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Miss Billy by Eleanor H. Porter

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by Eleanor H. Porter
















































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

"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

"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

"William Henshaw! Not the Beacon Street Henshaws!" he cried.

It was Billy's turn to be excited. She, too, leaned forward

"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

"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

"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



Bertram Henshaw called the Beacon Street home "The Strata." This
annoyed Cyril, and even William, not a little; though they
reflected that, after all, it was "only Bertram." For the whole of
Bertram's twenty-four years of life it had been like this--"It's
only Bertram," had been at once the curse and the salvation of his

In this particular case, however, Bertram's vagary of fancy had
some excuse. The Beacon Street house, the home of the three
brothers, was a "Strata."

"You see, it's like this," Bertram would explain airily to some new
acquaintance who expressed surprise at the name; "if I could slice
off the front of the house like a loaf of cake, you'd understand it
better. But just suppose that old Bunker Hill should suddenly
spout fire and brimstone and bury us under tons of ashes--only
fancy the condition of mind of those future archaeologists when
they struck our house after their months of digging!

"What would they find? Listen. First: stratum number one, the top
floor; that's Cyril's, you know. They'd note the bare floors, the
sparse but heavy furniture, the piano, the violin, the flute, the
book-lined walls, and the absence of every sort of curtain,
cushion, or knickknack. 'Here lived a plain man,' they'd say; 'a
scholar, a musician, stern, unloved and unloving; a monk.'

"And what next? They'd strike William's stratum next, the third
floor. Imagine it! You know William as a State Street broker,
well-off, a widower, tall, angular, slow of speech, a little bald,
very much nearsighted, and the owner of the kindest heart in the
world. But really to know William, you must know his rooms.
William collects things. He has always collected things--and he's
saved every one of them. There's a tradition that at the age of
one year he crept into the house with four small round white
stones. Anyhow, if he did, he's got them now. Rest assured of
that--and he's forty this year. Miniatures, carved ivories, bugs,
moths, porcelains, jades, stamps, postcards, spoons, baggage tags,
theatre programs, playing-cards--there isn't anything that he
doesn't collect. He's on teapots, now. Imagine it--William and
teapots! And they're all there in his rooms--one glorious mass of
confusion. Just fancy those archaeologists trying to make their
'monk' live there!

"But when they reach me, my stratum, they'll have a worse time yet.
You see, _I_ like cushions and comfort, and I have them everywhere.
And I like--well, I like lots of things. My rooms don't belong to
that monk, not a little bit. And so you see," Bertram would finish
merrily, "that's why I call it all 'The Strata.'"

And "The Strata" it was to all the Henshaws' friends, and even to
William and Cyril themselves, in spite of their objection to the

From babyhood the Henshaw boys had lived in the handsome, roomy
house, facing the Public Garden. It had been their father's
boyhood home, as well, and he and his wife had died there, soon
after Kate, the only daughter, had married. At the age of twenty-
two, William Henshaw, the eldest son, had brought his bride to the
house, and together they had striven to make a home for the two
younger orphan boys, Cyril, twelve, and Bertram, six. But Mrs.
William, after a short five years of married life, had died; and
since then, the house had known almost nothing of a woman's touch
or care.

Little by little as the years passed, the house and its inmates had
fallen into what had given Bertram his excuse for the name. Cyril,
thirty years old now, dignified, reserved, averse to cats, dogs,
women, and confusion, had early taken himself and his music to the
peace and exclusiveness of the fourth floor. Below him, William
had long discouraged any meddling with his precious chaos of
possessions, and had finally come to spend nearly all his spare
time among them. This left Bertram to undisputed ownership of the
second floor, and right royally did he hold sway there with his
paints and brushes and easels, his old armor, rich hangings, rugs,
and cushions, and everywhere his specialty--his "Face of a Girl."
From canvas, plaque, and panel they looked out--those girlish
faces: winsome, wilful, pert, demure, merry, sad, beautiful, even
almost ugly--they were all there; and they were growing famous,
too. The world of art was beginning to take notice, and to adjust
its spectacles for a more critical glance. This "Face of a Girl"
by Henshaw bade fair to be worth while.

Below Bertram's cheery second floor were the dim old library and
drawing-rooms, silent, stately, and almost never used; and below
them were the dining-room and the kitchen. Here ruled Dong Ling,
the Chinese cook, and Pete.

Pete was--indeed, it is hard telling what Pete was. He said he was
the butler; and he looked the part when he answered the bell at the
great front door. But at other times, when he swept a room, or
dusted Master William's curios, he looked--like nothing so much as
what he was: a fussy, faithful old man, who expected to die in the
service he had entered fifty years before as a lad.

Thus in all the Beacon Street house, there had not for years been
the touch of a woman's hand. Even Kate, the married sister, had
long since given up trying to instruct Dong Ling or to chide Pete,
though she still walked across the Garden from her Commonwealth
Avenue home and tripped up the stairs to call in turn upon her
brothers, Bertram, William, and Cyril.



It was on the six o'clock delivery that William Henshaw received
the letter from his namesake, Billy. To say the least, the letter
was a great shock to him. He had not quite forgotten Billy's
father, who had died so long ago, it is true, but he had forgotten
Billy, entirely. Even as he looked at the disconcerting epistle
with its round, neatly formed letters, he had great difficulty in
ferreting out the particular niche in his memory which contained
the fact that Walter Neilson had had a child, and had named it for

And this child, this "Billy," this unknown progeny of an all but
forgotten boyhood friend, was asking a home, and with him!
Impossible! And William Henshaw peered at the letter as if, at
this second reading, its message could not be so monstrous.

"Well, old man, what's up?" It was Bertram's amazed voice from the
hall doorway; and indeed, William Henshaw, red-faced and plainly
trembling, seated on the lowest step of the stairway, and gazing,
wild-eyed, at the letter in his hand, was somewhat of an amazing
sight. "What IS up?"

"What's up!" groaned William, starting to his feet, and waving the
letter frantically in the air. "What's up! Young man, do you want
us to take in a child to board?--a CHILD?" he repeated in slow

"Well, hardly," laughed the other. "Er, perhaps Cyril might like
it, though; eh?"

"Come, come, Bertram, be sensible for once," pleaded his brother,
nervously. "This is serious, really serious, I tell you!"

"What is serious?" demanded Cyril, coming down the stairway.
"Can't it wait? Pete has already sounded the gong twice for

William made a despairing gesture.

"Well, come," he groaned. "I'll tell you at the table. . . . It
seems I've got a namesake," he resumed in a shaking voice, a few
moments later; "Walter Neilson's child."

"And who's Walter Neilson?" asked Bertram.

"A boyhood friend. You wouldn't remember him. This letter is from
his child."

"Well, let's hear it. Go ahead. I fancy we can stand the--LETTER;
eh, Cyril?"

Cyril frowned. Cyril did not know, perhaps, how often he frowned
at Bertram.

The eldest brother wet his lips. His hand shook as he picked up
the letter.

"It--it's so absurd," he muttered. Then he cleared his throat and
read the letter aloud.

"DEAR UNCLE WILLIAM: Do you mind my calling you that? You see I
want SOME one, and there isn't any one now. You are the nearest
I've got. Maybe you've forgotten, but I'm named for you. Walter
Neilson was my father, you know. My Aunt Ella has just died.

"Would you mind very much if I came to live with you? That is,
between times--I'm going to college, of course, and after that I'm
going to be--well, I haven't decided that part yet. I think I'll
consult you. You may have some preference, you know. You can be
thinking it up until I come.

