Billy was wondering which she herself desired more--that Uncle William should buy the Lowestoft, or that he should not. She knew she wished Mrs. Greggory to have the hundred dollars. There was no doubt on that point. Then Uncle William spoke. His words carried the righteous indignation of the man who thinks he has been unjustly treated, and the final plea of the collector who sees a coveted treasure slipping from his grasp.

"I am very sorry, of course, if my offer has annoyed you," he said stiffly. "I certainly should not have made it had I not had Mrs.

Greggory's a.s.surance that she wished to sell the teapot."

Alice Greggory turned as if stung.

"_Wished to sell!_" She repeated the words with superb disdain. She was plainly very angry. Her blue-gray eyes gleamed with scorn, and her whole face was suffused with a red that had swept to the roots of her soft hair. "Do you think a woman _wishes_ to sell a thing that she's treasured all her life, a thing that is perhaps the last visible reminder of the days when she was living--not merely existing?"

"Alice, Alice, my love!" protested the sweet-faced cripple, agitatedly.

"I can't help it," stormed the girl, hotly. "I know how much you think of that teapot that was grandmother's. I know what it cost you to make up your mind to sell it at all. And then to hear these people talk about your _wishing_ to sell it! Perhaps they think, too, we _wish_ to live in a place like this; that we _wish_ to have rugs that are darned, and chairs that are broken, and garments that are patches instead of clothes!"

"Alice!" gasped Mrs. Greggory in dismayed horror.

With a little outward fling of her two hands Alice Greggory stepped back. Her face had grown white again.

"I beg your pardon, of course," she said in a voice that was bitterly quiet. "I should not have spoken so. You are very kind, Mr. Henshaw, but I do not think we care to sell the Lowestoft to-day."

Both words and manner were obviously a dismissal; and with a puzzled sigh William Henshaw picked up his hat. His face showed very clearly that he did not know what to do, or what to say; but it showed, too, as clearly, that he longed to do something, or say something. During the brief minute that he hesitated, however, Billy sprang forward.

"Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let _me_ buy the teapot? And then--won't you keep it for me--here? I haven't the hundred dollars with me, but I'll send it right away. You will let me do it, won't you?"

It was an impulsive speech, and a foolish one, of course, from the standpoint of sense and logic and reasonableness; but it was one that might be expected, perhaps, from Billy.

Mrs. Greggory must have divined, in a way, the spirit that prompted it, for her eyes grew wet, and with a choking "Dear child!" she reached out and caught Billy's hand in both her own--even while she shook her head in denial.

Not so her daughter. Alice Greggory flushed scarlet. She drew herself proudly erect.

"Thank you," she said with crisp coldness; "but, distasteful as darns and patches are to us, we prefer them, infinitely, to--charity!"

"Oh, but, please, I didn't mean--you didn't understand," faltered Billy.

For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately to the door and held it open.

"Oh, Alice, my dear," pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly.

"Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies," said William Henshaw then, decisively. And Billy, with a little wistful pat on Mrs.

Greggory's clasped hands, went.

Once down the long four flights of stairs and out on the sidewalk, William Henshaw drew a long breath.

"Well, by Jove! Billy, the next time I take you curio hunting, it won't be to this place," he fumed.

"Wasn't it awful!" choked Billy.

"Awful! The girl was the most stubborn, unreasonable, vixenish little puss I ever saw. I didn't want her old Lowestoft if she didn't want to sell it! But to practically invite me there, and then treat me like that!" scolded the collector, his face growing red with anger. "Still, I was sorry for the poor little old lady. I wish, somehow, she could have that hundred dollars!" It was the man who said this, not the collector.

"So do I," rejoined Billy, dolefully. "But that girl was so--so queer!"

she sighed, with a frown. Billy was puzzled. For the first time, perhaps, in her life, she knew what it was to have her proffered "ice cream" disdainfully refused.

CHAPTER XVII. ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT--

Kate and little Kate left for the West on the afternoon of the fifteenth, and Bertram arrived from New York that evening.

Notwithstanding the confusion of all this, Billy still had time to give some thought to her experience of the morning with Uncle William.

The forlorn little room with its poverty-stricken furnishings and its crippled mistress was very vivid in Billy's memory. Equally vivid were the flashing eyes of Alice Greggory as she had opened the door at the last.

"For," as Billy explained to Bertram that evening, after she had told him the story of the morning's adventure, "you see, dear, I had never been really _turned out_ of a house before!"

"I should think not," scowled her lover, indignantly; "and it's safe to say you never will again. The impertinence of it! But then, you won't see them any more, sweetheart, so we'll just forget it."

"Forget it! Why, Bertram, I couldn't! You couldn't, if you'd been there.

Besides, of course I shall see them again!"

Bertram's jaw dropped.

"Why, Billy, you don't mean that Will, or you either, would try again for that trumpery teapot!"

"Of course not," flashed Billy, heatedly. "It isn't the teapot--it's that dear little Mrs. Greggory. Why, dearie, you don't know how poor they are! Everything in sight is so old and thin and worn it's enough to break your heart. The rug isn't anything but darns, nor the tablecloth, either--except patches. It's awful, Bertram!"

"I know, darling; but _you_ don't expect to buy them new rugs and new tablecloths, do you?"

Billy gave one of her unexpected laughs.

"Mercy!" she chuckled. "Only picture Miss Alice's face if I _should_ try to buy them rugs and tablecloths! No, dear," she went on more seriously, "I sha'n't do that, of course--though I'd like to; but I shall try to see Mrs. Greggory again, if it's nothing more than a rose or a book or a new magazine that I can take to her."

"Or a smile--which I fancy will be the best gift of the lot," amended Bertram, fondly.

Billy dimpled and shook her head.

"Smiles--my smiles--are not so valuable, I'm afraid--except to you, perhaps," she laughed.

"Self-evident facts need no proving," retorted Bertram. "Well, and what else has happened in all these ages I've been away?"

Billy brought her hands together with a sudden cry.

"Oh, and I haven't told you!" she exclaimed. "I'm writing a new song--a love song. Mary Jane wrote the words. They're beautiful."

Bertram stiffened.

"Indeed! And is--Mary Jane a poet, with all the rest?" he asked, with affected lightness.

"Oh, no, of course not," smiled Billy; "but these words _are_ pretty.

And they just sang themselves into the dearest little melody right away.

So I'm writing the music for them."