“Really, my dear,” murmured Aunt Hannah, “I think it _would_ be more respectful to call him by his name.” “By the way, what is his name?” questioned William. “That's what we don't know,” laughed Billy. “Well, you know the 'Arkwright,' don't you?” put in Bertram. Bertram, too, laughed, but it was a little forcedly. “I suppose if you knew his name was 'Methuselah,' you wouldn't call him that--yet, would you?” Billy clapped her hands, and threw a merry glance at Aunt Hannah. “There! we never thought of 'Methuselah,'” she gurgled gleefully. “Maybe it _is_ 'Methuselah,' now--'Methuselah John'! You see, he's told us to try to guess it,” she explained, turning to William; “but, honestly, I don't believe, whatever it is, I'll ever think of him as anything but 'Mary Jane.'” “Well, as far as I can judge, he has nobody but himself to thank for that, so he can't do any complaining,” smiled William, as he rose to go. “Well, how about it, Bertram? I suppose you're going to stay a while to comfort the lonely--eh, boy?” “Of course he is--and so are you, too, Uncle William,” spoke up Billy, with affectionate cordiality. “As if I'd let you go back to a forlorn dinner in that great house to-night! Indeed, no!” William smiled, hesitated, and sat down. “Well, of course--” he began. “Yes, of course,” finished Billy, quickly. “I'll telephone Pete that you'll stay here--both of you.” It was at this point that little Kate, who had been turning interested eyes from one brother to the other, interposed a clear, high-pitched question. “Uncle William, didn't you _want_ to marry my going-to-be-Aunt Billy?” “Kate!” gasped her mother, “didn't I tell you--” Her voice trailed into an incoherent murmur of remonstrance. Billy blushed. Bertram said a low word under his breath. Aunt Hannah's “Oh, my grief and conscience!” was almost a groan. William laughed lightly. “Well, my little lady,” he suggested, “let us put it the other way and say that quite probably she didn't want to marry me.” “Does she want to marry Uncle Bertram?” “Kate!” gasped Billy and Mrs. Hartwell together this time, fearful of what might be coming next. “We'll hope so,” nodded Uncle William, speaking in a cheerfully matter-of-fact voice, intended to discourage curiosity. The little girl frowned and pondered. Her elders cast about in their minds for a speedy change of subject; but their somewhat scattered wits were not quick enough. It was little Kate who spoke next. “Uncle William, would she have got Uncle Cyril if Aunt Marie hadn't nabbed him first?” “Kate!” The word was a chorus of dismay this time. Mrs. Hartwell struggled to her feet. “Come, come, Kate, we must go up-stairs--to bed,” she stammered. The little girl drew back indignantly. “To bed? Why, mama, I haven't had my supper yet!” “What? Oh, sure enough--the lights! I forgot. Well, then, come up--to change your dress,” finished Mrs. Hartwell, as with a despairing look and gesture she led her young daughter from the room.