"There! Maybe I ought not to have said that, for perhaps you won't
want me to come. I AM noisy, I'll own, but not so I think you'll
mind it much unless some of you have 'nerves' or a 'heart.' You
see, Miss Letty and Miss Ann--they're Mr. Harding's sisters, and
Mr. Harding is our lawyer, and he will write to you. Well, where
was I? Oh, I know--on Miss Letty's nerves. And, say, do you know,
that is where I do get--on Miss Letty's nerves. I do, truly. You
see, Mr. Harding very kindly suggested that I live with them, but,
mercy! Miss Letty's nerves won't let you walk except on tiptoe,
and Miss Ann's heart won't let you speak except in whispers. All
the chairs and tables have worn little sockets in the carpets, and
it's a crime to move them. There isn't a window-shade in the house
that isn't pulled down EXACTLY to the middle sash, except where the
sun shines, and those are pulled way down. Imagine me and Spunk
living there! Oh, by the way, you don't mind my bringing Spunk, do
you? I hope you don't, for I couldn't live without Spunk, and he
couldn't live with out me.

"Please let me hear from you very soon. I don't mind if you
telegraph; and just 'come' would be all you'd have to say. Then
I'd get ready right away and let you know what train to meet me on.
And, oh, say--if you'll wear a pink in your buttonhole I will, too.
Then we'll know each other. My address is just 'Hampden Falls.'

"Your awfully homesick namesake,


For one long minute there was a blank silence about the Henshaw
dinner-table; then the eldest brother, looking anxiously from one
man to the other, stammered:


"Great Scott!" breathed Bertram.

Cyril said nothing, but his lips were white with their tense
pressure against each other.

There was another pause, and again William broke it anxiously.

"Boys, this isn't helping me out any! What's to be done?"

"'Done'!" flamed Cyril. "Surely, you aren't thinking for a moment
of LETTING that child come here, William!"

Bertram chuckled.

"He WOULD liven things up, Cyril; wouldn't he? Such nice smooth
floors you've got up-stairs to trundle little tin carts across!"

"Tin nonsense!" retorted Cyril. "Don't be silly, Bertram. That
letter wasn't written by a baby. He'd be much more likely to make
himself at home with your paint box, or with some of William's

"Oh, I say," expostulated William, "we'll HAVE to keep him out of
those things, you know."

Cyril pushed back his chair from the table.

"'We'll have to keep him out'! William, you can't be in earnest!
You aren't going to let that boy come here," he cried.

"But what can I do?" faltered the man.

"Do? Say 'no,' of course. As if we wanted a boy to bring up!"

"But I must do something. I--I'm all he's got. He says so."

"Good heavens! Well, send him to boarding-school, then, or to the
penitentiary; anywhere but here!"

"Shucks! Let the kid come," laughed Bertram. "Poor little
homesick devil! What's the use? I'll take him in. How old is he,

William frowned, and mused aloud slowly.

"Why, I don't know. He must be--er--why, boys, he's no child,"
broke off the man suddenly. "Walter himself died seventeen or
eighteen years ago, not more than a year or two after he was
married. That child must be somewhere around eighteen years old!"

"And only think how Cyril WAS worrying about those tin carts,"
laughed Bertram. "Never mind--eight or eighteen--let him come. If
he's that age, he won't bother much."

"And this--er--'Spunk'; do you take him, too? But probably he
doesn't bother, either," murmured Cyril, with smooth sarcasm.

"Gorry! I forgot Spunk," acknowledged Bertram. "Say, what in time
is Spunk, do you suppose?"

"Dog, maybe," suggested William.

"Well, whatever he is, you will kindly keep Spunk down-stairs,"
said Cyril with decision. "The boy, I suppose I shall have to
endure; but the dog--!"

"Hm-m; well, judging by his name," murmured Bertram, apologetically,
"it may be just possible that Spunk won't be easily controlled. But
maybe he isn't a dog, anyhow. He--er--sounds something like a
parrot to me."

Cyril rose to his feet abruptly. He had eaten almost no dinner.

"Very well," he said coldly. "But please remember that I hold you
responsible, Bertram. Whether it's a dog, or a parrot, or--or a
monkey, I shall expect you to keep Spunk down-stairs. This
adopting into the family an unknown boy seems to me very absurd
from beginning to end. But if you and William will have it so, of
course I've nothing to say. Fortunately my rooms are at the TOP of
the house," he finished, as he turned and left the dining-room.

For a moment there was silence. The brows of the younger man were
uplifted quizzically.

"I'm afraid Cyril is bothered," murmured William then, in a
troubled voice.

Bertram's face changed. Stern lines came to his boyish mouth.

"He is always bothered--with anything, lately."

The elder man sighed.

"I know, but with his talent--"

"'Talent'! Great Scott!" cut in Bertram. "Half the world has
talent of one sort or another; but that doesn't necessarily make
them unable to live with any one else! Really, Will, it's becoming
serious--about Cyril. He's getting to be, for all the world, like
those finicky old maids that that young namesake of yours wrote
about. He'll make us whisper and walk on tiptoe yet!"

The other smiled.

"Don't you worry. You aren't in any danger of being kept too
quiet, young man."

"No thanks to Cyril, then," retorted Bertram. "Anyhow, that's one
reason why I was for taking the kid--to mellow up Cyril. He needs
it all right."

"But I had to take him, Bert," argued the elder brother, his face
growing anxious again. "But Heaven only knows what I'm going to do
with him when I get him. What shall I say to him, anyway? How
shall I write? I don't know how to get up a letter of that sort!"

"Why not take him at his word and telegraph? I fancy you won't
have to say 'come' but once before you see him. He doesn't seem to
be a bashful youth."

"Hm-m; I might do that," acquiesced William, slowly. "But wasn't
there somebody--a lawyer--going to write to me?" he finished,
consulting the letter by his plate. "Yes," he added, after a
moment, "a Mr. Harding. Wonder if he's any relation to Ned
Harding. I used to know Ned at Harvard, and seems as if he came
from Hampden Falls. We'll soon see, at all events. Maybe I'll
hear to-morrow."

"I shouldn't wonder," nodded Bertram, as he rose from the table.
"Anyhow, I wouldn't do anything till I did hear."



James Harding's letter very promptly followed Billy's, though it
was not like Billy's at all. It told something of Billy's
property, and mentioned that, according to Mrs. Neilson's will,
Billy would not come into control of her fortune until the age of
twenty-one years was reached. It dwelt at some length upon the
fact of Billy's loneliness in the world, and expressed the hope
that her father's friend could find it in his heart to welcome the
orphan into his home. It mentioned Ned, and the old college
friendship, and it closed by saying that the writer, James Harding,
was glad to renew his acquaintance with the good old Henshaw family
that he had known long years ago; and that he hoped soon to hear
from William Henshaw himself.

It was a good letter--but it was not well written. James Harding's
handwriting was not distinguished for its legibility, and his
correspondents rejoiced that the most of his letters were dictated
to his stenographer. In this case, however, he had elected to use
the more personal pen; and it was because of this that William
Henshaw, even after reading the letter, was still unaware of his
mistake in supposing his namesake, Billy, to be a boy.

In the main the lawyer had referred to Billy by name, or as "the
orphan," or as that "poor, lonely child." And whenever the more
distinctive feminine "her" or "herself" had occurred, the
carelessly formed letters had made them so much like "his" and
"himself" that they carried no hint of the truth to a man who had
not the slightest reason for thinking himself in the wrong. It was
therefore still for the "boy," Billy, that William Henshaw at once
set about making a place in the home.

First he telegraphed the single word "Come" to Billy.

"I'll set the poor lad's heart at rest," he said to Bertram. "I
shall answer Harding's letter more at length, of course. Naturally
he wants to know something about me now before he sends Billy
along; but there is no need for the boy to wait before he knows
that I'll take him. Of course he won't come yet, till Harding
hears from me."

It was just here, however, that William Henshaw met with a
surprise, for within twenty-four hours came Billy's answer, and by

"I'm coming to-morrow. Train due at five P. M.


