"Yes; yes, indeed!" Billy cleared her throat again. "You've seen her, of course, lately?"

"Oh, yes. I was there half the morning discussing the details--sittings and costume, and deciding on the pose."

"Did you find one--to suit?"

"Find one!" The artist made a despairing gesture. "I found a dozen that I wanted. The trouble was to tell which I wanted the most."

Billy gave a nervous little laugh.

"Isn't that--unusual?" she asked.

Bertram lifted his eyebrows with a quizzical smile.

"Well, they aren't all Marguerite Winthrops," he reminded her.

"Marguerite!" cried Billy. "Oh, is her name Marguerite? I do think Marguerite is the dearest name!" Billy's eyes and voice were wistful.

"I don't--not the _dearest_. Oh, it's all well enough, of course, but it can't be compared for a moment to--well, say, 'Billy'!"

Billy smiled, but she shook her head.

"I'm afraid you're not a good judge of names," she objected.

"Yes, I am; though, for that matter, I should love your name, no matter what it was."

"Even if 'twas 'Mary Jane,' eh?" bantered Billy. "Well, you'll have a chance to find out how you like that name pretty quick, sir. We're going to have one here."

"You're going to have a Mary Jane here? Do you mean that Rosa's going away?"

"Mercy! I hope not," shuddered Billy. "You don't find a Rosa in every kitchen--and never in employment agencies! My Mary Jane is a niece of Aunt Hannah's,--or rather, a cousin. She's coming to Boston to study music, and I've invited her here. We've asked her for a month, though I presume we shall keep her right along."

Bertram frowned.

"Well, of course, that's very nice for--_Mary Jane_," he sighed with meaning emphasis.

Billy laughed.

"Don't worry, dear. She won't bother us any."

"Oh, yes, she will," sighed Bertram. "She'll be 'round--lots; you see if she isn't. Billy, I think sometimes you're almost too kind--to other folks."

"Never!" laughed Billy. "Besides, what would you have me do when a lonesome young girl was coming to Boston? Anyhow, _you're_ not the one to talk, young man. I've known _you_ to take in a lonesome girl and give her a home," she flashed merrily.

Bertram chuckled.

"Jove! What a time that was!" he exclaimed, regarding his companion with fond eyes. "And s.p.u.n.k, too! Is she going to bring a s.p.u.n.k?"

"Not that I've heard," smiled Billy; "but she _is_ going to wear a pink."

"Not really, Billy?"

"Of course she is! I told her to. How do you suppose we could know her when we saw her, if she didn't?" demanded the girl, indignantly. "And what is more, sir, there will be _two_ pinks worn this time. _I_ sha'n't do as Uncle William did, and leave off my pink. Only think what long minutes--that seemed hours of misery--I spent waiting there in that train-shed, just because I didn't know which man was my Uncle William!"

Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, your Mary Jane won't probably turn out to be quite such a bombsh.e.l.l as our Billy did--unless she should prove to be a boy," he added whimsically. "Oh, but Billy, she _can't_ turn out to be such a dear treasure," finished the man. And at the adoring look in his eyes Billy blushed deeply--and promptly forgot all about Mary Jane and her pink.

CHAPTER IV. FOR MARY JANE

"I have a letter here from Mary Jane, my dear," announced Aunt Hannah at the luncheon table one day.

"Have you?" Billy raised interested eyes from her own letters. "What does she say?"

"She will be here Thursday. Her train is due at the South Station at four-thirty. She seems to be very grateful to you for your offer to let her come right here for a month; but she says she's afraid you don't realize, perhaps, just what you are doing--to take her in like that, with her singing, and all."

"Nonsense! She doesn't refuse, does she?"

"Oh, no; she doesn't refuse--but she doesn't accept either, exactly, as I can see. I've read the letter over twice, too. I'll let you judge for yourself by and by, when you have time to read it."

Billy laughed.

"Never mind. I don't want to read it. She's just a little shy about coming, that's all. She'll stay all right, when we come to meet her.

What time did you say it was, Thursday?"

"Half past four, South Station."

"Thursday, at half past four. Let me see--that's the day of the Carletons' 'At Home,' isn't it?"

"Oh, my grief and conscience, yes! But I had forgotten it. What shall we do?"

"Oh, that will be easy. We'll just go to the Carletons' early and have John wait, then take us from there to the South Station. Meanwhile we'll make sure that the little blue room is all ready for her. I put in my white enamel work-basket yesterday, and that pretty little blue case for hairpins and curling tongs that I bought at the fair. I want the room to look homey to her, you know."

"As if it could look any other way, if _you_ had anything to do with it," sighed Aunt Hannah, admiringly.

Billy laughed.

"If we get stranded we might ask the Henshaw boys to help us out, Aunt Hannah. They'd probably suggest guns and swords. That's the way they fixed up _my_ room."

Aunt Hannah raised shocked hands of protest.

"As if we would! Mercy, what a time that was!"

Billy laughed again.