“Then why won't you let me do what I want to, and be happy in it? Money, just money, isn't any good unless you can exchange it for something you want. And just now I want pink roses and ice cream and lace flounces for you. Marie,”--Billy's voice trembled a little--“I never had a sister till I had you, and I have had such a good time buying things that I thought you wanted! But, of course, if you don't want them--” The words ended in a choking sob, and down went Billy's head into her folded arms on the desk before her. Marie sprang to her feet and cuddled the bowed head in a loving embrace. “But I do want them, dear; I want them all--every single one,” she urged. “Now promise me--promise me that you'll do them all, just as you'd planned! You will, won't you?” There was the briefest of hesitations, then came the muffled reply: “Yes--if you really want them.” “I do, dear--indeed I do. I love pretty weddings, and I--I always hoped that I could have one--if I ever married. So you must know, dear, how I really do want all those things,” declared Marie, fervently. “And now I must go. I promised to meet Cyril at Park Street at three o'clock.” And she hurried from the room--and not until she was half-way to her destination did it suddenly occur to her that she had been urging, actually urging Miss Billy Neilson to buy for her pink roses, ice cream, and lace flounces. Her cheeks burned with shame then. But almost at once she smiled. “Now wasn't that just like Billy?” she was saying to herself, with a tender glow in her eyes. It was early in December that Pete came one day with a package for Marie from Cyril. Marie was not at home, and Billy herself went downstairs to take the package from the old man's hands. “Mr. Cyril said to give it to Miss Hawthorn,” stammered the old servant, his face lighting up as Billy entered the room; “but I'm sure he wouldn't mind _your_ taking it.” “I'm afraid I'll have to take it, Pete, unless you want to carry it back with you,” she smiled. “I'll see that Miss Hawthorn has it the very first moment she comes in.” “Thank you, Miss. It does my old eyes good to see your bright face.” He hesitated, then turned slowly. “Good day, Miss Billy.” Billy laid the package on the table. Her eyes were thoughtful as she looked after the old man, who was now almost to the door. Something in his bowed form appealed to her strangely. She took a quick step toward him. “You'll miss Mr. Cyril, Pete,” she said pleasantly. The old man stopped at once and turned. He lifted his head a little proudly. “Yes, Miss. I--I was there when he was born. Mr. Cyril's a fine man.” “Indeed he is. Perhaps it's your good care that's helped, some--to make him so,” smiled the girl, vaguely wishing that she could say something that would drive the wistful look from the dim old eyes before her.