William Henshaw did not know that in Hampden Falls Billy's trunk
had been packed for days. Billy was desperate. The house, even
with the maid, and with the obliging neighbor and his wife who
stayed there nights, was to Billy nothing but a dismal tomb.
Lawyer Harding had fallen suddenly ill; she could not even tell him
that the blessed telegram "Come" had arrived. Hence Billy, lonely,
impulsive, and always used to pleasing herself, had taken matters
in hand with a confident grasp, and had determined to wait no

That it was a fearsomely unknown future to which she was so
jauntily pledging herself did not trouble the girl in the least.
Billy was romantic. To sally gaily forth with a pink in the
buttonhole of her coat to find her father's friend who was a
"Billy" too, seemed to Billy Neilson not only delightful, but
eminently sensible, and an excellent way out of her present
homesick loneliness. So she bought the pink and her ticket, and
impatiently awaited the time to start.

To the Beacon Street house, Billy's cheerful telegram brought the
direst consternation. Even Kate was hastily summoned to the family
conclave that immediately resulted.

"There's nothing--simply nothing that I can do," she declared
irritably, when she had heard the story. "Surely, you don't expect
ME to take the boy!"

"No, no, of course not," sighed William. "But you see, I supposed
I'd have time to--to get used to things, and to make arrangements;
and this is so--so sudden! I hadn't even answered Harding's letter
until to-day; and he hasn't got that--much less replied to it."

"But what could you expect after sending that idiotic telegram?"
demanded the lady. "'Come,' indeed!"

"But that's what Billy told me to do."

"What if it was? Just because a foolish eighteen-year-old boy
tells you to do something, must you, a supposedly sensible forty-
year-old man obey?"

"I think it tickled Will's romantic streak," laughed Bertram. "It
seemed so sort of alluring to send that one word 'Come' out into
space, and watch what happened."

"Well, he's found out, certainly," observed Cyril, with grim

"Oh, no; it hasn't happened yet," corrected Bertram, cheerfully.
"It's just going to happen. William's got to put on the pink
first, you know. That's the talisman."

William reddened.

"Bertram, don't be foolish. I sha'n't wear any pink. You must
know that."

"How'll you find him, then?"

"Why, he'll have one on; that's enough," settled William.

"Hm-m; maybe. Then he'll have Spunk, too," murmured Bertram,

"Spunk!" cried Kate.

"Yes. He wrote that he hoped we wouldn't mind his bringing Spunk
with him."

"Who's Spunk?

"We don't know." Bertram's lips twitched.

"You don't know! What do you mean?"

"Well, Will thinks it's a dog, and I believe Cyril is anticipating
a monkey. I myself am backing it for a parrot."

"Boys, what have you done!" groaned Kate, falling back in her
chair. "What have you done!"

To William her words were like an electric shock stirring him to
instant action. He sprang abruptly to his feet.

"Well, whatever we've done, we've done it," he declared sternly;
"and now we must do the rest--and do it well, too. He's the son of
my boyhood's dearest friend, and he shall be made welcome. Now to
business! Bertram, you said you'd take him in. Did you mean it?"

Bertram sobered instantly, and came erect in his chair. William
did not often speak like this; but when he did--

"Yes, Will. He shall have the little bedroom at the end of the
hall. I never used the room much, anyhow, and what few duds I have
there shall be cleared out to-morrow."

"Good! Now there are some other little details to arrange, then
I'll go down-stairs and tell Pete and Dong Ling. And, please to
understand, we're going to make this lad welcome--welcome, I say!"

"Yes, sir," said Bertram. Neither Kate nor Cyril spoke.



The Henshaw household was early astir on the day of Billy's
expected arrival, and preparations for the guest's comfort were
well under way before breakfast. The center of activity was in the
little room at the end of the hall on the second floor; though, as
Bertram said, the whole Strata felt the "upheaval."

By breakfast time Bertram with the avowed intention of giving "the
little chap half a show," had the room cleared for action; and
after that the whole house was called upon for contributions toward
the room's adornment. And most generously did most of the house
respond. Even Dong Ling slippered up-stairs and presented a weird
Chinese banner which he said he was "velly much glad" to give. As
to Pete--Pete was in his element. Pete loved boys. Had he not
served them nearly all his life? Incidentally it may be mentioned
that he did not care for girls.

Only Cyril held himself aloof. But that he was not oblivious of
the proceedings below him was evidenced by the somber bass that
floated down from his piano strings. Cyril always played according
to the mood that was on him; and when Bertram heard this morning
the rhythmic beats of mournfulness, he chuckled and said to

"That's Chopin's Funeral March. Evidently Cy thinks this is the
death knell to all his hopes of future peace and happiness."

"Dear me! I wish Cyril would take some interest," grieved William.

"Oh, he takes interest all right," laughed Bertram, meaningly. "He
takes INTEREST!"

"I know, but--Bertram," broke off the elder man, anxiously, from
his perch on the stepladder, "would you put the rifle over this
window, or the fishing-rod?"

"Why, I don't think it makes much difference, so long as they're
somewhere," answered Bertram. "And there are these Indian clubs
and the swords to be disposed of, you know."

"Yes; and it's going to look fine; don't you think?" exulted
William. "And you know for the wall-space between the windows I'm
going to bring down that case of mine, of spiders."

Bertram raised his hands in mock surprise.

"Here--down here! You're going to trust any of those precious
treasures of yours down here!"

William frowned.

"Nonsense, Bertram, don't be silly! They'll be safe enough.
Besides, they're old, anyhow. I was on spiders years ago--when I
was Billy's age, in fact. I thought he'd like them here. You know
boys always like such things."

"Oh, 'twasn't Billy I was worrying about," retorted Bertram. "It
was you--and the spiders."

"Not much you worry about me--or anything else," replied William,
good-humoredly. "There! how does that look?" he finished, as he
carefully picked his way down the stepladder.

"Fine!--er--only rather warlike, maybe, with the guns and that
riotous confusion of knives and scimiters over the chiffonier. But
then, maybe you're intending Billy for a soldier; eh?"

"Do you know? I AM getting interested in that boy," beamed
William, with some excitement. "What kind of things do you suppose
he does like?"

"There's no telling. Maybe he's a sissy chap, and will howl at
your guns and spiders. Perhaps he'll prefer autumn leaves and
worsted mottoes for decoration."

"Not much he will," contested the other. "No son of Walter
Neilson's could be a sissy. Neilson was the best half-back in ten
years at Harvard, and he was always in for everything going that
was worth while. 'Autumn leaves and worsted mottoes' indeed!

"All right; but there's still a dark horse in the case, you know.
We mustn't forget--Spunk."

The elder man stirred uneasily.

"Bert, what do you suppose that creature is? You don't think Cyril
can be right, and that it's a--monkey?"

"'You never can tell,'" quoted Bertram, merrily. "Of course there
ARE other things. If it were you, now, we'd only have to hunt up
the special thing you happened to be collecting at the time, and
that would be it: a snake, a lizard, a toad, or maybe a butterfly.
You know you were always lugging those things home when you were
his age."

"Yes, I know," sighed William. "But I can't think it's anything
like that," he finished, as he turned away.

There was very little done in the Beacon Street house that day but
to "get ready for Billy." In the kitchen Dong Ling cooked.
Everywhere else, except in Cyril's domain, Pete dusted and swept
and "puttered" to his heart's content. William did not go to the
office at all that day, and Bertram did not touch his brushes.
Only Cyril attended to his usual work: practising for a coming
concert, and correcting the proofs of his new book, "Music in

At ten minutes before five William, anxious-eyed and nervous, found
himself at the North Station. Then, and not till then, did he draw
a long breath of relief.

"There! I think everything's ready," he sighed to himself. "At

He wore no pink in his buttonhole. There was no need that he
should accede to that silly request, he told himself. He had only
to look for a youth of perhaps eighteen years, who would be alone,
a little frightened, possibly, and who would have a pink in his
buttonhole, and probably a dog on a leash.

