The early days in December were busy ones, certainly, in the little house on Corey Hill. Marie was to be married the twelfth. It was to be a home wedding, and a very simple one—according to Billy, and according to what Marie had said it was to be. Billy still of it as a “simple affair,” but Marie was beginning to be fearful. As the days passed, bringing with them more and more frequent evidences either or intangible of orders to stationers, caterers, and , her fears found voice in a protest.  
“But Billy, it was to be a simple wedding,” she cried.
 
“And so it is.”
 
“But what is this I hear about a breakfast?”
 
Billy's chin assumed its most stubborn squareness.
 
“I don't know, I'm sure, what you did hear,” she retorted calmly.
 
“Billy!”
 
Billy laughed. The chin was just as stubborn, but the smiling lips above it graced it with an air of charming .
 
“There, there, dear,” the mistress of Hillside, “don't . Besides, I'm sure I should think you, of all people, would want your guests fed!”
 
“But this is so elaborate, from what I hear.”
 
“Nonsense! Not a bit of it.”
 
“Rosa says there'll be salads and cakes and ices—and I don't know what all.”
 
Billy looked concerned.
 
“Well, of course, Marie, if you'd rather have oatmeal and doughnuts,” she began with kind ; but she got no farther.
 
“Billy!” the bride elect. “Won't you be serious? And there's the cake in wedding boxes, too.”
 
“I know, but boxes are so much easier and cleaner than—just fingers,” apologized an anxiously serious voice.
 
Marie answered with an indignant, grieved glance and hurried on.
 
“And the flowers—roses, dozens of them, in December! Billy, I can't let you do all this for me.”
 
“Nonsense, dear!” laughed Billy. “Why, I love to do it. Besides, when you're gone, just think how lonesome I'll be! I shall have to adopt somebody else then—now that Mary Jane has proved to be nothing but a disappointing man instead of a nice little girl like you,” she finished whimsically.
 
Marie did not smile. The frown still lay between her delicate brows.
 
“And for my trousseau—there were so many things that you simply would buy!”
 
“I didn't get one of the egg-beaters,” Billy reminded her anxiously.
 
Marie smiled now, but she shook her head, too.
 
“Billy, I cannot have you do all this for me.”
 
“Why not?”
 
At the unexpectedly direct question, Marie fell back a little.
 
“Why, because I—I can't,” she . “I can't get them for myself, and—and—”
 
“Don't you love me?”
 
A pink flush stole to Marie's face.
 
“Indeed I do, dearly.”
 
“Don't I love you?”
 
The flush deepened.
 
“I—I hope so.”
 
“Then why won't you let me do what I want to, and be happy in it? Money, just money, isn't any good unless you can exchange it for something you want. And just now I want pink roses and ice cream and lace flounces for you. Marie,”—Billy's voice trembled a little—“I never had a sister till I had you, and I have had such a good time buying things that I thought you wanted! But, of course, if you don't want them—” The words ended in a choking , and down went Billy's head into her folded arms on the desk before her.
 
Marie sprang to her feet and cuddled the bowed head in a loving embrace.
 
“But I do want them, dear; I want them all—every single one,” she urged. “Now promise me—promise me that you'll do them all, just as you'd planned! You will, won't you?”
 
There was the briefest of , then came the reply:
 
“Yes—if you really want them.”
 
“I do, dear—indeed I do. I love pretty weddings, and I—I always hoped that I could have one—if I ever married. So you must know, dear, how I really do want all those things,” declared Marie, . “And now I must go. I promised to meet Cyril at Park Street at three o'clock.” And she hurried from the room—and not until she was half-way to her destination did it suddenly occur to her that she had been urging, actually urging Miss Billy Neilson to buy for her pink roses, ice cream, and lace flounces.
 
Her cheeks burned with shame then. But almost at once she smiled.
 
“Now wasn't that just like Billy?” she was saying to herself, with a tender glow in her eyes.
 
It was early in December that Pete came one day with a package for Marie from Cyril. Marie was not at home, and Billy herself went downstairs to take the package from the old man's hands.
 
“Mr. Cyril said to give it to Miss ,” stammered the old servant, his face up as Billy entered the room; “but I'm sure he wouldn't mind your taking it.”
 
“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, 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 . 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 .
 
“I suppose they must,” she admitted.
 
The old man hesitated; then, as if by some hidden force, he 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 .
 
“Not if—I'm not wanted,” came the husky reply.
 
With an movement Billy came straight to the old man's side and held out her hand.
 
“Pete!”
 
, incredulity, and a look that was almost terror crossed the old man's face; then a flood of dull red them all out and left only worshipful . 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 eggshell 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 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 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 of damask in her arms.
 
Bertram's eyes grew .
 
“Do you expect me to hug all that?” he demanded.
 
Billy flashed him a 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 .
 
“I'm not sure but I'd like to crush Marie,” he .
 
“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 goin............