“What a child you are, Billy! Besides, just as if Marie were the only one in the house who is ruled by a magic name!” The color deepened in Billy's cheeks. “Well, of course, any girl--cares something--for the man she loves. Just as if I wouldn't do anything in the world I could for Bertram!” “Oh, that makes me think; who was that young woman Bertram was talking with last evening--just after he left us, I mean?” “Miss Winthrop--Miss Marguerite Winthrop. Bertram is--is painting her portrait, you know.” “Oh, is that the one?” murmured Aunt Hannah. “Hm-m; well, she has a beautiful face.” “Yes, she has.” Billy spoke very cheerfully. She even hummed a little tune as she carefully selected a needle from the cushion in her basket. “There's a peculiar something in her face,” mused Aunt Hannah, aloud. The little tune stopped abruptly, ending in a nervous laugh. “Dear me! I wonder how it feels to have a peculiar something in your face. Bertram, too, says she has it. He's trying to 'catch it,' he says. I wonder now--if he does catch it, does she lose it?” Flippant as were the words, the voice that uttered them shook a little. Aunt Hannah smiled indulgently--Aunt Hannah had heard only the flippancy, not the shake. “I don't know, my dear. You might ask him this afternoon.” Billy made a sudden movement. The china egg in her lap rolled to the floor. “Oh, but I don't see him this afternoon,” she said lightly, as she stooped to pick up the egg. “Why, I'm sure he told me--” Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a questioning pause. “Yes, I know,” nodded Billy, brightly; “but he's told me something since. He isn't going. He telephoned me this morning. Miss Winthrop wanted the sitting changed from to-morrow to this afternoon. He said he knew I'd understand.” “Why, yes; but--” Aunt Hannah did not finish her sentence. The whir of an electric bell had sounded through the house. A few moments later Rosa appeared in the open doorway. “It's Mr. Arkwright, Miss. He said as how he had brought the music,” she announced. “Tell him I'll be down at once,” directed the mistress of Hillside. As the maid disappeared, Billy put aside her work and sprang lightly to her feet. “Now wasn't that nice of him? We were talking last night about some duets he had, and he said he'd bring them over. I didn't know he'd come so soon, though.” Billy had almost reached the bottom of the stairway, when a low, familiar strain of music drifted out from the living-room. Billy caught her breath, and held her foot suspended. The next moment the familiar strain of music had become a lullaby--one of Billy's own--and sung now by a melting tenor voice that lingered caressingly and understandingly on every tender cadence. Motionless and almost breathless, Billy waited until the last low “lul-la-by” vibrated into silence; then with shining eyes and outstretched hands she entered the living-room. “Oh, that was--beautiful,” she breathed.