As he waited, the man was conscious of a curious warmth at his
heart. It was his namesake, Walter Neilson's boy, that he had come
to meet; a homesick, lonely orphan who had appealed to him--to him,
out of all the world. Long years ago in his own arms there had
been laid a tiny bundle of flannel holding a precious little red,
puckered face. But in a month's time the little face had turned
cold and waxen, and the hopes that the white flannel bundle had
carried had died with the baby boy;--and that baby would have been
a lad grown by this time, if he had lived--a lad not far from the
age of this Billy who was coming to-day, reflected the man. And
the warmth in his heart deepened and glowed the more as he stood
waiting at the gate for Billy to arrive.

The train from Hampden Falls was late. Not until quite fifteen
minutes past five did it roll into the train-shed. Then at once
its long line of passengers began to sweep toward the iron gate.

William was just inside the gate now, anxiously scanning every face
and form that passed. There were many half-grown lads, but there
was not one with a pink in his buttonhole until very near the end.
Then William saw him--a pleasant-faced, blue-eyed boy in a neat
gray suit. With a low cry William started forward; but he saw at
once that the gray-clad youth was unmistakably one of a merry
family party. He looked to be anything but a lad that was lonely
and forlorn.

William hesitated and fell back. This debonair, self-reliant
fellow could not be Billy! But as a hasty glance down the line
revealed only half a dozen straggling women, and beyond them, no
one, William decided that it must be Billy; and taking brave hold
of his courage, he hurried after the blue-eyed youth and tapped him
on the shoulder.

"Er--aren't you Billy?" he stammered.

The lad stopped and stared. He shook his head slowly.

"No, sir," he said.

"But you must be! Are you sure?"

The boy laughed this time.

"Sorry, sir, but my name is 'Frank'; isn't it, mother?" he added
merrily, turning to the lady at his side, who was regarding William
very unfavorably through a pair of gold-bowed spectacles.

William did not wait for more. With a stammered apology and a
flustered lifting of his hat he backed away.

But where was Billy?

William looked about him in helpless dismay. All around was a
wide, empty space. The long aisle to the Hampden Falls train was
deserted save for the baggage-men loading the trunks and bags on to
their trucks. Nowhere was there any one who seemed forlorn or ill
at ease except a pretty girl with a suit-case, and with a covered
basket on her arm, who stood just outside the gate, gazing a little
nervously about her.

William looked twice at this girl. First, because the splash of
color against her brown coat had called his attention to the fact
that she was wearing a pink; and secondly because she was very
pretty, and her dark eyes carried a peculiarly wistful appeal.

"Too bad Bertram isn't here," thought William. "He'd be sketching
that face in no time on his cuff."

The pink had given William almost a pang. He had been so longing
to see a pink--though in a different place. He wondered
sympathetically if she, too, had come to meet some one who had not
appeared. He noticed that she walked away from the gate once or
twice, toward the waiting-room, and peered anxiously through the
glass doors; but always she came back to the gate as if fearful to
be long away from that place. He forgot all about her very soon,
for her movements had given him a sudden idea: perhaps Billy was in
the waiting-room. How stupid of him not to think of it before!
Doubtless they had missed each other in the crowd, and Billy had
gone straight to the waiting-room to look for him. And with this
thought William hurried away at once, leaving the girl still
standing by the gate alone.

He looked everywhere. Systematically he paced up and down between
the long rows of seats, looking for a boy with a pink. He even
went out upon the street, and gazed anxiously in all directions.
It occurred to him after a time that possibly Billy, like himself,
had changed his mind at the last moment, and not worn the pink.
Perhaps he had forgotten it, or lost it, or even not been able to
get it at all. Very bitterly William blamed himself then for
disregarding his own part of the suggested plan. If only he had
worn the pink himself!--but he had not; and it was useless to
repine. In the meantime, where was Billy, he wondered frantically.



After another long search William came back to the train-shed,
vaguely hoping that Billy might even then be there. The girl was
still standing alone by the gate. There was another train on the
track now, and the rush of many feet had swept her a little to one
side. She looked frightened now, and almost ready to cry. Still,
William noticed that her chin was lifted bravely, and that she was
making a stern effort at self-control. He hesitated a moment, then
went straight toward her.

"I beg your pardon," he said kindly, lifting his hat, "but I notice
that you have been waiting here some time. Perhaps there is
something I can do for you."

A rosy color swept to the girl's face. Her eyes lost their
frightened appeal, and smiled frankly into his.

"Oh, thank you, sir! There IS something you can do for me, if you
will be so kind. You see, I can't leave this place, I'm so afraid
he'll come and I'll miss him. But--I think there's some mistake.
Could you telephone for me?" Billy Neilson was country-bred, and
in Hampden Falls all men served all other men and women, whether
they were strangers or not; so to Billy this was not an extraordinary
request to make, in the least.

William Henshaw smiled.

"Certainly; I shall be very glad to telephone for you. Just tell
me whom you want, and what you want to say."

"Thank you. If you'll call up Mr. William Henshaw, then, of Beacon
Street, please, and tell him Billy's come. I'll wait here."

"Oh, then Billy did come!" cried the man in glad surprise, his face
alight. "But where is he? Do YOU know Billy?"

"I should say I did," laughed Billy, with the lightness of a long-
lost child who has found a friend. "Why, I am Billy, myself!"

To William Henshaw the world swam dizzily, and went suddenly mad.
The floor rose, and the roof fell, while cars and people performed
impossible acrobatic feats above, below, and around him. Then,
from afar off, he heard his own voice stammer:


"Yes; and I'll wait here, if you'll just tell him, please. He's
expecting me, you know, so it's all right, only perhaps he made a
mistake in the time. Maybe you know him, anyhow."

With one mighty effort William Henshaw pulled himself sharply
together. He even laughed, and tossed his head in a valiant
imitation of Billy herself; but his voice shook.

"Know him!--I should say I did!" he cried. "Why, I am William
Henshaw, myself."

"You!--Uncle William! Why, where's your pink?"

The man's face was already so red it could not get any redder--but
it tried to do so.

"Why, er--I--it--er--if you'll just come into the waiting-room a
minute, my dear," he stuttered miserably, "I--I'll explain--about
that. I shall have to leave you--for a minute," he plunged on
frenziedly, as he led the way to a seat; "A--matter of business
that I must attend to. I'll be--right back. Wait here, please!"
And he almost pushed the girl into a seat and hurried away.

At a safe distance William Henshaw turned and looked back. His
knees were shaking, and his fingers had grown cold at their tips.
He could see her plainly, as she bent over the basket in her lap.
He could see even the pretty curve of her cheek, and of her slender
throat when she lifted her head.

And that was Billy--a GIRL!

People near him at that moment saw a flushed-faced, nervous-
appearing man throw up his hands with a despairing gesture, roll
his eyes heavenward, and then plunge into the nearest telephone

In due time William Henshaw had his brother Bertram at the other
end of the wire.

"Bertram!" he called shakily.

"Hullo, Will; that you? What's the matter? You're late! Didn't
he come?"

"Come!" groaned William. "Good Lord! Bertram--Billy's a GIRL!"

"A wh-what?"

"A girl."


"Yes, yes! Don't stand there repeating what I say in that idiotic
fashion, Bertram. Do something--do something!"

"'Do something'!" gasped Bertram. "Great Scott, Will! If you want
me to do something, don't knock me silly with a blow like that.
Now what did you say?"

"I said that Billy is--a--girl. Can't you get that?" demanded
William, despairingly.

"Well, by Jove!" breathed Bertram.

"Come, come, think! What shall we do?"

"Why, bring her home, of course."

"Home--home!" chattered William. "Do you think we five men can
bring up a distractingly pretty eighteen-year-old girl with curly
cheeks and pink hair?"

"With wha-at?"

