“You can expect just what you got--misery, and almost a tragedy,” retorted Aunt Hannah, severely. A tender light came into Billy's eyes. “Dear Uncle William! What a jewel he was, all the way through! And he'd have marched straight to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an eyelid, I know--self-sacrificing martyr that he was!” “Martyr!” bristled Aunt Hannah, with extraordinary violence for her. “I'm thinking that term belonged somewhere else. A month ago, Billy Neilson, you did not look as if you'd live out half your days. But I suppose _you'd_ have gone to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an eyelid!” “But I thought I had to,” protested Billy. “I couldn't grieve Uncle William so, after Mrs. Hartwell had said how he--he wanted me.” Aunt Hannah's lips grew stern at the corners. “There are times when--when I think it would be wiser if Mrs. Kate Hartwell would attend to her own affairs!” Aunt Hannah's voice fairly shook with wrath. “Why-Aunt Hannah!” reproved Billy in mischievous horror. “I'm shocked at you!” Aunt Hannah flushed miserably. “There, there, child, forget I said it. I ought not to have said it, of course,” she murmured agitatedly. Billy laughed. “You should have heard what Uncle William said! But never mind. We all found out the mistake before it was too late, and everything is lovely now, even to Cyril and Marie. Did you ever see anything so beatifically happy as that couple are? Bertram says he hasn't heard a dirge from Cyril's rooms for three weeks; and that if anybody else played the kind of music he's been playing, it would be just common garden ragtime!” “Music! Oh, my grief and conscience! That makes me think, Billy. If I'm not actually forgetting what I came in here for,” cried Aunt Hannah, fumbling in the folds of her dress for the letter that had slipped from her lap. “I've had word from a young niece. She's going to study music in Boston.” “A niece?” “Well, not really, you know. She calls me 'Aunt,' just as you and the Henshaw boys do. But I really am related to _her_, for her mother and I are third cousins, while it was my husband who was distantly related to the Henshaw family.” “What's her name?” “'Mary Jane Arkwright.' Where is that letter?” “Here it is, on the floor,” reported Billy. “Were you going to read it to me?” she asked, as she picked it up. “Yes--if you don't mind.” “I'd love to hear it.” “Then I'll read it. It--it rather annoys me in some ways. I thought the whole family understood that I wasn't living by myself any longer--that I was living with you. I'm sure I thought I wrote them that, long ago. But this sounds almost as if they didn't understand it--at least, as if this girl didn't.” “How old is she?” “I don't know; but she must be some old, to be coming here to Boston to study music, alone--singing, I think she said.” “You don't remember her, then?” Aunt Hannah frowned and paused, the letter half withdrawn from its envelope.