never before has she allowed him to be interrupted by anything on such an occasion. But what he'll do when the baby comes she says she doesn't know, for she says she can't--she just can't keep it from bothering him some, she's afraid. As if any opera or symphony that ever lived was of more consequence than a man's own child!” finished Aunt Hannah, with an indignant sniff, as she reached for her shawl. CHAPTER XIX. A TOUGH NUT TO CRACK FOR CYRIL It was early in the forenoon of the first day of July that Eliza told her mistress that Mrs. Stetson was asking for her at the telephone. Eliza's face was not a little troubled. “I'm afraid, maybe, it isn't good news,” she stammered, as her mistress hurriedly arose. “She's at Mr. Cyril Henshaw's--Mrs. Stetson is--and she seemed so terribly upset about something that there was no making real sense out of what she said. But she asked for you, and said to have you come quick.” Billy, her own face paling, was already at the telephone. “Yes, Aunt Hannah. What is it?” “Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy, if you _can_, come up here, please. You must come! _Can't_ you come?” “Why, yes, of course. But--but--_Marie!_ The--the _baby!_” A faint groan came across the wires. “Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy! It isn't _the_ baby. It's _babies!_ It's twins--boys. Cyril has them now--the nurse hasn't got here yet.” “Twins! _Cyril_ has them!” broke in Billy, hysterically.