"No, no. I mean curly hair and pink cheeks. Bertram, do be
sensible," begged the man. "This is serious!"

"Serious! I should say it was! Only fancy what Cy will say! A
girl! Holy smoke! Tote her along--I want to see her!"

"But I say we can't keep her there with us, Bertram. Don't you see
we can't?"

"Then take her to Kate's, or to--to one of those Young Women's
Christian Union things."

"No, no, I can't do that. That's impossible. Don't you
understand? She's expecting to go home with me--HOME! I'm her
Uncle William."

"Lucky Uncle William!"

"Be still, Bertram!"

"Well, doesn't she know your--mistake?--that you thought she was a

"Heaven forbid!--I hope not," cried the man, fervently. "I 'most
let it out once, but I think she didn't notice it. You see, we--we
were both surprised."

"Well, I should say!"

"And, Bertram, I can't turn her out--I can't, I tell you. Only
fancy my going to her now and saying: 'If you please, Billy, you
can't live at my house, after all. I thought you were a boy, you
know!' Great Scott! Bert, if she'd once turned those big brown
eyes of hers on you as she has on me, you'd see!"

"I'd be delighted, I'm sure," sung a merry voice across the wires.
"Sounds real interesting!"

"Bertram, can't you be serious and help me out?"

"But what CAN we do?"

"I don't know. We'll have to think; but for now, get Kate.
Telephone her. Tell her to come right straight over, and that
she's got to stay all night."

"All night!"

"Of course! Billy's got to have a chaperon; hasn't she? Now
hurry. We shall be up right away."

"Kate's got company."

"Never mind--leave 'em. Tell her she's got to leave 'em. And tell
Cyril, of course, what to expect. And, look a-here, you two
behave, now. None of your nonsense! Now mind. I'm not going to
have this child tormented."

"I won't bat an eyelid--on my word, I won't," chuckled Bertram.
"But, oh, I say,--Will!"


"What's Spunk?"

"Eh?--oh--Great Scott! I forgot Spunk. I don't know. She's got a
basket. He's in that, I suppose. Anyhow, he can't be any more of
a bombshell than his mistress was. Now be quick, and none of your
fooling, Bertram. Tell them all--Pete and Dong Ling. Don't
forget. I wouldn't have Billy find out for the world! Fix it up
with Kate. You'll have to fix it up with her; that's all!" And
there came the sharp click of the receiver against the hook.



In the soft April twilight Cyril was playing a dreamy waltz when
Bertram knocked, and pushed open the door.

"Say, old chap, you'll have to quit your mooning this time and sit
up and take notice."

"What do you mean?" Cyril stopped playing and turned abruptly.

"I mean that Will has gone crazy, and I think the rest of us are
going to follow suit."

Cyril shrugged his shoulders and whirled about on the piano stool.
In a moment his fingers had slid once more into the dreamy waltz.

"When you get ready to talk sense, I'll listen," he said coldly.

"Oh, very well; if you really want it broken gently, it's this:
Will has met Billy, and Billy is a girl. They're due here now
'most any time."

The music stopped with a crash.


"Yes, a girl. Oh, I've been all through that, and I know how you
feel. But as near as I can make out, it's really so. I've had
instructions to tell everybody, and I've told. I got Kate on the
telephone, and she's coming over. You KNOW what SHE'LL be. Dong
Ling is having what I suppose are Chinese hysterics in the kitchen;
and Pete is swinging back and forth like a pendulum in the dining-
room, moaning 'Good Lord, deliver us!' at every breath. I would
suggest that you follow me down-stairs so that we may be decently
ready for--whatever comes." And he turned about and stalked out of
the room, followed by Cyril, who was too stunned to open his lips.

Kate came first. She was not stunned. She had a great deal to

"Really, this is a little the most absurd thing I ever heard of,"
she fumed. "What in the world does your brother mean?"

That she quite ignored her own relationship to the culprit was not
lost on Bertram. He made instant response.

"As near as I can make out," he replied smoothly, "YOUR brother has
fallen under the sway of a pair of great dark eyes, two pink
cheeks, and an unknown quantity of curly hair, all of which in its
entirety is his namesake, is lonesome, and is in need of a home."

"But she can't live--here!"

"Will says she shall."

"But that is utter nonsense," cut in Cyril.

"For once I agree with you, Cyril," laughed Bertram; "but William

"But how can she do it?" demanded Kate.

"Don't know," answered Bertram. "He's established a petticoat
propriety in you for a few hours, at least. Meanwhile, he's going
to think. At least, he says he is, and that we've got to help

"Humph!" snapped Kate. "Well, I can prophesy we sha'n't think
alike--so you'd notice it!"

"I know that," nodded Bertram; "and I'm with you and Cyril on this.
The whole thing is absurd. The idea of thrusting a silly,
eighteen-year-old girl here into our lives in this fashion! But
you know what Will is when he's really roused. You might as well
try to move a nice good-natured mountain by saying 'please,' as to
try to stir him under certain circumstances. Most of the time,
I'll own, we can twist him around our little fingers. But not now.
You'll see. In the first place, she's the daughter of his dead
friend, and she DID write a pathetic little letter. It got to the
inside of me, anyhow, when I thought she was a boy."

"A boy! Who wouldn't think she was a boy?" interposed Cyril.
"'Billy,' indeed! Can you tell me what for any sane man should
have named a girl 'Billy'?"

"For William, your brother, evidently," retorted Bertram, dryly.
"Anyhow, he did it, and of course our mistake was a very natural
one. The dickens of it is now that we've got to keep it from her,
so Will says; and how--hush! here they are," he broke off, as there
came the sound of wheels stopping before the house.

There followed the click of a key in the lock and the opening of a
heavy door; then, full in the glare of the electric lights stood a
plainly nervous man, and a girl with startled, appealing eyes.

"My dear," stammered William, "this is my sister, Kate, Mrs.
Hartwell; and here are Cyril and Bertram, whom I've told you of.
And of course I don't need to say to them that you are Billy."

It was over. William drew a long breath, and gave an agonized look
into his brothers' eyes. Then Billy turned from Mrs. Hartwell and
held out a cordial hand to each of the men in turn.

"Oh, you don't know how lovely this is--to me," she cried softly.
"And to think that you were willing I should come!" The two
younger men caught their breath sharply, and tried not to see each
other's eyes. "You look so good--all of you; and I don't believe
there's one of you that's got nerves or a heart," she laughed.

Bertram rallied his wits to respond to the challenge.

"No heart, Miss Billy? Now isn't that just a bit hard on us--right
at first?"

"Not a mite, if you take it the way I mean it," dimpled Billy.
"Hearts that are all right just keep on pumping, and you never know
they are there. They aren't worth mentioning. It's the other
kind--the kind that flutters at the least noise and jumps at the
least bang! And I don't believe any of you mind noises and bangs,"
she finished merrily, as she handed her hat and coat to Mrs.
Hartwell, who was waiting to receive them.

Bertram laughed. Cyril scowled, and occupied himself in finding a
chair. William had already dropped himself wearily on to the sofa
near his sister. Billy still continued to talk.

"Now when Spunk and I get to training--oh, and you haven't seen
Spunk!" she interrupted herself suddenly. "Why, the introductions
aren't half over. Where is he, Uncle William--the basket?"

"I--I put it in--in the hall," mumbled William, starting to rise.

"No, no; I'll get him," cried Billy, hurrying from the room. She
returned in a moment, the green covered basket in her hand. "He's
been asleep, I guess. He's slept 'most all the way down, anyhow.
He's so used to being toted 'round in this basket that he doesn't
mind it a bit. I take him everywhere in it at the Falls."

There was an electric pause. Four pairs of startled, questioning,
fearful eyes were on the basket while Billy fumbled at the knot of
the string. The next moment, with a triumphant flourish, Billy
lifted from the basket and placed on the floor a very small gray
kitten with a very large pink bow.

