Produced by Donald Lainson
MISS BILLY
by Eleanor H. Porter
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. BILLY WRITES A LETTER
II. “THE STRATA”
III. THE STRATA--WHEN THE LETTER COMES
IV. BILLY SENDS A TELEGRAM
V. GETTING READY FOR BILLY
VI. THE COMING OF BILLY
VII. INTRODUCING SPUNK
VIII. THE ROOM--AND BILLY
IX. A FAMILY CONCLAVE
X. AUNT HANNAH
XI. BERTRAM HAS VISITORS
XII. CYRIL TAKES HIS TURN
XIII. A SURPRISE ALL AROUND
XIV. AUNT HANNAH SPEAKS HER MIND
XV. WHAT BERTRAM CALLS “THE LIMIT”
XVI. KATE TAKES A HAND
XVII. A PINK-RIBBON TRAIL
XVIII. BILLY WRITES ANOTHER LETTER
XIX. SEEING BILLY OFF
XX. BILLY, THE MYTH
XXI. BILLY, THE REALITY
XXII. HUGH CALDERWELL
XXIII. BERTRAM DOES SOME QUESTIONING
XXIV. CYRIL, THE ENIGMA
XXV. THE OLD ROOM--AND BILLY
XXVI. “MUSIC HATH CHARMS”
XXVII. MARIE, WHO LONGS TO MAKE PUDDINGS
XXVIII. “I'M GOING TO WIN”
XXIX. “I'M NOT GOING TO MARRY”
XXX. MARIE FINDS A FRIEND
XXXI. THE ENGAGEMENT OF ONE
XXXII. CYRIL HAS SOMETHING TO SAY
XXXIII. WILLIAM IS WORRIED
XXXIV. CLASS DAY
XXXV. SISTER KATE AGAIN
XXXVI. WILLIAM MEETS WITH A SURPRISE
XXXVII. “WILLIAM'S BROTHER”
XXXVIII. THE ENGAGEMENT OF TWO
XXXIX. A LITTLE PIECE OF PAPER
XL. WILLIAM PAYS A VISIT
XLI. THE CROOKED MADE STRAIGHT
XLII. THE “END OF THE STORY”
MISS BILLY
CHAPTER I
BILLY WRITES A LETTER
Billy Neilson was eighteen years old when the aunt, who had brought her
up from babyhood, died. Miss Benton's death left Billy quite alone
in the world--alone, and peculiarly forlorn. To Mr. James Harding,
of Harding & Harding, who had charge of Billy's not inconsiderable
property, the girl poured out her heart in all its loneliness two days
after the funeral.
“You see, Mr. Harding, there isn't any one--not any one who--cares,” she
choked.
“Tut, tut, my child, it's not so bad as that, surely,” remonstrated the
old man, gently. “Why, I--I care.”
Billy smiled through tear-wet eyes.
“But I can't LIVE with you,” she said.
“I'm not so sure of that, either,” retorted the man. “I'm thinking that
Letty and Ann would LIKE to have you with us.”
The girl laughed now outright. She was thinking of Miss Letty, who had
“nerves,” and of Miss Ann, who had a “heart”; and she pictured her own
young, breezy, healthy self attempting to conform to the hushed and
shaded thing that life was, within Lawyer Harding's home.
“Thank you, but I'm sure they wouldn't,” she objected. “You don't know
how noisy I am.”
The lawyer stirred restlessly and pondered.
“But, surely, my dear, isn't there some relative, somewhere?” he
demanded. “How about your mother's people?”
Billy shook her head. Her eyes filled again with tears.
“There was only Aunt Ella, ever, that I knew anything about. She and
mother were the only children there were, and mother died when I was a
year old, you know.”
“But your father's people?”
“It's even worse there. He was an only child and an orphan when mother
married him. He died when I was but six months old. After that there was
only mother and Aunt Ella, then Aunt Ella alone; and now--no one.”
“And you know nothing of your father's people?”
“Nothing; that is--almost nothing.”
“Then there is some one?”
Billy smiled. A deeper pink showed in her cheeks.
“Why, there's one--a man but he isn't really father's people, anyway.
But I--I have been tempted to write to him.”
“Who is he?”
“The one I'm named for. He was father's boyhood chum. You see that's why
I'm 'Billy' instead of being a proper 'Susie,' or 'Bessie,' or 'Sally
Jane.' Father had made up his mind to name his baby 'William' after his
chum, and when I came, Aunt Ella said, he was quite broken-hearted until
somebody hit upon the idea of naming me Billy.' Then he was content, for
it seems that he always called his chum 'Billy' anyhow. And so--'Billy'
I am to-day.”
“Do you know this man?”
“No. You see father died, and mother and Aunt Ella knew him only very
slightly. Mother knew his wife, though, Aunt Ella said, and SHE was
lovely.”
“Hm--; well, we might look them up, perhaps. You know his address?”
“Oh, yes unless he's moved. We've always kept that. Aunt Ella used to
say sometimes that she was going to write to him some day about me, you
know.”
“What's his name?”
“William Henshaw. He lives in Boston.”
Lawyer Harding snatched off his glasses, and leaned forward in his
chair.
“William Henshaw! Not the Beacon Street Henshaws!” he cried.
It was Billy's turn to be excited. She, too, leaned forward eagerly.
“Oh, do you know him? That's lovely! And his address IS Beacon Street! I
know because I saw it only to-day. You see, I HAVE been tempted to write
him.”
“Write him? Of course you'll write him,” cried the lawyer. “And we don't
need to do much 'looking up' there, child. I've known the family for
years, and this William was a college mate of my boy's. Nice fellow,
too. I've heard Ned speak of him. There were three sons, William, and
two others much younger than he. I've forgotten their names.”
“Then you do know him! I'm so glad,” exclaimed Billy. “You see, he never
seemed to me quite real.”
“I know about him,” corrected the lawyer, smilingly, “though I'll
confess I've rather lost track of him lately. Ned will know. I'll ask
Ned. Now go home, my dear, and dry those pretty eyes of yours. Or,
better still, come home with me to tea. I--I'll telephone up to the
house.” And he rose stiffly and went into the inner office.
Some minutes passed before he came back, red of face, and plainly
distressed.
“My dear child, I--I'm sorry, but--but I'll have to take back that
invitation,” he blurted out miserably. “My sisters are--are not well
this afternoon. Ann has been having a turn with her heart--you know
Ann's heart is--is bad; and Letty--Letty is always nervous at such
times--very nervous. Er--I'm so sorry! But you'll--excuse it?”
“Indeed I will,” smiled Billy, “and thank you just the same; only”--her
eyes twinkled mischievously--“you don't mind if I do say that it IS
lucky that we hadn't gone on planning to have me live with them, Mr.
Harding!”
“Eh? Well--er, I think your plan about the Henshaws is very good,”
he interposed hurriedly. “I'll speak to Ned--I'll speak to Ned,” he
finished, as he ceremoniously bowed the girl from the office.
James Harding kept his word, and spoke to his son that night; but there
was little, after all, that Ned could tell him. Yes, he remembered Billy
Henshaw well, but he had not heard of him for years, since Henshaw's
marriage, in fact. He must be forty years old, Ned said; but he was a
fine fellow, an exceptionally fine fellow, and would be sure to deal
kindly and wisely by his little orphan namesake; of that Ned was very
sure.
“That's good. I'll write him,” declared Mr. James Harding. “I'll write
him tomorrow.”
He did write--but not so soon as Billy wrote; for even as he spoke,
Billy, in her lonely little room at the other end of the town, was
laying bare all her homesickness in four long pages to “Dear Uncle
William.”