Bertram was assuring himself now that his jealous fears of Arkwright were groundless. Billy seldom mentioned the man, and, as the days passed, she only once of his being at the house. The song, too, she said little of; and Bertram—though he was ashamed to own it to himself—breathed more freely.
The real facts of the case were that Billy had told Arkwright that she should have no time to give attention to the song until after Christmas; and her manner had so plainly shown him that she considered himself synonymous with the song, that he had reluctantly taken the hint and kept away.
“I'll make her care for me sometime—for something besides a song,” he told himself with fierce consolation—but Billy did not know this.
Aside from Bertram, Christmas filled all of Billy's thoughts these days. There were such a lot of things she wished to do.
“But, after all, they're only sugarplums, you know, that I'm giving, dear,” she declared to Bertram one day, when he had with with her for so taxing her time and strength. “I can't really do much.”
“Much!” Bertram.
“But it isn't much, honestly—compared to what there is to do,” argued Billy. “You see, dear, it's just this,” she went on, her bright face sobering a little. “There are such a lot of people in the world who aren't really poor. That is, they have bread, and probably meat, to eat, and enough clothes to keep them warm. But when you've said that, you've said it all. Books, music, fun, and frosting on their cake they know nothing about—except to long for them.”
“But there are the churches and the charities, and all those long-named Societies—I thought that was what they were for,” declared Bertram, still a little aggrievedly, his worried eyes on Billy's tired face.
“Oh, but the churches and charities don't frost cakes nor give sugarplums,” smiled Billy. “And it's right that they shouldn't, too,” she added quickly. “They have more than they can do now with the roast beef and coal and petticoats that are really necessary.”
“And so it's just frosting and sugarplums, is it—these books and magazines and concert tickets and lace collars for the crippled boy, the spinster lady, the little widow, and all the rest of those people who were here last summer?”
Billy turned in confused surprise.
“Why, Bertram, however in the world did you find out about all—that?”
“I didn't. I just guessed it—and it seems 'the boy guessed right the very first time,'” laughed Bertram, teasingly, but with a tender light in his eyes. “Oh, and I suppose you'll be sending a frosted cake to the Lowestoft lady, too, eh?”
Billy's chin rose to a stubbornness.
“I'm going to try to—if I can find out what kind of frosting she likes.”
“How about the Alice lady—or perhaps I should say, the Lady Alice?” smiled the man.
Billy relaxed visibly.
“Yes, I know,” she sighed. “There is—the Lady Alice. But, anyhow, she can't call a Christmas present 'charity'—not if it's only a little bit of frosting!” Billy's chin came up again.
“And you're going to, really, dare to send her something?”
“Yes,” Billy. “I'm going down there one of these days, in the morning—”
“You're going down there! Billy—not alone?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“But, dearie, you mustn't. It was a place, Will says.”
“So it was horrid—to live in. It was everything that was cheap and mean and forlorn. But it was quiet and respectable. 'Tisn't as if I didn't know the way, Bertram; and I'm sure that where that poor crippled woman and daughter are safe, I shall be. Mrs. Greggory is a lady, Bertram, well-born and well-bred, I'm sure—and that's the pity of it, to have to live in a place like that! They have seen better days, I know. Those pitiful little worn of hers were mahogany, I'm sure, Bertram, and they were silver mounted.”
Bertram made a restless movement.
“I know, dear; but if you had some one with you! It wouldn't do for Will, of course, nor me—under the circumstances. But there's Aunt Hannah—” He paused hopefully.
Billy .
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