The fire was still in Arkwright's eyes when the song was ended; but Billy very plainly did not see it. With a frowning sigh and a murmured “There!” she began to talk of “rhythm” and “accent” and “cadence”; and to point out with anxious care why three syllables instead of two were needed at the end of a certain line. From this she passed eagerly to the accompaniment, and Arkwright at once found himself lost in a maze of “minor thirds” and “diminished sevenths,” until he was forced to turn from the singer to the song. Still, watching her a little later, he noticed her absorbed face and eager enthusiasm, her earnest pursuance of an elusive harmony, and he wondered: did she, or did she not sing that song with feeling a little while before? Arkwright had not settled this question to his own satisfaction when Aunt Hannah came in at half-past five, and he was conscious of a vague disappointment as he rose to greet her. Billy, however, turned an untroubled face to the newcomer. “We're doing finely, Aunt Hannah,” she cried. Then, suddenly, she flung a laughing question to the man. “How about it, sir? Are we going to put on the title-page: 'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright'--or will you unveil the mystery for us now?” “Have you guessed it?” he bantered. “No--unless it's 'Methuselah John.' We did think of that the other day.” “Wrong again!” he laughed. “Then it'll have to be 'Mary Jane,'” retorted Billy, with calm naughtiness, refusing to meet Aunt Hannah's beseechingly reproving eyes. Then suddenly she chuckled. “It would be a combination, wouldn't it? 'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright. Music by Billy Neilson'! We'd have sighing swains writing to 'Dear Miss Arkwright,' telling how touching were _her_ words; and lovelorn damsels thanking _Mr_. Neilson for _his_ soul-inspiring music!” “Billy, my dear!” remonstrated Aunt Hannah, faintly. “Yes, yes, I know; that was bad--and I won't again, truly,” promised Billy. But her eyes danced, and the next moment she had whirled about on the piano stool and dashed into a Chopin waltz. The room itself, then, seemed to be full of the twinkling feet of elves. CHAPTER XVI. A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Billy was summoned to the telephone. “Oh, good morning, Uncle William,” she called, in answer to the masculine voice that replied to her “Hullo.” “Billy, are you very busy this morning?” “No, indeed--not if you want me.” “Well, I do, my dear.” Uncle William's voice was troubled. “I want you to go with me, if you can, to see a Mrs. Greggory. She's got a teapot I want. It's a genuine Lowestoft, Harlow says. Will you go?” “Of course I will! What time?”