"There, ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, Spunk."

The tiny creature winked and blinked, and balanced for a moment on
sleepy legs; then at the uncontrollable shout that burst from
Bertram's throat, he faced the man, humped his tiny back, bristled
his diminutive tail to almost unbelievable fluffiness, and spit

"And so that is Spunk!" choked Bertram.

"Yes," said Billy. "This is Spunk."



For the first fifteen minutes after Billy's arrival conversation
was a fitful thing made up mostly of a merry monologue on the part
of Billy herself, interspersed with somewhat dazed replies from one
after another of her auditors as she talked to them in turn. No
one thought to ask if she cared to go up to her room, and during
the entire fifteen minutes Billy sat on the floor with Spunk in her
lap. She was still there when the funereal face of Pete appeared
in the doorway. Pete's jaw dropped. It was plain that only the
sternest self-control enabled him to announce dinner, with anything
like dignity. But he managed to stammer out the words, and then
turn loftily away. Bertram, who sat near the door, however, saw
him raise his hands in horror as he plunged through the hall and
down the stairway.

With a motion to Bertram to lead the way with Billy, William
frenziedly gripped his sister's arm, and hissed in her ear for all
the world like a villain in melodrama:

"Listen! You'll sleep in Bert's room to-night, and Bert will come
up-stairs with me. Get Billy to bed as soon as you can after
dinner, and then come back down to us. We've got to plan what's
got to be done. Sh-h!" And he dragged his sister downstairs.

In the dining-room there was a slight commotion. Billy stood at
her chair with Spunk in her arms. Before her Pete was standing,
dumbly staring into her eyes. At last he stammered:


"A chair, please, I said, for Spunk, you know. Spunk always sits
at the table right next to me."

It was too much for Bertram. He fled chokingly to the hall.
William dropped weakly into his own place. Cyril stared as had
Pete; but Mrs. Hartwell spoke.

"You don't mean--that that cat--has a chair--at the table!" she

"Yes; and isn't it cute of him?" beamed Billy, entirely misconstruing
the surprise in the lady's voice. "His mother always sat at table
with us, and behaved beautifully, too. Of course Spunk is little,
and makes mistakes sometimes. But he'll learn. Oh, there's a chair
right here," she added, as she spied Bertram's childhood's
high-chair, which for long years had stood unused in the corner.
"I'll just squeeze it right in here," she finished gleefully, making
room for the chair at her side.

When Bertram, a little red of face, but very grave, entered, the
dining-room a moment later, he found the family seated with Spunk
snugly placed between Billy and a plainly disgusted and dismayed
brother, Cyril. The kitten was alert and interested; but he had
settled back in his chair, and was looking as absurdly dignified as
the flaring pink bow would let him.

"Isn't he a dear?" Billy was saying. But Bertram noticed that
there was no reply to this question.

It was a peculiar dinner-party. Only Billy did not feel the
strain. Even Spunk was not entirely happy--his efforts to
investigate the table and its contents were too frequently curbed
by his mistress for his unalloyed satisfaction. William, it is
true, made a valiant attempt to cause the conversation to be
general; but he failed dismally. Kate was sternly silent, while
Cyril was openly repellent. Bertram talked, indeed--but Bertram
always talked; and very soon he and Billy had things pretty much to
themselves--that is, with occasional interruptions caused by Spunk.
Spunk had an inquisitive nose or paw for each new dish placed
before his mistress; and Billy spent much time admonishing him.
Billy said she was training him; that it was wonderful what
training would do, and, of course, Spunk WAS little, now.

Dinner was half over when there was a slight diversion created by
Spunk's conclusion to get acquainted with the silent man at his
left. Cyril, however, did not respond to Spunk's advances. So
very evident, indeed, was the man's aversion that Billy turned in

"Why, Mr. Cyril, don't you see? Spunk is trying to say 'How do you

"Very likely; but I'm not fond of cats, Miss Billy."

"You're not fond--of--cats!" repeated the girl, as if she could not
have heard aright. "Why not?"

Cyril changed his position.

"Why, just because I--I'm not," he retorted lamely. "Isn't there
anything that--that you don't like?"

Billy considered.

"Why, not that I know of," she began, after a moment, "only rainy
days and--tripe. And Spunk isn't a bit like those."

Bertram chuckled, and even Cyril smiled--though unwillingly.

"All the same," he reiterated, "I don't like cats."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," lamented Billy; and at the grieved hurt in her
dark eyes Bertram came promptly to the rescue.

"Never mind, Miss Billy. Cyril is only ONE of us, and there is all
the rest of the Strata besides."


"The Strata. You don't know, of course, but listen, and I'll tell
you." And he launched gaily forth into his favorite story.

Billy was duly amused and interested. She laughed and clapped her
hands, and when the story was done she clapped them again.

"Oh, what a funny house! And how perfectly lovely that I'm going
to live in it," she cried. Then straight at Mrs. Hartwell she
hurled a bombshell. "But where is your stratum?" she demanded.
"Mr. Bertram didn't mention a thing about you!"

Cyril said a sharp word under his breath. Bertram choked over a
cough. Kate threw into William's eyes a look that was at once
angry, accusing, and despairing. Then William spoke.

"Er--she--it isn't anywhere, my dear," he stammered; "or rather, it
isn't here. Kate lives up on the Avenue, you see, and is only here
for--for a day or two--just now."

"Oh!" murmured Billy. And there was not one in the room at that
moment who did not bless Spunk--for Spunk suddenly leaped to the
table before him; and in the ensuing confusion his mistress quite
forgot to question further concerning Mrs. Hartwell's stratum.

Dinner over, the three men, with their sister and Billy, trailed
up-stairs to the drawing-rooms. Billy told them, then, of her life
at Hampden Falls. She cried a little at the mention of Aunt Ella;
and she portrayed very vividly the lonely life from which she
herself had so gladly escaped. She soon had every one laughing,
even Cyril, over her stories of the lawyer's home that might have
been hers, with its gloom and its hush and its socketed chairs.

As soon as possible, however, Mrs. Hartwell, with a murmured "I
know you must be tired, Billy," suggested that the girl go up-
stairs to her room. "Come," she added, "I will show you the way."

There was some delay, even then, for Spunk had to be provided with
sleeping quarters; and it was not without some hesitation that
Billy finally placed the kitten in the reluctant hands of Pete, who
had been hastily summoned. Then she turned and followed Mrs.
Hartwell up-stairs.

It seemed to the three men in the drawing-room that almost
immediately came the piercing shriek, and the excited voice of
their sister in expostulation. Without waiting for more they
leaped to the stairway and hurried up, two steps at a time.

"For heaven's sake, Kate, what is it?" panted William, who had been
outdistanced by his more agile brothers.

Kate was on her feet, her face the picture of distressed amazement.
In the low chair by the window Billy sat where she had flung
herself, her hands over her face. Her shoulders were shaking, and
from her throat came choking little cries.

"I don't know," quavered Kate. "I haven't the least idea. She was
all right till she got up-stairs here, and I turned on the lights.
Then she gave one shriek and--you know all I know."

William advanced hurriedly.

"Billy, what is the matter? What are you crying for?" he demanded.

Billy dropped her hands then, and they saw her face. She was not
crying. She was laughing. She was laughing so she could scarcely

"Oh, you did, you did!" she gurgled. "I thought you did, and now I

"Did what? What do you mean?" William's usually gentle voice was
sharp. Even William's nerves were beginning to feel the strain of
the last few hours.

"Thought I was a--b-boy!" choked Billy. "You called me 'he' once
in the station--I thought you did; but I wasn't sure--not till I
saw this room. But now I know--I know!" And off she went into
another hysterical gale of laughter--Billy's nerves, too, were
beginning to respond to the excitement of the last few hours.

