At Hillside, Aunt Hannah was, indeed, helping Rosa to put the house to rights, as Marie had said. She was crying, too, over a glove she had found on Billy's piano; but she was crying over something else, also.

Not only had she lost Billy, but she had lost her home.

To be sure, nothing had been said during that nightmare of a week of hurry and confusion about Aunt Hannah's future; but Aunt Hannah knew very well how it must be. This dear little house on the side of Corey Hill was Billy's home, and Billy would not need it any longer. It would be sold, of course; and she, Aunt Hannah, would go back to a "second-story front" and loneliness in some Back Bay boarding-house; and a second story front and loneliness would not be easy now, after these years of home--and Billy.

No wonder, indeed, that Aunt Hannah sat crying and patting the little white glove in her hand. No wonder, too, that--being Aunt Hannah--she reached for the shawl near by and put it on, shiveringly. Even July, to-night, was cold--to Aunt Hannah.

In yet another home that evening was the wedding of Billy Neilson and Bertram Henshaw uppermost in thought and speech. In a certain little South-End flat where, in two rented rooms, lived Alice Greggory and her crippled mother, Alice was talking to Mr. M. J. Arkwright, commonly known to his friends as "Mary Jane," owing to the mystery in which he had for so long shrouded his name.

Arkwright to-night was plainly moody and ill at ease.

"You're not listening. You're not listening at all," complained Alice Greggory at last, reproachfully.

With a visible effort the man roused himself.

"Indeed I am," he maintained.

"I thought you'd be interested in the wedding. You used to be friends--you and Billy." The girl's voice still vibrated with reproach.

There was a moment's silence; then, a little harshly, the man said:

"Perhaps--because I wanted to be more than--a friend--is why you're not satisfied with my interest now."

A look that was almost terror came to Alice Greggory's eyes. She flushed painfully, then grew very white.

"You mean--"

"Yes," he nodded dully, without looking up. "I cared too much for her. I supposed Henshaw was just a friend--till too late."

There was a breathless hush before, a little unsteadily, the girl stammered:

"Oh, I'm so sorry--so very sorry! I--I didn't know."

"No, of course you didn't. I've almost told you, though, lots of times; you've been so good to me all these weeks." He raised his head now, and looked at her, frank comradeship in his eyes.

The girl stirred restlessly. Her eyes swerved a little under his level gaze.

"Oh, but I've done nothing--n-nothing," she stammered. Then, at the light tap of crutches on a bare floor she turned in obvious relief. "Oh, here's mother. She's been in visiting with Mrs. Delano, our landlady.

Mother, Mr. Arkwright is here."

Meanwhile, speeding north as fast as steam could carry them, were the bride and groom. The wondrousness of the first hour of their journey side by side had become a joyous cert.i.tude that always it was to be like this now.

"Bertram," began the bride, after a long minute of eloquent silence.

"Yes, love."

"You know our wedding was very different from most weddings."

"Of course it was!"

"Yes, but _really_ it was. Now listen." The bride's voice grew tenderly earnest. "I think our marriage is going to be different, too."

"Different?"

"Yes." Billy's tone was emphatic. "There are so many common, everyday marriages where--where--Why, Bertram, as if you could ever be to me like--like Mr. Carleton is, for instance!"

"Like Mr. Carleton is--to you?" Bertram's voice was frankly puzzled.

"No, no! As Mr. Carleton is to Mrs. Carleton, I mean."

"Oh!" Bertram subsided in relief.

"And the Grahams and Whartons, and the Freddie Agnews, and--and a lot of others. Why, Bertram, I've seen the Grahams and the Whartons not even speak to each other a whole evening, when they've been at a dinner, or something; and I've seen Mrs. Carleton not even seem to know her husband came into the room. I don't mean quarrel, dear. Of course we'd never _quarrel!_ But I mean I'm sure we shall never get used to--to you being you, and I being I."

"Indeed we sha'n't," agreed Bertram, rapturously.

"Ours is going to be such a beautiful marriage!"

"Of course it will be."

"And we'll be so happy!"

"I shall be, and I shall try to make you so."

"As if I could be anything else," sighed Billy, blissfully. "And now we _can't_ have any misunderstandings, you see."

"Of course not. Er--what's that?"

"Why, I mean that--that we can't ever repeat hose miserable weeks of misunderstanding. Everything is all explained up. I _know_, now, that you don't love Miss Winthrop, or just girls--any girl--to paint. You love me. Not the tilt of my chin, nor the turn of my head; but _me_."

"I do--just you." Bertram's eyes gave the caress his lips would have given had it not been for the presence of the man in the seat across the aisle of the sleeping-car.

"And you--you know now that I love you--just you?"

"Not even Arkwright?"

"Not even Arkwright," smiled Billy.

There was the briefest of hesitations; then, a little constrainedly, Bertram asked:

"And you said you--you never _had_ cared for Arkwright, didn't you?"

For the second time in her life Billy was thankful that Bertram's question had turned upon _her_ love for Arkwright, not Arkwright's love for her. In Billy's opinion, a man's unrequited love for a girl was his secret, not hers, and was certainly one that the girl had no right to tell. Once before Bertram had asked her if she had ever cared for Arkwright, and then she had answered emphatically, as she did now:

"Never, dear."

"I thought you said so," murmured Bertram, relaxing a little.