Mrs. Kate Hartwell, the Henshaw brothers' sister from the West, was expected on the tenth. Her husband could not come, she had written, but she would bring with her, little Kate, the youngest child. The boys, Paul and Egbert, would stay with their father.  
Billy received the news of little Kate's coming with delight.
 
“The very thing!” she cried. “We'll have her for a flower girl. She was a dear little creature, as I remember her.”
 
Aunt Hannah gave a sudden low laugh.
 
“Yes, I remember,” she observed. “Kate told me, after you spent the first day with her, that you graciously informed her that little Kate was almost as nice as . Kate did not appreciate the compliment, I fear.”
 
Billy made a face.
 
“Did I say that? Dear me! I was a terror in those days, wasn't I? But then,” and she laughed softly, “really, Aunt Hannah, that was the prettiest thing I knew how to say, for I considered Spunk the top-notch of desirability.”
 
“I think I should have liked to know Spunk,” smiled Marie from the other side of the sewing table.
 
“He was a dear,” declared Billy. “I had another 'most as good when I first came to Hillside, but he got lost. For a time it seemed as if I never wanted another, but I've about come to the conclusion now that I do, and I've told Bertram to find one for me if he can. You see I shall be lonesome after you're gone, Marie, and I'll have to have something,” she finished .
 
“Oh, I don't mind the inference—as long as I know your of cats,” laughed Marie.
 
“Let me see; Kate writes she is coming the tenth,” murmured Aunt Hannah, going back to the letter in her hand.
 
“Good!” nodded Billy. “That will give time to put little Kate through her paces as flower girl.”
 
“Yes, and it will give Big Kate time to try to make your breakfast a supper, and your roses pinks—or sunflowers,” cut in a new voice, dryly.
 
“Cyril!” chorussed the three ladies in horror, , and amusement—according to whether the voice belonged to Aunt Hannah, Marie, or Billy.
 
Cyril his shoulders and smiled.
 
“I beg your pardon,” he apologized; “but Rosa said you were in here sewing, and I told her not to bother. I'd announce myself. Just as I got to the door I chanced to hear Billy's speech, and I couldn't resist making the . Maybe you've forgotten Kate's love of managing—but I haven't,” he finished, as he sauntered over to the chair nearest Marie.
 
“No, I haven't—forgotten,” observed Billy, meaningly.
 
“Nor I—nor anybody else,” declared a severe voice—both the words and the severity being most extraordinary as coming from the usually gentle Aunt Hannah.
 
“Oh, well, never mind,” up Billy, quickly. “Everything's all right now, so let's forget it. She always meant it for kindness, I'm sure.”
 
“Even when she told you in the first place what a—er—torment you were to us?” quizzed Cyril.
 
“Yes,” flashed Billy. “She was being kind to you, then.”
 
“Humph!” Cyril.
 
For a moment no one spoke. Cyril's eyes were on Marie, who was trying to smooth back a few wisps of hair that had escaped from restraining combs and pins.
 
“What's the matter with the hair, little girl?” asked Cyril in a voice that was . “You've been fussing with that long-suffering curl for the last five minutes!”
 
Marie's delicate face flushed painfully.
 
“It's got loose—my hair,” she , “and it looks so that way!”
 
Billy dropped her thread suddenly. She sprang for it at once, before Cyril could make a move to get it. She had to dive far under a chair to capture it—which may explain why her face was so very red when she finally reached her seat again.
 
On the morning of the tenth, Billy, Marie, and Aunt Hannah were once more sewing together, this time in the little at the end of the hall up-stairs.
 
Billy's fingers, in particular, were flying very fast.
 
“I told John to have Peggy at the door at eleven,” she said, after a time; “but I think I can finish running in this ribbon before then. I haven't much to do to get ready to go.”
 
“I hope Kate's train won't be late,” worried Aunt Hannah.
 
“I hope not,” replied Billy; “but I told Rosa to delay , anyway, till we get here. I—” She stopped and turned a listening ear toward the door of Aunt Hannah's room, which was open. A clock was striking. “Mercy! that can't be eleven now,” she cried. “But it must be—it was ten before I came up-stairs.” She got to her feet hurriedly.
 
Aunt Hannah put out a restraining hand.
 
“No, no, dear, that's half-past ten.”
 
“But it struck eleven.”
 
“Yes, I know. It does—at half-past ten.”
 
“Why, the little wretch,” laughed Billy, dropping back into her chair and picking up her work again. “The idea of its telling fibs like that and frightening people half ............