"From ME!" William's face expressed sheer amazement.

"Certainly; on that drive when I was East in June," returned Kate, with dignity. "YOU evidently have forgotten it, but I have not. You told me very frankly how much you thought of her, and how you longed to have her back there with you, but that she didn't seem to be ready to come. I was sorry for you, and I wanted to do something to help, particularly as it might have been my fault, partly, that she went away, in the first place."

William lifted his head.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, nothing, only that I--I told her a little of how--how upsetting her arrival had been to everything, and of how much you had done for her, and put yourself out. I said it so she'd appreciate things, of course, but she took it quite differently from what I had intended she should take it, and seemed quite cut up about it. Then she went away in that wily, impulsive fashion."

William bit his lip, but he did not speak. Kate was plunging on feverishly, and in the face of the greater revelation he let the lesser one drop.

"And so that's why I was particularly anxious to bring things around right again," continued Kate. "And that's why I spoke. I thought I'd seen how things were, and on the drive I said so. Then is when I advised you to speak to Billy; but you declared that Billy wasn't ready, and that you couldn't make a girl marry against her will. NOW don't you recollect it?"

A great light of understanding broke over William's face. He started to speak, but something evidently stayed the words on his lips. With controlled deliberation he turned and sat down. Then he said:

"Kate, will you kindly tell me just what you DID do?"

"Why, I didn't do so very much. I just tried to help, that's all. After I talked with you, and advised you to ask Billy right away to marry you, I went to her. I thought she cared for you already, anyway; but I just wanted to tell her how very much it was to you, and so sort of pave the way. And now comes the part that I started to tell you a little while ago when you caught me up so sharply. I was going to say that when I told Billy this, she appeared to be surprised, and almost frightened.

You see, she hadn't known you cared for her, after all, and so I had a chance to help and make it plain to her how you did love her, so that when you spoke everything would be all right. There, that's all. You see I didn't do so very much."

"'So very much'!" groaned William, starting to his feet. "Great Scott!"

"Why, William, what do you mean? Where are you going?"

"I'm going--to--Billy," retorted William with slow distinctness.

"And I'm going to try to get there--before--you--CAN!" And with this extraordinary shot--for William--he left the house.

William went to Billy as fast as steam could carry him. He found her in her little drawing-room listlessly watching with Aunt Hannah the game of chess that Bertram and Marie were playing.

"Billy, you poor, dear child, come here," he said abruptly, as soon as the excitement of his unexpected arrival had pa.s.sed. "I want to talk to you." And he led the way to the veranda which he knew would be silent and deserted.

"To talk to--me?" murmured Billy, as she wonderingly came to his side, a startled questioning in her wide dark eyes.

CHAPTER XLI

THE CROOKED MADE STRAIGHT

William did not re-enter the house after his talk with Billy on the veranda.

"I will go down the steps and around by the rose garden to the street, dear," he said. "I'd rather not go in now. Just make my adieus, please, and say that I couldn't stay any longer. And now--good-by." His eyes as they looked down at her, were moist and very tender. His lips trembled a little, but they smiled, and there was a look of new-born peace and joy on his face.

Billy, too, was smiling, though wistfully. The frightened questioning had gone from her eyes, leaving only infinite tenderness.

"You are sure it--it is all right--now?" she stammered.

"Very sure, little girl; and it's the first time it has been right for weeks. Billy, that was very dear of you, and I love you for it; but think how near--how perilously near you came to lifelong misery!"

"But I thought--you wanted me--so much," she smiled shyly.

"And I did, and I do--for a daughter. You don't doubt that NOW?"

"No, oh, no," laughed Billy, softly; and to her face came a happy look of relief as she finished: "And I'll be so glad to be--the daughter!"

For some minutes after the man had gone, Billy stood by the steps where he had left her. She was still there when Bertram came to the veranda door and spoke to her.

"Billy, I saw William go by the window, so I knew you were alone. May I speak to you?"

The girl turned with a start.

"Why, of course! What is it?--but I thought you were playing. Where is Marie?"

"The game is finished; besides--Billy, why are you always asking me lately where Marie is, as if I were her keeper, or she mine?" he demanded, with a touch of nervous irritation.

"Why, nothing, Bertram," smiled Billy, a little wearily; "only that you were playing together a few minutes ago, and I wondered where she had gone."

"'A few minutes ago'!" echoed Bertram with sudden bitterness. "Evidently the time pa.s.sed swiftly with you, Billy. William was out here MORE than an hour."

"Why--Bertram!"

"Yes, I know. I've no business to say that, of course," sighed the man; "but, Billy, that's why I came out--because I must speak to you this once. Won't you come and sit down, please?" he implored despairingly.

"Why, Bertram," murmured Billy again, faintly, as she turned toward the vine-shaded corner and sat down. Her eyes were startled. A swift color had come to her cheeks.

"Billy," began the man, in a sternly controlled voice, "please let me speak this once, and don't try to stop me. You may think, for a moment, that it's disloyal to William if you listen; but it isn't. There's this much due to me--that you let me speak now. Billy, I can't stand it.

I've tried, but it's no use. I've got to go away, and it's right that I should. I'm not the only one that thinks so, either. Marie does, too."

"MARIE!"

"Yes. I talked it all over with her. She's known for a long time how it's been with me; how I cared--for you."

"Marie! You've told Marie that?" gasped Billy.

"Yes. Surely you don't mind Marie's knowing," went on Bertram, dejectedly. "And she's been so good to me, and tried to--help me."

Bertram was not looking at Billy now. If he had been he would have seen the incredulous joy come into her face. His eyes were moodily fixed on the floor.

"And so, Billy, I've come to tell you. I'm going away," he continued, after a moment. "I've got to go. I thought once, when I first talked with you of William, that you didn't know your own heart; that you didn't really care for him. I was even fool enough to think that--that it would be I to whom you'd turn--some day. And so I stayed. But I stayed honorably, Billy! YOU know that! You know that I haven't once forgotten--not once, that I was only William's brother. I promised you I'd be that--and I have been; haven't I?"

Billy nodded silently. Her face was turned away.

"But, Billy, I can't do it any longer. I've got to ask for my promise back, and then, of course, I can't stay."

"But you--you don't have to go--away," murmured the girl, faintly.

Bertram sprang to his feet. His face was white.