Miss Billie's Decision [43]
table. ``No, I can't go to work over there.''
``But there's your music, my dear. You said you were going to write some new songs after the wedding.''
``I was,'' sighed Billy, walking to the window, and looking listlessly at the bare, brown world outside; ``but I can't write songs--when there aren't any songs in my head to write.''
``No, of course not; but they'll come, dear, in time. You're tired, now,'' soothed Aunt Hannah, as she turned to leave the room.
``It's the reaction, of course,'' murmured Aunt Hannah to herself, on the way up-stairs. ``She's had the whole thing on her hands--dear child!''
A few minutes later, from the living-room, came a plaintive little minor melody. Billy was at the piano.
Kate and little Kate had, the night before, gone home with William. It had been a sudden decision, brought about by the realization that Bertram's trip to New York would leave William alone. Her trunk was to be carried there to-day, and she would leave for home from there, at the end of a two or three days' visit.
It began to snow at twelve o'clock. All the morning the sky had been gray and threatening; and the threats took visible shape at noon in myriads of white snow feathers that filled the air to the blinding point, and turned the brown, bare world into a thing of fairylike beauty. Billy, however, with a rare frown upon her face, looked out upon it with disapproving eyes.
``I _was_ going in town--and I believe I'll go now,'' she cried.
``Don't, dear, please don't,'' begged Aunt Hannah. ``See, the flakes are smaller now, and the wind is coming up. We're in for a blizzard-- I'm sure we are. And you know you have some cold, already.''
``All right,'' sighed Billy. ``Then it's me for the knitting work and the fire, I suppose,'' she finished, with a whimsicality that did not hide the wistful disappointment of her voice.
She was not knitting, however, she was sewing with Aunt Hannah when at four o'clock Rosa brought in the card.
Billy glanced at the name, then sprang to her feet with a glad little cry.
``It's Mary Jane!'' she exclaimed, as Rosa disappeared. ``Now wasn't he a dear to think to come to-day? You'll be down, won't you?''
Aunt Hannah smiled even while she frowned.
``Oh, Billy!'' she remonstrated. ``Yes, I'll come down, of course, a little later, and I'm glad _Mr. Arkwright_ came,'' she said with reproving emphasis.
Billy laughed and threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder.
``All right,'' she nodded. ``I'll go and tell _Mr. Arkwright_ you'll be down directly.''
In the living-room Billy greeted her visitor with a frankly cordial hand.
``How did you know, Mr. Arkwright, that I was feeling specially restless and lonesome to- day?'' she demanded.
A glad light sprang to the man's dark eyes.
``I didn't know it,'' he rejoined. ``I only knew that I was specially restless and lonesome myself.''
Arkwright's voice was not quite steady. The unmistakable friendliness in the girl's words and manner had sent a quick throb of joy to his heart. Her evident delight in his coming had filled him with rapture. He could not know that it was only the chill of the snowstorm that had given warmth to her handclasp, the dreariness of the day that had made her greeting so cordial, the loneliness of a maiden whose lover is away that had made his presence so welcome.
``Well, I'm glad you came, anyway,'' sighed Billy, contentedly; ``though I suppose I ought to be sorry that you were lonesome--but I'm afraid I'm not, for now you'll know just how I felt, so you won't mind if I'm a little wild and erratic. You see, the tension has snapped,'' she added laughingly, as she seated herself.
``Tension?''
``The wedding, you know. For so many weeks we've been seeing just December twelfth, that we'd apparently forgotten all about the thirteenth that came after it; so when I got up this morning I felt just as you do when the clock has stopped ticking. But it was a lovely wedding, Mr. Arkwright. I'm sorry you could not be here.''
``Thank you; so am I--though
``But there's your music, my dear. You said you were going to write some new songs after the wedding.''
``I was,'' sighed Billy, walking to the window, and looking listlessly at the bare, brown world outside; ``but I can't write songs--when there aren't any songs in my head to write.''
``No, of course not; but they'll come, dear, in time. You're tired, now,'' soothed Aunt Hannah, as she turned to leave the room.
``It's the reaction, of course,'' murmured Aunt Hannah to herself, on the way up-stairs. ``She's had the whole thing on her hands--dear child!''
A few minutes later, from the living-room, came a plaintive little minor melody. Billy was at the piano.
Kate and little Kate had, the night before, gone home with William. It had been a sudden decision, brought about by the realization that Bertram's trip to New York would leave William alone. Her trunk was to be carried there to-day, and she would leave for home from there, at the end of a two or three days' visit.
It began to snow at twelve o'clock. All the morning the sky had been gray and threatening; and the threats took visible shape at noon in myriads of white snow feathers that filled the air to the blinding point, and turned the brown, bare world into a thing of fairylike beauty. Billy, however, with a rare frown upon her face, looked out upon it with disapproving eyes.
``I _was_ going in town--and I believe I'll go now,'' she cried.
``Don't, dear, please don't,'' begged Aunt Hannah. ``See, the flakes are smaller now, and the wind is coming up. We're in for a blizzard-- I'm sure we are. And you know you have some cold, already.''
``All right,'' sighed Billy. ``Then it's me for the knitting work and the fire, I suppose,'' she finished, with a whimsicality that did not hide the wistful disappointment of her voice.
She was not knitting, however, she was sewing with Aunt Hannah when at four o'clock Rosa brought in the card.
Billy glanced at the name, then sprang to her feet with a glad little cry.
``It's Mary Jane!'' she exclaimed, as Rosa disappeared. ``Now wasn't he a dear to think to come to-day? You'll be down, won't you?''
Aunt Hannah smiled even while she frowned.
``Oh, Billy!'' she remonstrated. ``Yes, I'll come down, of course, a little later, and I'm glad _Mr. Arkwright_ came,'' she said with reproving emphasis.
Billy laughed and threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder.
``All right,'' she nodded. ``I'll go and tell _Mr. Arkwright_ you'll be down directly.''
In the living-room Billy greeted her visitor with a frankly cordial hand.
``How did you know, Mr. Arkwright, that I was feeling specially restless and lonesome to- day?'' she demanded.
A glad light sprang to the man's dark eyes.
``I didn't know it,'' he rejoined. ``I only knew that I was specially restless and lonesome myself.''
Arkwright's voice was not quite steady. The unmistakable friendliness in the girl's words and manner had sent a quick throb of joy to his heart. Her evident delight in his coming had filled him with rapture. He could not know that it was only the chill of the snowstorm that had given warmth to her handclasp, the dreariness of the day that had made her greeting so cordial, the loneliness of a maiden whose lover is away that had made his presence so welcome.
``Well, I'm glad you came, anyway,'' sighed Billy, contentedly; ``though I suppose I ought to be sorry that you were lonesome--but I'm afraid I'm not, for now you'll know just how I felt, so you won't mind if I'm a little wild and erratic. You see, the tension has snapped,'' she added laughingly, as she seated herself.
``Tension?''
``The wedding, you know. For so many weeks we've been seeing just December twelfth, that we'd apparently forgotten all about the thirteenth that came after it; so when I got up this morning I felt just as you do when the clock has stopped ticking. But it was a lovely wedding, Mr. Arkwright. I'm sorry you could not be here.''
``Thank you; so am I--though