William had retired to his own room, where he lay upon his bed in the darkness. He heard the evening noises of the house faintly through the closed door: voices and the clatter of metal and china from the faraway kitchen, Jane’s laugh in the hall, the opening and closing of the doors. Then his father seemed to be in distress about something: William heard him complaining to Mrs. Baxter; and though the words were indistinct, the tone was vigorously plaintive. Mrs. Baxter laughed and appeared to make light of his troubles, whatever they were--and presently their footsteps were audible from the stairway; the front door closed emphatically, and they were gone. Everything was quiet now. The open window showed as a greenish oblong set in black, and William knew that in a little while--half an hour, perhaps--there would come through the stillness of that window the distant sound of violins. That was a moment he dreaded with a dread that ached. And as he lay on his dreary bed, he thought of brightly lighted rooms where other boys were dressing eagerly, faces and hair shining, hearts beating high--boys who would possess this last evening, and the “last waltz together,” the last smile and the last sigh. It did not once enter his mind that he could go to the dance in his “best suit,” or that possibly the other young people at the party would be too busy with their own affairs to notice particularly what he wore. It was the unquestionable and granite fact, to his mind, that the whole derisive World would know the truth about his earlier appearances in his father’s clothes. And that was a form of ruin not to be faced. In the protective darkness and seclusion of William’s bedroom, it is possible that smarting eyes relieved themselves by blinking rather energetically; it is even possible that there was a minute damp spot upon the pillow. Seventeen cannot always manage the little boy yet alive under all the coverings. There came a tapping upon the door and a soft voice. “Will-ee?” With a sharp exclamation William swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Of all things he desired not, he desired no conversation with, or on the part of, Jane. But he had forgotten to lock his door--the handle turned, and a dim little figure marched in. “Willie, Adelia’s goin’ to put me to bed.” “You g’way from here,” he said huskily. “I haven’t got time to talk to you. I’m busy.” “Well, you can wait a minute, can’t you?” she asked reasonably. “I haf to tell you a joke on mamma.” “I don’t want to hear any jokes!” “Well, I _haf_ to tell you this one ’cause she told me to! Oh!” Jane clapped her hand over her mouth and jumped up and down, offering a fantastic silhouette against the light of the open door. “Oh, oh, _oh_!” “What’s matter?”