"I'm afraid I'll have to take it, Pete, unless you want to carry it back with you," she smiled. "I'll see that Miss Hawthorn has it the very first moment she comes in."

"Thank you, Miss. It does my old eyes good to see your bright face." He hesitated, then turned slowly. "Good day, Miss Billy."

Billy laid the package on the table. Her eyes were thoughtful as she looked after the old man, who was now almost to the door. Something in his bowed form appealed to her strangely. She took a quick step toward him.

"You'll miss Mr. Cyril, Pete," she said pleasantly.

The old man stopped at once and turned. He lifted his head a little proudly.

"Yes, Miss. I--I was there when he was born. Mr. Cyril's a fine man."

"Indeed he is. Perhaps it's your good care that's helped, some--to make him so," smiled the girl, vaguely wishing that she could say something that would drive the wistful look from the dim old eyes before her.

For a moment Billy thought she had succeeded. The old servant drew himself stiffly erect. In his eyes shone the loyal pride of more than fifty years' honest service. Almost at once, however, the pride died away, and the wistfulness returned.

"Thank ye, Miss; but I don't lay no claim to that, of course," he said.

"Mr. Cyril's a fine man, and we shall miss him; but--I cal'late changes must come--to all of us."

Billy's brown eyes grew a little misty.

"I suppose they must," she admitted.

The old man hesitated; then, as if impelled by some hidden force, he plunged on:

"Yes; and they'll be comin' to you one of these days, Miss, and that's what I was wantin' to speak to ye about. I understand, of course, that when you get there you'll be wantin' younger blood to serve ye. My feet ain't so spry as they once was, and my old hands blunder sometimes, in spite of what my head bids 'em do. So I wanted to tell ye--that of course I shouldn't expect to stay. I'd go."

As he said the words, Pete stood with head and shoulders erect, his eyes looking straight forward but not at Billy.

"Don't you _want_ to stay?" The girlish voice was a little reproachful.

Pete's head drooped.

"Not if--I'm not wanted," came the husky reply.

With an impulsive movement Billy came straight to the old man's side and held out her hand.

"Pete!"

Amazement, incredulity, and a look that was almost terror crossed the old man's face; then a flood of dull red blotted them all out and left only worshipful rapture. With a choking cry he took the slim little hand in both his rough and twisted ones much as if he were possessing himself of a treasured bit of eggsh.e.l.l china.

"Miss Billy!"

"Pete, there aren't a pair of feet in Boston, nor a pair of hands, either, that I'd rather have serve me than yours, no matter if they stumble and blunder all day! I shall love stumbles and blunders--if you make them. Now run home, and don't ever let me hear another syllable about your leaving!"

They were not the words Billy had intended to say. She had meant to speak of his long, faithful service, and of how much they appreciated it; but, to her surprise, Billy found her own eyes wet and her own voice trembling, and the words that she would have said she found fast shut in her throat. So there was nothing to do but to stammer out something--anything, that would help to keep her from yielding to that absurd and awful desire to fall on the old servant's neck and cry.

"Not another syllable!" she repeated sternly.

"Miss Billy!" choked Pete again. Then he turned and fled with anything but his usual dignity.

Bertram called that evening. When Billy came to him in the living-room, her slender self was almost hidden behind the swirls of damask linen in her arms.

Bertram's eyes grew mutinous.

"Do you expect me to hug all that?" he demanded.

Billy flashed him a mischievous glance.

"Of course not! You don't _have_ to hug anything, you know."

For answer he impetuously swept the offending linen into the nearest chair and drew the girl into his arms.

"Oh! And see how you've crushed poor Marie's table-cloth!" she cried, with reproachful eyes.

Bertram sniffed imperturbably.

"I'm not sure but I'd like to crush Marie," he alleged.

"Bertram!"

"I can't help it. See here, Billy." He loosened his clasp and held the girl off at arm's length, regarding her with stormy eyes. "It's Marie, Marie, Marie--always. If I telephone in the morning, you've gone shopping with Marie. If I want you in the afternoon for something, you're at the dressmaker's with Marie. If I call in the evening--"

"I'm here," interrupted Billy, with decision.

"Oh, yes, you're here," admitted Bertram, aggrievedly, "and so are dozens of napkins, miles of table-cloths, and yards upon yards of lace and flummydiddles you call 'doilies.' They all belong to Marie, and they fill your arms and your thoughts full, until there isn't an inch of room for me. Billy, when is this thing going to end?"

Billy laughed softly. Her eyes danced.

"The twelfth;--that is, there'll be a--pause, then."

"Well, I'm thankful if--eh?" broke off the man, with a sudden change of manner. "What do you mean by 'a pause'?"

Billy cast down her eyes demurely.

"Well, of course _this_ ends the twelfth with Marie's wedding; but I've sort of regarded it as an--understudy for one that's coming next October, you see."

"Billy, you darling!" breathed a supremely happy voice in a sh.e.l.l-like ear--Billy was not at arm's length now.

Billy smiled, but she drew away with gentle firmness.

"And now I must go back to my sewing," she said.

Bertram's arms did not loosen. His eyes had grown mutinous again.

"That is," she amended, "I must be practising my part of--the understudy, you know."

"You darling!" breathed Bertram again; this time, however, he let her go.

"But, honestly, is it all necessary?" he sighed despairingly, as she seated herself and gathered the table-cloth into her lap. "Do you have to do so much of it all?"