"Miss Neilson, you will think me rude, of course, especially after your great kindness to me the other day; but I can't help it. It seems to me best to speak now before it goes any further."

"Alice, dear," remonstrated Mrs. Greggory, extending a frightened hand.

The girl did not turn her head nor hesitate; but she caught the extended hand and held it warmly in both her own, with gentle little pats, while she went on speaking.

"I'm sure mother agrees with me that it is best, for the present, that we keep quite to ourselves. I cannot question your kindness, of course, after your somewhat unusual favor the other day; but I am very sure that your friends, Miss Peggy, and Miss Mary Jane, have no real desire to make my acquaintance, nor--if you'll pardon me--have I, under the circ.u.mstances, any wish to make theirs."

"Oh, Alice, Alice," began the little mother, in dismay; but a rippling laugh from their visitor brought an angry flush even to her gentle face.

Billy understood the flush, and struggled for self-control.

"Please--please, forgive me!" she choked. "But you see--you couldn't, of course, know that Mary Jane and Peggy aren't _girls_. They're just a man and an automobile!"

An unwilling smile trembled on Alice Greggory's lips; but she still stood her ground.

"After all, girls, or men and automobiles, Miss Neilson--it makes little difference. They're--charity. And it's not so long that we've been objects of charity that we quite really enjoy it--yet."

There was a moment's hush. Billy's eyes had filled with tears.

"I never even _thought_--charity," said Billy, so gently that a faint red stole into the white cheeks opposite.

For a tense minute Alice Greggory held herself erect; then, with a complete change of manner and voice, she released her mother's hand, dropped into her own chair again, and said wearily:

"I know you didn't, Miss Neilson. It's all my foolish pride, of course.

It's only that I was thinking how dearly I would love to meet girls again--just as _girls!_ But--I no longer have any business with pride, of course. I shall be pleased, I'm sure," she went on dully, "to accept anything you may do for us, from automobile rides to--to red flannel petticoats."

Billy almost--but not quite--laughed. Still, the laugh would have been near to a sob, had it been given. Surprising as was the quick transition in the girl's manner, and absurd as was the juxtaposition of automobiles and red flannel petticoats, the white misery of Alice Greggory's face and the weary despair of her att.i.tude were tragic--specially to one who knew her story as did Billy Neilson. And it was because Billy did know her story that she did not make the mistake now of offering pity.

Instead, she said with a bright smile, and a casual manner that gave no hint of studied labor:

"Well, as it happens, Miss Greggory, what I want to-day has nothing whatever to do with automobiles or red flannel petticoats. It's a matter of straight business." (How Billy blessed the thought that had so suddenly come to her!) "Your mother tells me you play accompaniments.

Now a girls' club, of which I am a member, is getting up an operetta for charity, and we need an accompanist. There is no one in the club who is able, and at the same time willing, to spend the amount of time necessary for practice and rehearsals. So we had decided to hire one outside, and I have been given the task of finding one. It has occurred to me that perhaps you would be willing to undertake it for us. Would you?"

Billy knew, at once, from the quick change in the other's face and manner, that she had taken exactly the right course to relieve the strain of the situation. Despair and la.s.situde fell away from Alice Greggory almost like a garment. Her countenance became alert and interested.

"Indeed I would! I should be glad to do it."

"Good! Then can you come out to my home sometime to-morrow, and go over the music with me? Rehearsals will not begin until next week; but I can give you the music, and tell you something of what we are planning to do."

"Yes. I could come at ten in the morning for an hour, or at three in the afternoon for two hours or more," replied Miss Greggory, after a moment's hesitation.

"Suppose we call it in the afternoon, then," smiled Billy, as she rose to her feet. "And now I must go--and here's my address," she finished, taking out her card and laying it on the table near her.

For reasons of her own Billy went away that morning without saying anything more about the proposed new pupils. New pupils were not automobile rides nor petticoats, to be sure--but she did not care to risk disturbing the present interested happiness of Alice Greggory's face by mentioning anything that might be construed as too officious an a.s.sistance.

On the whole, Billy felt well pleased with her morning's work. To Aunt Hannah, upon her return, she expressed herself thus:

"It's splendid--even better than I hoped. I shall have a chance to-morrow, of course, to see for myself just how well she plays, and all that. I'm pretty sure, though, from what I hear, that that part will be all right. Then the operetta will give us a chance to see a good deal of her, and to bring about a natural meeting between her and Mary Jane. Oh, Aunt Hannah, I couldn't have _planned_ it better--and there the whole thing just tumbled into my hands! I knew it had the minute I remembered about the operetta. You know I'm chairman, and they left me to get the accompanist; and like a flash it came to me, when I was wondering _what_ to say or do to get her out of that awful state she was in--'Ask her to be your accompanist.' And I did. And I'm so glad I did! Oh, Aunt Hannah, it's coming out lovely!--I know it is."

