“I will,” nodded Billy, with a smile; but the smile came from her lips only, not her eyes: Billy was wishing, at that moment, that she owned the whole of Symphony Hall--to give away. But that was like Billy. When she was seven years old she had proposed to her Aunt Ella that they take all the thirty-five orphans from the Hampden Falls Orphan Asylum to live with them, so that little Sallie Cook and the other orphans might have ice cream every day, if they wanted it. Since then Billy had always been trying--in a way--to give ice cream to some one who wanted it. Arkwright was almost at the door when he turned abruptly. His face was an abashed red. From his pocket he had taken a small folded paper. “Do you suppose--in this--you might find--that melody?” he stammered in a low voice. The next moment he was gone, having left in Billy's fingers a paper upon which was written in a clear-cut, masculine hand six four-line stanzas. Billy read them at once, hurriedly, then more carefully. “Why, they're beautiful,” she breathed, “just beautiful! Where did he get them, I wonder? It's a love song--and such a pretty one! I believe there _is_ a melody in it,” she exulted, pausing to hum a line or two. “There is--I know there is; and I'll write it--for Bertram,” she finished, crossing joyously to the piano. Half-way down Corey Hill at that moment, Arkwright was buffeting the wind and snow. He, too, was thinking joyously of those stanzas--joyously, yet at the same time fearfully. Arkwright himself had written those lines--though not for Bertram. CHAPTER XV. “MR. BILLY” AND “MISS MARY JANE” On the fourteenth of December Billy came down-stairs alert, interested, and happy. She had received a dear letter from Bertram (mailed on the way to New York), the sun was shining, and her fingers were fairly tingling to put on paper the little melody that was now surging riotously through her brain. Emphatically, the restlessness of the day before was gone now. Once more Billy's “clock” had “begun to tick.” After breakfast Billy went straight to the telephone and called up Arkwright. Even one side of the conversation Aunt Hannah did not hear very clearly; but in five minutes a radiant-faced Billy danced into the room. “Aunt Hannah, just listen! Only think--Mary Jane wrote the words himself, so of course I can use them!” “Billy, dear, _can't_ you say 'Mr. Arkwright'?” pleaded Aunt Hannah. Billy laughed and gave the anxious-eyed little old lady an impulsive hug. “Of course! I'll say 'His Majesty' if you like, dear,” she chuckled. “But did you hear--did you realize? They're his own words, so there's no question of rights or permission, or anything. And he's coming up this afternoon to hear my melody, and to make a few little changes in the words, maybe. Oh, Aunt Hannah, you don't know how good it seems to get into my music again!” “Yes, yes, dear, of course; but--” Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a vaguely troubled pause. Billy turned in surprise.