Miss Billie's Decision [49]
at the West End. I don't dare to put it off for fear I'll lose it. Harlow says others will have to know of it, of course. You see, she's just made up her mind to sell it, and asked him to find a customer. I wouldn't trouble you, but he says they're peculiar--the daughter, especially--and may need some careful handling. That's why I wanted you--though I wanted you to see the tea-pot, too,--it'll be yours some day, you know.''
Billy, all alone at her end of the line, blushed. That she was one day to be mistress of the Strata and all it contained was still anything but ``common'' to her.
``I'd love to see it, and I'll come gladly; but I'm afraid I won't be much help, Uncle William,'' she worried.
``I'll take the risk of that. You see, Harlow says that about half the time she isn't sure she wants to sell it, after all.''
``Why, how funny! Well, I'll come. At eleven, you say, at Park Street?''
``Yes; and thank you, my dear. I tried to get Kate to go, too; but she wouldn't. By the way, I'm going to bring you home to luncheon. Kate leaves this afternoon, you know, and it's been so snowy she hasn't thought best to try to get over to the house. Maybe Aunt Hannah would come, too, for luncheon. Would she?''
``I'm afraid not,'' returned Billy, with a rueful laugh. ``She's got _three_ shawls on this morning, and you know that always means that she's felt a draft somewhere--poor dear. I'll tell her, though, and I'll see you at eleven,'' finished Billy, as she hung up the receiver.
Promptly at the appointed time Billy met Uncle William at Park Street, and together they set out for the West End street named on the paper in his pocket. But when the shabby house on the narrow little street was reached, the man looked about him with a troubled frown.
``I declare, Billy, I'm not sure but we'd better turn back,'' he fretted. ``I didn't mean to take you to such a place as this.''
Billy shivered a little; but after one glance at the man's disappointed face she lifted a determined chin.
``Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don't mind--for myself; but only think of the people whose _homes_ are here,'' she finished, just above her breath.
Mrs. Greggory was found to be living in two back rooms at the top of four flights of stairs, up which William Henshaw toiled with increasing weariness and dismay, punctuating each flight with a despairing: ``Billy, really, I think we should turn back!''
But Billy would not turn back, and at last they found themselves in the presence of a white- haired, sweet-faced woman who said yes, she was Mrs. Greggory; yes, she was. Even as she uttered the words, however, she looked fearfully over her shoulders as if expecting to hear from the hall behind them a voice denying her assertion.
Mrs. Greggory was a cripple. Her slender little body was poised on two once-costly crutches. Both the worn places on the crutches, and the skill with which the little woman swung herself about the room testified that the crippled condition was not a new one.
Billy's eyes were brimming with pity and dismay. Mechanically she had taken the chair toward which Mrs. Greggory had motioned her. She had tried not to seem to look about her; but there was not one detail of the bare little room, from its faded rug to the patched but spotless tablecloth, that was not stamped on her brain.
Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had cleared his throat nervously. Billy did not know whether she herself were the more distressed or the more relieved to hear him stammer:
``We--er--I came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to understand you had an-- er--teapot that--er--'' With his eyes on the cracked white crockery pitcher on the table, William Henshaw came to a helpless pause.
A curious expression, or rather, series of expressions crossed Mrs. Greggory's face. Terror, joy, dismay, and relief seemed, one after the other to fight for supremacy. Relief in the end conquered, though even yet there was a second hurriedly apprehensive glance
Billy, all alone at her end of the line, blushed. That she was one day to be mistress of the Strata and all it contained was still anything but ``common'' to her.
``I'd love to see it, and I'll come gladly; but I'm afraid I won't be much help, Uncle William,'' she worried.
``I'll take the risk of that. You see, Harlow says that about half the time she isn't sure she wants to sell it, after all.''
``Why, how funny! Well, I'll come. At eleven, you say, at Park Street?''
``Yes; and thank you, my dear. I tried to get Kate to go, too; but she wouldn't. By the way, I'm going to bring you home to luncheon. Kate leaves this afternoon, you know, and it's been so snowy she hasn't thought best to try to get over to the house. Maybe Aunt Hannah would come, too, for luncheon. Would she?''
``I'm afraid not,'' returned Billy, with a rueful laugh. ``She's got _three_ shawls on this morning, and you know that always means that she's felt a draft somewhere--poor dear. I'll tell her, though, and I'll see you at eleven,'' finished Billy, as she hung up the receiver.
Promptly at the appointed time Billy met Uncle William at Park Street, and together they set out for the West End street named on the paper in his pocket. But when the shabby house on the narrow little street was reached, the man looked about him with a troubled frown.
``I declare, Billy, I'm not sure but we'd better turn back,'' he fretted. ``I didn't mean to take you to such a place as this.''
Billy shivered a little; but after one glance at the man's disappointed face she lifted a determined chin.
``Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don't mind--for myself; but only think of the people whose _homes_ are here,'' she finished, just above her breath.
Mrs. Greggory was found to be living in two back rooms at the top of four flights of stairs, up which William Henshaw toiled with increasing weariness and dismay, punctuating each flight with a despairing: ``Billy, really, I think we should turn back!''
But Billy would not turn back, and at last they found themselves in the presence of a white- haired, sweet-faced woman who said yes, she was Mrs. Greggory; yes, she was. Even as she uttered the words, however, she looked fearfully over her shoulders as if expecting to hear from the hall behind them a voice denying her assertion.
Mrs. Greggory was a cripple. Her slender little body was poised on two once-costly crutches. Both the worn places on the crutches, and the skill with which the little woman swung herself about the room testified that the crippled condition was not a new one.
Billy's eyes were brimming with pity and dismay. Mechanically she had taken the chair toward which Mrs. Greggory had motioned her. She had tried not to seem to look about her; but there was not one detail of the bare little room, from its faded rug to the patched but spotless tablecloth, that was not stamped on her brain.
Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had cleared his throat nervously. Billy did not know whether she herself were the more distressed or the more relieved to hear him stammer:
``We--er--I came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to understand you had an-- er--teapot that--er--'' With his eyes on the cracked white crockery pitcher on the table, William Henshaw came to a helpless pause.
A curious expression, or rather, series of expressions crossed Mrs. Greggory's face. Terror, joy, dismay, and relief seemed, one after the other to fight for supremacy. Relief in the end conquered, though even yet there was a second hurriedly apprehensive glance