In the cozy living-room at Hillside, Billy Neilson's pretty home on
Corey Hill, Billy herself sat writing at the desk. Her pen had just
traced the date, “October twenty-fifth,” when Mrs. Stetson entered with
a letter in her hand.
“Writing, my dear? Then don't let me disturb you.” She turned as if to
go.
Billy dropped her pen, sprang to her feet, flew to the little woman's
side and whirled her half across the room.
“There!” she exclaimed, as she plumped the breathless and scandalized
Aunt Hannah into the biggest easy chair. “I feel better. I just had to
let off steam some way. It's so lovely you came in just when you did!”
“Indeed! I--I'm not so sure of that,” stammered the lady, dropping the
letter into her lap, and patting with agitated fingers her cap, her
curls, the two shawls about her shoulders, and the lace at her throat.
“My grief and conscience, Billy! Wors't you _ever_ grow up?”
“Hope not,” purred Billy cheerfully, dropping herself on to a low
hassock at Aunt Hannah's feet.
“But, my dear, you--you're engaged!”
Billy bubbled into a chuckling laugh.
“As if I didn't know that, when I've just written a dozen notes to
announce it! And, oh, Aunt Hannah, such a time as I've had, telling what
a dear Bertram is, and how I love, love, _love_ him, and what beautiful
eyes he has, and _such_ a nose, and--”
“Billy!” Aunt Hannah was sitting erect in pale horror.
“Eh?” Billy's eyes were roguish.
“You didn't write that in those notes!”
“Write it? Oh, no! That's only what I _wanted_ to write,” chuckled
Billy. “What I really did write was as staid and proper as--here, let me
show you,” she broke off, springing to her feet and running over to her
desk. “There! this is about what I wrote to them all,” she finished,
whipping a note out of one of the unsealed envelopes on the desk and
spreading it open before Aunt Hannah's suspicious eyes.
“Hm-m; that is very good--for you,” admitted the lady.
“Well, I like that!--after all my stern self-control and self-sacrifice
to keep out all those things I _wanted_ to write,” bridled Billy.
“Besides, they'd have been ever so much more interesting reading than
these will be,” she pouted, as she took the note from her companion's
hand.
“I don't doubt it,” observed Aunt Hannah, dryly.
Billy laughed, and tossed the note back on the desk.
“I'm writing to Belle Calderwell, now,” she announced musingly, dropping
herself again on the hassock. “I suppose she'll tell Hugh.”
“Poor boy! He'll be disappointed.”
Billy sighed, but she uptilted her chin a little.
“He ought not to be. I told him long, long ago, the very first time,
that--that I couldn't.”
“I know, dear; but--they don't always understand.” Aunt Hannah sighed
in sympathy with the far-away Hugh Calderwell, as she looked down at the
bright young face near her.
There was a moment's silence; then Billy gave a little laugh.
“He _will_ be surprised,” she said. “He told me once that Bertram
wouldn't ever care for any girl except to paint. To paint, indeed! As
if Bertram didn't love me--just _me!_--if he never saw another tube of
paint!”
“I think he does, my dear.”
Again there was silence; then, from Billy's lips there came softly:
“Just think; we've been engaged almost four weeks--and to-morrow it'll
be announced. I'm so glad I didn't ever announce the other two!”
“The other _two!_” cried Aunt Hannah.
Billy laughed.
“Oh, I forgot. You didn't know about Cyril.”
“Cyril!”
“Oh, there didn't anybody know it, either not even Cyril himself,”
dimpled Billy, mischievously. “I just engaged myself to him in
imagination, you know, to see how I'd like it. I didn't like it. But
it didn't last, anyhow, very long--just three weeks, I believe. Then I
broke it off,” she finished, with unsmiling mouth, but dancing eyes.
“Billy!” protested Aunt Hannah, feebly.
“But I _am_ glad only the family knew about my engagement to Uncle
William--oh, Aunt Hannah, you don't know how good it does seem to call
him 'Uncle' again. It was always slipping out, anyhow, all the time we
were engaged; and of course it was awful then.”
“That only goes to prove, my dear, how entirely unsuitable it was, from
the start.”
A bright color flooded Billy's face.
“I know; but if a girl _will_ think a man is asking for a wife when all
he wants is a daughter, and if she blandly says 'Yes, thank you, I'll
marry you,' I don't know what you can expect!”
“You can expect just what you got--misery, and almost a tragedy,”
retorted Aunt Hannah, severely.
A tender light came into Billy's eyes.
“Dear Uncle William! What a jewel he was, all the way through! And he'd
have marched straight to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an
eyelid, I know--self-sacrificing martyr that he was!”
“Martyr!” bristled Aunt Hannah, with extraordinary violence for her.
“I'm thinking that term belonged somewhere else. A month ago, Billy
Neilson, you did not look as if you'd live out half your days. But I
suppose _you'd_ have gone to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an
eyelid!”
“But I thought I had to,” protested Billy. “I couldn't grieve Uncle
William so, after Mrs. Hartwell had said how he--he wanted me.”
Aunt Hannah's lips grew stern at the corners.
“There are times when--when I think it would be wiser if Mrs. Kate
Hartwell would attend to her own affairs!” Aunt Hannah's voice fairly
shook with wrath.