As to the three men and the woman, they stood silent, helpless,
looking into each other's faces with despairing eyes.

In a moment Billy was on her feet, fluttering about the room,
touching this thing, looking at that. Nothing escaped her.

"I'm to fish--and shoot--and fence!" she crowed. "And, oh!--look
at those knives! U-ugh! . . . And, my! what are these?" she
cried, pouncing on the Indian clubs. "And look at the spiders!
Dear, dear, I AM glad they're dead, anyhow," she shuddered with a
nervous laugh that was almost a sob.

Something in Billy's voice stirred Mrs. Hartwell to sudden action.

"Come, come, this will never do," she protested authoritatively,
motioning her brothers to leave the room. "Billy is quite tired
out, and needs rest. She mustn't talk another bit to-night."

"Of c-course not," stammered William. And only too glad of an
excuse to withdraw from a very embarrassing situation, the three
men called back a faltering good-night, and precipitately fled



"Well, William," greeted Kate, grimly, when she came into the
drawing-room, after putting her charge to bed, "have you had
enough, now?"

"'Enough'! What do you mean?"

Kate raised her eyebrows.

"Why, surely, you're not thinking NOW that you can keep this girl
here; are you?"

"I don't know why not."


"Well, where shall she go? Will you take her?"

"I? Certainly not," declared Kate, with decision. "I'm sure I see
no reason why I should."

"No more do I see why William should, either," cut in Cyril.

"Oh, come, what's the use," interposed Bertram. "Let her stay.
She's a nice little thing, I'm sure."

Cyril and Kate turned sharply.

"Bertram!" The cry was a duet of angry amazement. Then Kate
added: "It seems that you, too, have come under the sway of dark
eyes, pink cheeks, and an unknown quantity of curly hair!"

Bertram laughed.

"Oh, well, she would be nice to--er--paint," he murmured.

"See here, children," demurred William, a little sternly, "all this
is wasting time. There is no way out of it. I wouldn't be seen
turning that homeless child away now. We must keep her; that's
settled. The question is, how shall it be done? We must have some
woman friend here to be her companion, of course; but whom shall we

Kate sighed, and looked her dismay. Bertram threw a glance into
Cyril's eyes, and made an expressive gesture.

"You see," it seemed to say. "I told you how it would be!"

"Now whom shall we get?" questioned William again. "We must

Unattached gentlewomen of suitable age and desirable temper did not
prove to be so numerous among the Henshaws' acquaintances, however,
as to make the selection of a chaperon very easy. Several were
thought of and suggested; but in each case the candidate was found
to possess one or more characteristics that made the idea of her
presence utterly abhorrent to some one of the brothers. At last
William expostulated:

"See here, boys, we aren't any nearer a settlement than we were in
the first place. There isn't any woman, of course, who would
exactly suit all of us; and so we shall just have to be willing to
take some one who doesn't."

"The trouble is," explained Bertram, airily, "we want some one who
will be invisible to every one except the world and Billy, and who
will be inaudible always."

"I don't know but you are right," sighed William. "But suppose we
settle on Aunt Hannah. She seems to be the least objectionable of
the lot, and I think she'd come. She's alone in the world, and I
believe the comfortable roominess of this house would be very
grateful to her after the inconvenience of her stuffy little room
over at the Back Bay."

"You bet it would!" murmured Bertram, feelingly; but William did
not appear to hear him.

"She's amiable, fairly sensible, and always a lady," he went on;
"and to-morrow morning I believe I'll run over and see if she can't
come right away."

"And may I ask which--er--stratum she--they--will occupy?" smiled

"You may ask, but I'm afraid you won't find out very soon,"
retorted William, dryly, "if we take as long to decide that matter
as we have the rest of it."

"Er--Cyril has the most--UNOCCUPIED space," volunteered Bertram,

"Indeed!" retaliated Cyril. "Suppose you let me speak for myself!
Of course, so far as truck is concerned, I'm not in it with you and
Will. But as for the USE I put my rooms to--! Besides, I already
have Pete there, and would have Dong Ling probably, if he slept
here. However, if you want any of my rooms, don't let my petty
wants and wishes interfere--"

"No, no," interrupted William, in quick conciliation. "We don't
want your rooms, Cyril. Aunt Hannah abhors stairs. Of course I
might move, I suppose. My rooms are one flight less; but if I only
didn't have so many things!"

"Oh, you men!" shrugged Kate, wearily. "Why don't you ask my
opinion sometimes? It seems to me that in this case a woman's wit
might be of some help!"

"All right, go ahead!" nodded William.

Kate leaned forward eagerly--Kate loved to "manage."

"Go easy, now," cautioned Bertram, warily. "You know a strata,
even one as solid as ours, won't stand too much of an earthquake!"

"It isn't an earthquake at all," sniffed Kate. "It's a very
sensible move all around. Here are these two great drawing-rooms,
the library, and the little reception-room across the hall, and not
one of them is ever used but this. Of course the women wouldn't
like to sleep down here, but why don't you, Bertram, take the back
drawing-room, the library, and the little reception-room for yours,
and leave the whole of the second floor for Billy and Aunt Hannah?"

"Good for you, Kate," cried Bertram, appreciatively. "You've hit
it square on the head, and we'll do it. I'll move to-morrow. The
light down here is just as good as it is up-stairs--if you let it

"Thank you, Bertram, and you, too, Kate," breathed William,
fervently. "Now, if you don't mind, I believe I'll go to bed. I
am tired!"



As soon as possible after breakfast William went to see Aunt

Hannah Stetson was not really William's aunt, though she had been
called Aunt Hannah for years. She was the widow of a distant
cousin, and she lived in a snug little room in a Back Bay boarding-
house. She was a slender, white-haired woman with kind blue eyes,
and a lovable smile. Her cheeks were still faintly pink, and her
fine silver-white hair broke into little kinks and curls about her
ears. According to Bertram she always made one think of "lavender
and old lace."

She welcomed William cordially this morning, though with faint
surprise in her eyes.

"Yes, I know I'm an early caller, and an unexpected one," began
William, hurriedly. "And I shall have to plunge straight into the
matter, too, for there isn't time to preamble. I've taken an
eighteen-year-old girl to bring up, Aunt Hannah, and I want you to
come down and live with us to chaperon her."

"My grief and conscience, WILLIAM!" gasped the little woman,

"Yes, yes, I know, Aunt Hannah, everything you would say if you
could. But please skip the hysterics. We've all had them, and
Kate has already used every possible adjective that you could think
up. Now it's just this." And he hurriedly gave Mrs. Stetson a
full account of the case, and told her plainly what he hoped and
expected that she would do for him.

"Why, yes, of course--I'll come," acquiesced the lady, a little
breathlessly, "if--if you are sure you're going to--keep her."

"Good! And remember I said 'now,' please--that I wanted you to
come right away, to-day. Of course Kate can't stay. Just get in
half a dozen women to help you pack, and come."

"Half a dozen women in that little room, William--impossible!"

"Well, I only meant to get enough so you could come right off this

"But I don't need them, William. There are only my clothes and
books, and such things. You know it is a FURNISHED room."

"All right, all right, Aunt Hannah. I wanted to make sure you
hurried, that's all. You see, I don't want Billy to suspect just
how much she's upsetting us. I've asked Kate to take her over to
her house for the day, while Bertram is moving down-stairs, and
while we're getting you settled. I--I think you'll like it there,
Aunt Hannah," added William, anxiously. "Of course Billy's got
Spunk, but--" he hesitated, and smiled a little.

"Got what?" faltered the other.

"Spunk. Oh, I don't mean THAT kind," laughed William, in answer to
the dismayed expression on his aunt's face. "Spunk is a cat."

"A cat!--but such a name, William! I--I think we'll change that."

"Eh? Oh, you do," murmured William, with a curious smile. "Very
well; be that as it may. Anyhow, you're coming, and we shall want
you all settled by dinner time," he finished, as he picked up his
hat to go.

