“Yes, and they're crying something terrible. We've sent for a second nurse to come, too, of course, but she hasn't got here yet, either. And those babies--if you could hear them! That's what we want you for, to--” But Billy was almost laughing now. “All right, I'll come out--and hear them,” she called a bit wildly, as she hung up the receiver. Some little time later, a palpably nervous maid admitted Billy to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Henshaw. Even as the door was opened, Billy heard faintly, but unmistakably, the moaning wails of two infants. “Mrs. Stetson says if you will please to help Mr. Henshaw with the babies,” stammered the maid, after the preliminary questions and answers. “I've been in when I could, and they're all right, only they're crying. They're in his den. We had to put them as far away as possible--their crying worried Mrs. Henshaw so.” “Yes, I see,” murmured Billy. “I'll go to them at once. No, don't trouble to come. I know the way. Just tell Mrs. Stetson I'm here, please,” she finished, as she tossed her hat and gloves on to the hall table, and turned to go upstairs. Billy's feet made no sound on the soft rugs. The crying, however, grew louder and louder as she approached the den. Softly she turned the knob and pushed open the door. She stopped short, then, at what she saw. Cyril had not heard her, nor seen her. His back was partly toward the door. His coat was off, and his hair stood fiercely on end as if a nervous hand had ruffled it. His usually pale face was very red, and his forehead showed great drops of perspiration. He was on his feet, hovering over the couch, at each end of which lay a rumpled roll of linen, lace, and flannel, from which emerged a prodigiously puckered little face, two uncertainly waving rose-leaf fists, and a wail of protesting rage that was not uncertain in the least. In one hand Cyril held a Teddy bear, in the other his watch, dangling from its fob chain. Both of these he shook feebly, one after the other, above the tiny faces. “Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush,” he begged agitatedly. In the doorway Billy clapped her hands to her lips and stifled a laugh. Billy knew, of course, that what she should do was to go forward at once, and help this poor, distracted man; but Billy, just then, was not doing what she knew she ought to do. With a muttered ejaculation (which Billy, to her sorrow, could not catch) Cyril laid down the watch and flung the Teddy bear aside. Then, in very evident despair, he gingerly picked up one of the rumpled rolls of flannel, lace, and linen, and held it straight out before him. After a moment's indecision he began awkwardly to jounce it, teeter it, rock it back and forth, and to pat it jerkily. “Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush,” he begged again, frantically.