CHAPTER XXII. PLANS AND PLOTTINGS

To Billy, Alice Greggory's first visit to Hillside was in every way a delight and a satisfaction. To Alice, it was even more than that.

For the first time in years she found herself welcomed into a home of wealth, culture, and refinement as an equal; and the frank cordiality and naturalness of her hostess's evident expectation of meeting a congenial companion was like balm to a sensitive soul rendered morbid by long years of superciliousness and snubbing.

No wonder that under the cheery friendliness of it all, Alice Greggory's cold reserve vanished, and that in its place came something very like her old ease and charm of manner. By the time Aunt Hannah--according to previous agreement--came into the room, the two girls were laughing and chatting over the operetta as if they had known each other for years.

Much to Billy's delight, Alice Greggory, as a musician, proved to be eminently satisfactory. She was quick at sight reading, and accurate.

She played easily, and with good expression. Particularly was she a good accompanist, possessing to a marked degree that happy faculty of _accompanying_ a singer: which means that she neither led the way nor lagged behind, being always exactly in sympathetic step--than which nothing is more soul-satisfying to the singer.

It was after the music for the operetta had been well-practised and discussed that Alice Greggory chanced to see one of Billy's own songs lying near her. With a pleased smile she picked it up.

"Oh, you know this, too!" she cried. "I played it for a lady only the other day. It's so pretty, I think--all of hers are, that I have seen.

Billy Neilson is a girl, you know, they say, in spite of--" She stopped abruptly. Her eyes grew wide and questioning. "Miss Neilson--it can't be--you don't mean--is your name--it _is--you!_" she finished joyously, as the telltale color dyed Billy's face. The next moment her own cheeks burned scarlet. "And to think of my letting _you_ stand in line for a twenty-five-cent admission!" she scorned.

"Nonsense!" laughed Billy. "It didn't hurt me any more than it did you. Come!"--in looking about for a quick something to take her guest's attention, Billy's eyes fell on the ma.n.u.script copy of her new song, bearing Arkwright's name. Yielding to a daring impulse, she drew it hastily forward. "Here's a new one--a brand-new one, not even printed yet. Don't you think the words are pretty?" she asked.

As she had hoped, Alice Greggory's eyes, after they had glanced half-way through the first page, sought the name at the left side below the t.i.tle.

"'Words by M. J.--'"--there was a visible start, and a pause before the "'Arkwright'" was uttered in a slightly different tone.

Billy noted both the start and the pause--and gloried in them.

"Yes; the words are by M. J. Arkwright," she said with smooth unconcern, but with a covert glance at the other's face. "Ever hear of him?"

Alice Greggory gave a short little laugh.

"Probably not--this one. I used to know an M. J. Arkwright, long ago; but he wasn't--a poet, so far as I know," she finished, with a little catch in her breath that made Billy long to take her into a warm embrace.

Alice Greggory turned then to the music. She had much to say of this--very much; but she had nothing more whatever to say of Mr. M. J.

Arkwright in spite of the tempting conversation bait that Billy dropped so freely. After that, Rosa brought in tea and toast, and the little frosted cakes that were always such a favorite with Billy's guests. Then Alice Greggory said good-by--her eyes full of tears that Billy pretended not to see.

"There!" breathed Billy, as soon as she had Aunt Hannah to herself again. "What did I tell you? Did you see Miss Greggory's start and blush and hear her sigh just over the _name_ of M. J. Arkwright? Just as if--!

Now I want them to meet; only it must be casual, Aunt Hannah--casual!

And I'd rather wait till Mary Jane hears from his mother, if possible, so if there _is_ anything good to tell the poor girl, he can tell it."

"Yes, of course. Dear child!--I hope he can," murmured Aunt Hannah.

(Aunt Hannah had ceased now trying to make Billy refrain from the reprehensible "Mary Jane." In fact, if the truth were known, Aunt Hannah herself in her thoughts--and sometimes in her words--called him "Mary Jane.") "But, indeed, my dear, I didn't see anything stiff, or--or repelling about Miss Greggory, as you said there was."

"There wasn't--to-day," smiled Billy. "Honestly, Aunt Hannah, I should never have known her for the same girl--who showed me the door that first morning," she finished merrily, as she turned to go up-stairs.

It was the next day that Cyril and Marie came home from their honeymoon.

They went directly to their pretty little apartment on Beacon Street, Brookline, within easy walking distance of Billy's own cozy home.

Cyril intended to build in a year or two. Meanwhile they had a very pretty, convenient home which was, according to Bertram, "electrified to within an inch of its life, and equipped with everything that was fireless, smokeless, dustless, and laborless." In it Marie had a spotlessly white kitchen where she might make puddings to her heart's content.

Marie had--again according to Bertram--"a visiting acquaintance with a maid." In other words, a stout woman was engaged to come two days in the week to wash, iron, and scrub; also to come in each night to wash the dinner dishes, thus leaving Marie's evenings free--"for the shaded lamp," Billy said.