With Kate, Billy spent the long day very contentedly in Kate's
beautiful Commonwealth Avenue home. The two boys, Paul, twelve
years old, and Egbert, eight, were a little shy, it is true, and
not really of much use as companions; but there was a little Kate,
four years old, who proved to be wonderfully entertaining.

Billy was not much used to children, and she found this four-year-
old atom of humanity to be a great source of interest and
amusement. She even told Mrs. Hartwell at parting that little Kate
was almost as nice as Spunk--which remark, oddly enough, did not
appear to please Mrs. Hartwell to the extent that Billy thought
that it would.

At the Beacon Street house Billy was presented at once to Mrs.

"And you are to call me 'Aunt Hannah,' my dear," said the little
woman, graciously, "just as the boys do."

"Thank you," dimpled Billy, "and you don't know, Aunt Hannah, how
good it seems to me to come into so many relatives, all at once!"

Upon going up-stairs Billy found her room somewhat changed. It was
far less warlike, and the case of spiders had been taken away.

"And this will be your stratum, you know," announced Bertram from
the stairway, "yours and Aunt Hannah's. You're to have this whole
floor. Will and Cyril are above, and I'm down-stairs."

"You are? Why, I thought you--were--here." Billy's face was

"Here? Oh, well, I did have--some things here," he retorted
airily; "but I took them all away to-day. You see, my stratum is
down-stairs, and it doesn't do to mix the layers. By the way, you
haven't been up-stairs yet; have you? Come on, and I'll show you--
and you, too, Aunt Hannah."

Billy clapped her hands; but Aunt Hannah shook her head.

"I'll leave that for younger feet than mine," she said; adding
whimsically: "It's best sometimes that one doesn't try to step too
far off one's own level, you know."

"All right," laughed the man. "Come on, Miss Billy."

On the door at the head of the stairs he tapped twice, lightly.

"Well, Pete," called Cyril's voice, none too cordially.

"Pete, indeed!" scoffed Bertram. "You've got company, young man.
Open the door. Miss Billy is viewing the Strata."

The bare floor echoed to a quick tread, then the door opened and
Cyril faced them with a forced smile on his lips.

"Come in--though I fear there will be little--to see," he said.

Bertram assumed a pompous attitude.

"Ladies and gentlemen; you behold here the lion in his lair."

"Be still, Bertram," ordered Cyril.

"He is a lion, really," confided Bertram, in a lower voice; "but as
he prefers it, we'll just call him 'the Musical Man.'"

"I should think I was some sort of music-box that turned with a
crank," bristled Cyril.

Bertram grinned.

"A--CRANK, did you say? Well, even I wouldn't have quite dared to
say that, you know!"

With an impatient gesture Cyril turned on his heel. Bertram fell
once more into his pompous attitude.

"Before you is the Man's workshop," he orated. "At your right you
see his instruments of tor-- I mean, his instruments: a piano,
flute, etc. At your left is the desk with its pens, paper,
erasers, ink and postage stamps. I mention these because there
are--er--so few things to mention here. Beyond, through the open
door, one may catch glimpses of still other rooms; but they hold
even less than this one holds. Tradition doth assert, however,
that in one is a couch-bed, and in another, two chairs."

Billy listened silently. Her eyes were questioning. She was not
quite sure how to take Bertram's words; and the bare rooms and
their stern-faced master filled her with a vague pity. But the
pause that followed Bertram's nonsense seemed to be waiting for her
to fill it.

"Oh, I should like to hear you--play, Mr. Cyril," she stammered.
Then, gathering courage. "CAN you play 'The Maiden's Prayer'?"

Bertram gave a cough, a spasmodic cough that sent him, red-faced,
out into the hall. From there he called:

"Can't stop for the animals to perform, Miss Billy. It's 'most
dinner time, and we've got lots to see yet."

"All right; but--sometime," nodded Billy over her shoulder to Cyril
as she turned away. "I just love that 'Maiden's Prayer'!"

"Now this is William's stratum," announced Bertram at the foot of
the stairs. "You will perceive that there is no knocking here;
William's doors are always open."

"By all means! Come in--come in," called William's cheery voice.

"Oh, my, what a lot of things!" exclaimed Billy. "My--my--what a
lot of things! How Spunk will like this room!"

Bertram chuckled; then he made a great display of drawing a long

"In the short time at our disposal," he began loftily, "it will be
impossible to point out each particular article and give its
history from the beginning; but somewhere you will find four round
white stones, which--"

"Er--yes, we know all about those white stones," interrupted
William, "and you'll please let me talk about my own things
myself!" And he beamed benevolently on the wondering-eyed girl at
Bertram's side.

"But there are so many!" breathed Billy.

"All the more chance then," smiled William, "that somewhere among
them you'll find something to interest you. Now these Chinese
ceramics, and these bronzes--maybe you'd like those," he suggested.
And with a resigned sigh and an exaggerated air of submission,
Bertram stepped back and gave way to his brother.

"And there are these miniatures, and these Japanese porcelains. Or
perhaps you'd like stamps, or theatre programs better," William
finished anxiously.

Billy did not reply. She was turning round and round, her eyes
wide and amazed. Suddenly she pounced on a beautifully decorated
teapot, and held it up in admiring hands.

"Oh, what a pretty teapot! And what a cute little plate it sets
in!" she cried.

The collector fairly bubbled over with joy.

"That's a Lowestoft--a real Lowestoft!" he crowed. "Not that hard-
paste stuff from the Orient that's CALLED Lowestoft, but the real
thing--English, you know. And that's the tray that goes with it,
too. Wonderful--how I got them both! You know they 'most always
get separated. I paid a cool hundred for them, anyhow."

"A hundred dollars for a teapot!" gasped Billy.

"Yes; and here's a nice little piece of lustre-ware. Pretty--isn't
it? And there's a fine bit of black basalt. And--"

"Er--Will," interposed Bertram, meekly.

"Oh, and here's a Castleford," cried William, paying no attention
to the interruption. "Marked, too; see? 'D. D. & Co., Castleford.'
You know there isn't much of that ware marked. This is a beauty,
too, I think. You see this pitted surface--they made that with tiny
little points set into the inner side of the mold. The design stands
out fine on this. It's one of the best I ever saw. And, oh--"

"Er--William," interposed Bertram again, a little louder this time.
"May I just say--"

"And did you notice this 'Old Blue'?" hurried on William, eagerly.
"Lid sets down in, you see--that's older than the kind where it
sets over the top. Now here's one--"

"William," almost shouted Bertram, "DINNER IS READY! Pete has
sounded the gong twice already!"

"Eh? Oh, sure enough--sure enough," acknowledged William, with a
regretful glance at his treasures. "Well, we must go, we must go."

"But I haven't seen your stratum at all," demurred Billy to her
guide, as they went down the stairway.

"Then there's something left for to-morrow," promised Bertram; "but
you must remember, I haven't got any beautiful 'Old Blues' and
'black basalts,' to say nothing of stamps and baggage tags. But
I'll make you some tea--some real tea--and that's more than William
has done, with all his hundred and one teapots!"



Spunk did not change his name; but that was perhaps the only thing
that did not meet with some sort of change during the weeks that
immediately followed Billy's arrival. Given a house, five men, and
an ironbound routine of life, and it is scarcely necessary to say
that the advent of a somewhat fussy elderly woman, an impulsive
young girl, and a very-much-alive small cat will make some
difference. As to Spunk's name--it was not Mrs. Stetson's fault
that even that was left undisturbed.

Mrs. Stetson early became acquainted with Spunk. She was
introduced to him, indeed, on the night of her arrival--though
fortunately not at table: William had seen to it that Spunk did not
appear at dinner, though to accomplish this the man had been
obliged to face the amazed and grieved indignation of the kitten's

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