“Why-Aunt Hannah!” reproved Billy in mischievous horror. “I'm shocked at
you!”
Aunt Hannah flushed miserably.
“There, there, child, forget I said it. I ought not to have said it, of
course,” she murmured agitatedly.
Billy laughed.
“You should have heard what Uncle William said! But never mind. We all
found out the mistake before it was too late, and everything is lovely
now, even to Cyril and Marie. Did you ever see anything so beatifically
happy as that couple are? Bertram says he hasn't heard a dirge from
Cyril's rooms for three weeks; and that if anybody else played the kind
of music he's been playing, it would be just common garden ragtime!”
“Music! Oh, my grief and conscience! That makes me think, Billy. If I'm
not actually forgetting what I came in here for,” cried Aunt Hannah,
fumbling in the folds of her dress for the letter that had slipped from
her lap. “I've had word from a young niece. She's going to study music
in Boston.”
“A niece?”
“Well, not really, you know. She calls me 'Aunt,' just as you and the
Henshaw boys do. But I really am related to _her_, for her mother and I
are third cousins, while it was my husband who was distantly related to
the Henshaw family.”
“What's her name?”
“'Mary Jane Arkwright.' Where is that letter?”
“Here it is, on the floor,” reported Billy. “Were you going to read it
to me?” she asked, as she picked it up.
“Yes--if you don't mind.”
“I'd love to hear it.”
“Then I'll read it. It--it rather annoys me in some ways. I thought the
whole family understood that I wasn't living by myself any longer--that
I was living with you. I'm sure I thought I wrote them that, long ago.
But this sounds almost as if they didn't understand it--at least, as if
this girl didn't.”
“How old is she?”
“I don't know; but she must be some old, to be coming here to Boston to
study music, alone--singing, I think she said.”
“You don't remember her, then?”
Aunt Hannah frowned and paused, the letter half withdrawn from its
envelope.
“No--but that isn't strange. They live West. I haven't seen any of them
for years. I know there are several children--and I suppose I've been
told their names. I know there's a boy--the eldest, I think--who is
quite a singer, and there's a girl who paints, I believe; but I don't
seem to remember a 'Mary Jane.'”
“Never mind! Suppose we let Mary Jane speak for herself,” suggested
Billy, dropping her chin into the small pink cup of her hand, and
settling herself to listen.
“Very well,” sighed Aunt Hannah; and she opened the letter and began to
read.
“DEAR AUNT HANNAH:--This is to tell you
that I'm coming to Boston to study singing in
the school for Grand Opera, and I'm planning to
look you up. Do you object? I said to a friend
the other day that I'd half a mind to write to Aunt
Hannah and beg a home with her; and my friend
retorted: 'Why don't you, Mary Jane?' But
that, of course, I should not think of doing.
“But I know I shall be lonesome, Aunt Hannah,
and I hope you'll let me see you once in a
while, anyway. I plan now to come next week
--I've already got as far as New York, as you see
by the address--and I shall hope to see you
soon.
“All the family would send love, I know.
“M. J. ARKWRIGHT.”
“Grand Opera! Oh, how perfectly lovely,” cried Billy.
“Yes, but Billy, do you think she is expecting me to invite her to make
her home with me? I shall have to write and explain that I can't--if she
does, of course.”
Billy frowned and hesitated.
“Why, it sounded--a little--that way; but--” Suddenly her face cleared.
“Aunt Hannah, I've thought of the very thing. We _will_ take her!”
“Oh, Billy, I couldn't think of letting you do that,” demurred Aunt
Hannah. “You're very kind--but, oh, no; not that!”
“Why not? I think it would be lovely; and we can just as well as not.
After Marie is married in December, she can have that room. Until then
she can have the little blue room next to me.”
“But--but--we don't know anything about her.”
“We know she's your niece, and she's lonesome; and we know she's
musical. I shall love her for every one of those things. Of course we'll
take her!”
“But--I don't know anything about her age.”
“All the more reason why she should be looked out for, then,” retorted
Billy, promptly. “Why, Aunt Hannah, just as if you didn't want to give
this lonesome, unprotected young girl a home!”
“Oh, I do, of course; but--”
“Then it's all settled,” interposed Billy, springing to her feet.
“But what if we--we shouldn't like her?”
“Nonsense! What if she shouldn't like us?” laughed Billy. “However, if
you'd feel better, just ask her to come and stay with us a month. We
shall keep her all right, afterwards. See if we don't!”
Slowly Aunt Hannah got to her feet.
“Very well, dear. I'll write, of course, as you tell me to; and it's
lovely of you to do it. Now I'll leave you to your letters. I've
hindered you far too long, as it is.”
“You've rested me,” declared Billy, flinging wide her arms.
Aunt Hannah, fearing a second dizzying whirl impelled by those same
young arms, drew her shawls about her shoulders and backed hastily
toward the hall door.
Billy laughed.
“Oh, I won't again--to-day,” she promised merrily. Then, as the lady
reached the arched doorway: “Tell Mary Jane to let us know the day
and train and we'll meet her. Oh, and Aunt Hannah, tell her to wear a
pink--a white pink; and tell her we will, too,” she finished gayly.