On the morning after Cyril's first concert of the season, Billy sat sewing with Aunt Hannah in the little at the end of the hall upstairs. Aunt Hannah wore only one shawl this morning,—which meant that she was feeling unusually well.  
“Marie ought to be here to mend these stockings,” remarked Billy, as she critically examined a tiny break in the black silk stretched across the darning-egg in her hand; “only she'd want a bigger hole. She does so love to make a beautiful black latticework bridge across a yawning white china sea—and you'd think the safety of an army depended on the way each was laid, too,” she concluded.
 
Aunt Hannah smiled , but she did not speak.
 
“I suppose you don't happen to know if Cyril does wear big holes in his socks,” resumed Billy, after a moment's silence. “If you'll believe it, that thought popped into my head last night when Cyril was playing that so superbly. It did, actually—right in the middle of the movement, too. And in spite of my joy and pride in the music I had all I could do to keep from nudging Marie right there and then and asking her whether or not the dear man was hard on his hose.”
 
“Billy!” the shocked Aunt Hannah; but the broke at once into what—in Aunt Hannah—passed for a . “If I remember rightly, when I was there at the house with you at first, my dear, William told me that Cyril wouldn't wear any sock after it came to mending.”
 
“Horrors!” Billy waved her stocking in mock despair. “That will never do in the world. It would break Marie's heart. You know how she dotes on darning.”
 
“Yes, I know,” smiled Aunt Hannah. “By the way, where is she this morning?”
 
Billy raised her quizzically.
 
“Gone to look at an apartment in Cambridge, I believe. Really, Aunt Hannah, between her home-hunting in the morning, and her furniture-and-rug hunting in the afternoon, and her poring over house-plans in the evening, I can't get her to attend to her clothes at all. Never did I see a bride so indifferent to her trousseau as Marie —and her wedding less than a month away!”
 
“But she's been shopping with you once or twice, since she came back, hasn't she? And she said it was for her trousseau.”
 
Billy laughed.
 
“Her trousseau! Oh, yes, it was. I'll tell you what she got for her trousseau that first day. We started out to buy two hats, some lace for her wedding gown, some crêpe de Chine and net for a little dinner frock, and some silk for a couple of waists to go with her tailored suit; and what did we get? We purchased a new-style egg-beater and a set of cake tins. Marie got into the kitchen department and I simply couldn't get her out of it. But the next day I was not to be below stairs by any prayer for a nutmeg-grater or a spoon. She shopped that day, and to some purpose. We lots.”
 
Aunt Hannah looked a little concerned.
 
“But she must have some things started!”
 
“Oh, she has—'most everything now. I've seen to that. Of course her is very simple, anyway. Marie hasn't much money, you know, and she simply won't let me do half what I want to. Still, she had saved up some money, and I've finally convinced her that a trousseau doesn't consist of egg-beaters and cake tins, and that Cyril would want her to look pretty. That name will fetch her every time, and I've learned to use it beautifully. I think if I told her Cyril approved of short hair and near-sightedness she'd I cut off her golden locks and don spectacles on the spot.”
 
Aunt Hannah laughed softly.
 
“What a child you are, Billy! Besides, just as if Marie were the only one in the house who is ruled by a magic name!”
 
The color deepened in Billy's cheeks.
 
“Well, of course, any girl—cares something—for the man she loves. Just as if I wouldn't do anything in the world I could for Bertram!”
 
“Oh, that makes me think; who was that young woman Bertram was talking with last evening—just after he left us, I mean?”
 
“Miss Winthrop—Miss Marguerite Winthrop. Bertram is—is painting her portrait, you know.”
 
“Oh, is that the one?” murmured Aunt Hannah. “Hm-m; well, she has a beautiful face.”
 
“Yes, she has.” Billy very cheerfully. She even hummed a little as she carefully selected a needle from the cushion in her basket.
 
“There's a something in her face,” Aunt Hannah, aloud.
 
The little tune stopped , ending in a nervous laugh.
 
“Dear me! I wonder how it feels to have a peculiar something in your face. Bertram, too, says she has it. He's trying to 'catch it,' he says. I wonder now—if he does catch it, does she lose it?” Flippant as were the words, the voice that uttered them shook a little.
 
Aunt Hannah smiled indulgently—Aunt Hannah had heard only the , not the shake.
 
“I don't know, my dear. You might ask him this afternoon.”
 
Billy made a sudden movement. The china egg in her lap rolled to the floor.
 
“Oh, but I don't see him this afternoon,” she said lightly, as she stooped to pick up the egg.
 
“Why, I'm sure he told me—” Aunt Hannah's sentence ended in a questioning pause.
 
“Yes, I know,” nodded Billy, brightly; “but he's told me something since. He isn't going. He telephoned me this morning. Miss Winthrop wanted the sitting changed from to-morrow to this afternoon. He said he knew I'd understand.”
 
“Why, yes; but—” Aunt Hannah did not finish her sentence. The whir of an electric bell had sounded through the house. A few moments later Rosa appeared in the open .
 
“It's Mr. Arkwright, Miss. He said as how he had brought the music,” she announced.
 
“Tell him I'll be down at once,” directed the mistress of Hillside.
 
As the maid disappeared, Billy put aside her work and sprang lightly to her feet.
 
“Now wasn't that nice of him? We were talking last night about some duets he had, and he said he'd bring them over. I didn't know he'd come so soon, though.”
 
Billy had almost reached the bottom of the stairway, when a low, familiar strain of music drifted out from the living-room. Billy caught her breath, and held her foot suspended. The next moment the familiar strain of music had become a lullaby—one of Billy's own—and sung now by a melting voice that lingered and understandingly on every tender .
 
Motionless and almost breathless, Billy waited until the last low “lul-la-by” vibrated into silence; then with shining eyes and outstretched hands she entered the living-room.
 
“Oh, that was—beautiful,” she breathed.
 
Arkwright was on his feet instantly. His eyes, too, were alight.
 
“I could not resist singing it just once—here,” he said a little unsteadily, as their hands met.
 
“But to hear my little song sung like that! I couldn't believe it was mine,” choked Billy, still plainly very much moved. “You sang it as I've never heard it sung before.”
 
Arkwright shook his head slowly.
 
“The inspiration of the room—that is all,”, he said. “It is a beautiful song. All of............