Miss Billie's Decision [84]
were out of the question, of course. They had been put away with the manuscript of the completed song, which had not, fortunately, gone to the publishers. Billy had waited, intending to send them together. She was so glad, now, that she had waited. Just once, since Arkwright's last call, she had tried to sing that song. But she had stopped at the end of the first two lines. The full meaning of those words, as coming from Arkwright, had swept over her then, and she had snatched up the manuscript and hidden it under the bottom pile of music in her cabinet . . . And she had presumed to sing that love song to Bertram!
Arkwright had written Billy once--a kind, courteous, manly note that had made her cry. He had begged her again not to blame herself, and he had said that he hoped he should be strong enough sometime to wish to call occasionally-- if she were willing--and renew their pleasant hours with their music; but, for the present, he knew there was nothing for him to do but to stay away. He had signed himself ``Michael Jeremiah Arkwright''; and to Billy that was the most pathetic thing in the letter--it sounded so hopeless and dreary to one who knew the jaunty ``M. J.''
Alice Greggory, Billy saw frequently. Billy and Aunt Hannah were great friends with the Greggorys now, and had been ever since the Greggorys' ten-days' visit at Hillside. The cheery little cripple, with the gentle tap, tap, tap of her crutches, had won everybody's heart the very first day; and Alice was scarcely less of a favorite, after the sunny friendliness of Hillside had thawed her stiff reserve into naturalness.
Billy had little to say to Alice Greggory of Arkwright. Billy was no longer trying to play Cupid's assistant. The Cause, for which she had so valiantly worked, had been felled by Arkwright's own hand--but that there were still some faint stirrings of life in it was evidenced by Billy's secret delight when one day Alice Greggory chanced to mention that Arkwright had called the night before upon her and her mother.
``He brought us news of our old home,'' she explained a little hurriedly, to Billy. ``He had heard from his mother, and he thought some things she said would be interesting to us.''
``Of course,'' murmured Billy, carefully excluding from her voice any hint of the delight she felt, but hoping, all the while, that Alice would continue the subject.
Alice, however, had nothing more to say; and Billy was left in entire ignorance of what the news was that Arkwright had brought. She suspected, though, that it had something to do with Alice's father--certainly she hoped that it had; for if Arkwright had called to tell it, it must be good.
Billy had found a new home for the Greggorys; although at first they had drawn sensitively back, and had said that they preferred to remain where they were, they had later gratefully accepted it. A little couple from South Boston, to whom Billy had given a two weeks' outing the summer before, had moved into town and taken a flat in the South End. They had two extra rooms which they had told Billy they would like to let for light house- keeping, if only they knew just the right people to take into such close quarters with themselves. Billy at once thought of the Greggorys, and spoke of them. The little couple were delighted, and the Greggorys were scarcely less so when they at last became convinced that only a very little more money than they were already paying would give themselves a much pleasanter home, and would at the same time be a real boon to two young people who were trying to meet expenses. So the change was made, and general happiness all round had resulted--so much so, that Bertram had said to Billy, when he heard of it:
``It looks as if this was a case where your cake is frosted on both sides.''
``Nonsense! This isn't frosting--it's business,'' Billy had laughed.
``And the new pupils you have found for Miss Alice--they're business, too, I suppose?''
``Certainly,'' retorted Billy, with decision. Then she had given a low laugh and said: ``Mercy!
Arkwright had written Billy once--a kind, courteous, manly note that had made her cry. He had begged her again not to blame herself, and he had said that he hoped he should be strong enough sometime to wish to call occasionally-- if she were willing--and renew their pleasant hours with their music; but, for the present, he knew there was nothing for him to do but to stay away. He had signed himself ``Michael Jeremiah Arkwright''; and to Billy that was the most pathetic thing in the letter--it sounded so hopeless and dreary to one who knew the jaunty ``M. J.''
Alice Greggory, Billy saw frequently. Billy and Aunt Hannah were great friends with the Greggorys now, and had been ever since the Greggorys' ten-days' visit at Hillside. The cheery little cripple, with the gentle tap, tap, tap of her crutches, had won everybody's heart the very first day; and Alice was scarcely less of a favorite, after the sunny friendliness of Hillside had thawed her stiff reserve into naturalness.
Billy had little to say to Alice Greggory of Arkwright. Billy was no longer trying to play Cupid's assistant. The Cause, for which she had so valiantly worked, had been felled by Arkwright's own hand--but that there were still some faint stirrings of life in it was evidenced by Billy's secret delight when one day Alice Greggory chanced to mention that Arkwright had called the night before upon her and her mother.
``He brought us news of our old home,'' she explained a little hurriedly, to Billy. ``He had heard from his mother, and he thought some things she said would be interesting to us.''
``Of course,'' murmured Billy, carefully excluding from her voice any hint of the delight she felt, but hoping, all the while, that Alice would continue the subject.
Alice, however, had nothing more to say; and Billy was left in entire ignorance of what the news was that Arkwright had brought. She suspected, though, that it had something to do with Alice's father--certainly she hoped that it had; for if Arkwright had called to tell it, it must be good.
Billy had found a new home for the Greggorys; although at first they had drawn sensitively back, and had said that they preferred to remain where they were, they had later gratefully accepted it. A little couple from South Boston, to whom Billy had given a two weeks' outing the summer before, had moved into town and taken a flat in the South End. They had two extra rooms which they had told Billy they would like to let for light house- keeping, if only they knew just the right people to take into such close quarters with themselves. Billy at once thought of the Greggorys, and spoke of them. The little couple were delighted, and the Greggorys were scarcely less so when they at last became convinced that only a very little more money than they were already paying would give themselves a much pleasanter home, and would at the same time be a real boon to two young people who were trying to meet expenses. So the change was made, and general happiness all round had resulted--so much so, that Bertram had said to Billy, when he heard of it:
``It looks as if this was a case where your cake is frosted on both sides.''
``Nonsense! This isn't frosting--it's business,'' Billy had laughed.
``And the new pupils you have found for Miss Alice--they're business, too, I suppose?''
``Certainly,'' retorted Billy, with decision. Then she had given a low laugh and said: ``Mercy!