"I did; besides, didn't I tell you?" she went on airily, "I think he'll marry Alice Greggory. Alice wrote me all the time I was away, and--oh, she didn't say anything definite, I'll admit," confessed Billy, with an arch smile; "but she spoke of his being there lots, and they used to know each other years ago, you see. There was almost a romance there, I think, before the Greggorys lost their money and moved away from all their friends."

"Well, he may have her. She's a nice girl--a mighty nice girl," answered Bertram, with the unmistakably satisfied air of the man who knows he himself possesses the nicest girl of them all.

Billy, reading unerringly the triumph in his voice, grew suddenly grave. She regarded her husband with a thoughtful frown; then she drew a profound sigh.

"Whew!" laughed Bertram, whimsically. "So soon as this?"

"Bertram!" Billy's voice was tragic.

"Yes, my love." The bridegroom pulled his face into sobriety; then Billy spoke, with solemn impressiveness.

"Bertram, I don't know a thing about--cooking--except what I've been learning in Rosa's cook-book this last week."

Bertram laughed so loud that the man across the aisle glanced over the top of his paper surrept.i.tiously.

"Rosa's cook-book! Is that what you were doing all this week?"

"Yes; that is--I tried so hard to learn something," stammered Billy.

"But I'm afraid I didn't--much; there were so many things for me to think of, you know, with only a week. I believe I _could_ make peach fritters, though. They were the last thing I studied."

Bertram laughed again, uproariously; but, at Billy's unchangingly tragic face, he grew suddenly very grave and tender.

"Billy, dear, I didn't marry you to--to get a cook," he said gently.

Billy shook her head.

"I know; but Aunt Hannah said that even if I never expected to cook, myself, I ought to know how it was done, so to properly oversee it. She said that--that no woman, who didn't know how to cook and keep house properly, had any business to be a wife. And, Bertram, I did try, honestly, all this week. I tried so hard to remember when you sponged bread and when you kneaded it."

"I don't ever need--_yours_," cut in Bertram, shamelessly; but he got only a deservedly stern glance in return.

"And I repeated over and over again how many cupfuls of flour and pinches of salt and spoonfuls of baking-powder went into things; but, Bertram, I simply could not keep my mind on it. Everything, everywhere was singing to me. And how do you suppose I could remember how many pinches of flour and spoonfuls of salt and cupfuls of baking-powder went into a loaf of cake when all the while the very teakettle on the stove was singing: 'It's all right--Bertram loves me--I'm going to marry Bertram!'?"

"You darling!" (In spite of the man across the aisle Bertram did almost kiss her this time.) "As if anybody cared how many cupfuls of baking-powder went anywhere--with that in your heart!"

"Aunt Hannah says you will--when you're hungry. And Kate said--"

Bertram uttered a sharp word behind his teeth.

"Billy, for heaven's sake don't tell me what Kate said, if you want me to stay sane, and not attempt to fight somebody--broken arm, and all.

Kate _thinks_ she's kind, and I suppose she means well; but--well, she's made trouble enough between us already. I've got you now, sweetheart.

You're mine--all mine--" his voice shook, and dropped to a tender whisper--"'till death us do part.'"

"Yes; 'till death us do part,'" breathed Billy.

And then, for a time, they fell silent.

"'I, Bertram, take thee, Billy,'" sang the whirring wheels beneath them, to one.

"'I, Billy, take thee, Bertram,'" sang the whirring wheels beneath them, to the other. While straight ahead before them both, stretched fair and beautiful in their eyes, the wondrous path of life which they were to tread together.

CHAPTER II. FOR WILLIAM--A HOME

On the first Sunday after the wedding Pete came up-stairs to tell his master, William, that Mrs. Stetson wanted to see him in the drawing-room.

William went down at once.

"Well, Aunt Hannah," he began, reaching out a cordial hand. "Why, what's the matter?" he broke off concernedly, as he caught a clearer view of the little old lady's drawn face and troubled eyes.

"William, it's silly, of course," cried Aunt Hannah, tremulously, "but I simply had to go to some one. I--I feel so nervous and unsettled!

Did--did Billy say anything to you--what she was going to do?"

"What she was going to do? About what? What do you mean?"

"About the house--selling it," faltered Aunt Hannah, sinking wearily back into her chair.

William frowned thoughtfully.

"Why, no," he answered. "It was all so hurried at the last, you know.

There was really very little chance to make plans for anything--except the wedding," he finished, with a smile.

"Yes, I know," sighed Aunt Hannah. "Everything was in such confusion!

Still, I didn't know but she might have said something--to you."

"No, she didn't. But I imagine it won't be hard to guess what she'll do.

When they get back from their trip I fancy she won't lose much time in having what things she wants brought down here. Then she'll sell the rest and put the house on the market."

"Yes, of--of course," stammered Aunt Hannah, pulling herself hastily to a more erect position. "That's what I thought, too. Then don't you think we'd better dismiss Rosa and close the house at once?"

"Why--yes, perhaps so. Why not? Then you'd be all settled here when she comes home. I'm sure, the sooner you come, the better I'll be pleased,"

he smiled.

Aunt Hannah turned sharply.

"Here!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "William Henshaw, you didn't suppose I was coming _here_ to live, did you?"

It was William's turn to look amazed.

"Why, of course you're coming here! Where else should you go, pray?"

"Where I was before--before Billy came--to you," returned Aunt Hannah a little tremulously, but with a certain dignity. "I shall take a room in some quiet boarding-house, of course."

"Nonsense, Aunt Hannah! As if Billy would listen to that! You came before; why not come now?"

Aunt Hannah lifted her chin the fraction of an inch.