True to her assertion, Billy went down to the Greggorys' the next day. This time she did not take Rosa with her. Even Aunt Hannah conceded that it would not be necessary. She had not been gone ten minutes, however, when the telephone bell rang, and Rosa came to say that Mr. Bertram Henshaw wanted to speak with Mrs. Stetson.  
“Rosa says that Billy's not there,” called Bertram's voice, when Aunt Hannah had said, “Good morning, my boy.”
 
“Dear me, no, Bertram. She's in a fever of excitement this morning. She'll probably tell you all about it when you come out here to-night. You are coming out to-night, aren't you?”
 
“Yes; oh, yes! But what is it? Where's she gone?”
 
Aunt Hannah laughed softly.
 
“Well, she's gone down to the Greggorys'.”
 
“The Greggorys'! What—again?”
 
“Oh, you might as well get used to it, Bertram,” Aunt Hannah, “for there'll be a good many 'agains,' I fancy.”
 
“Why, Aunt Hannah, what do you mean?” Bertram's voice was not quite pleased.
 
“Oh, she'll tell you. It's only that the Greggorys have turned out to be old friends of Mr. Arkwright's.”
 
“Friends of Arkwright's!” Bertram's voice was decidedly now.
 
“Yes; and there's quite a story to it all, as well. Billy is wildly excited, as you'd know she would be. You'll hear all about it to-night, of course.”
 
“Yes, of course,” echoed Bertram. But there was no ring of enthusiasm in his voice, neither then, nor when he said good-by a moment later.
 
Billy, meanwhile, on her way to the Greggory home, was, as Aunt Hannah had said, “wildly excited.” It seemed so strange and wonderful and delightful—the whole affair: that she should have found them because of a Lowestoft teapot, that Arkwright should know them, and that there should be the chance now that she might help them—in some way; though this last, she knew, could be only through the exercise of the greatest and . She had not forgotten that Arkwright had told her of their of pity.
 
In the sober second thought of the morning, Billy was not sure now of a possible romance in connection with Arkwright and the daughter, Alice; but she had by no means abandoned the idea, and she meant to keep her eyes open—and if there should be a chance to bring such a thing about—! Meanwhile, of course, she should not mention the matter, even to Bertram.
 
Just what would be her method of procedure this first morning, Billy had not . The pretty potted azalea in her hand would be excuse for her entrance into the room. After that, circumstances must decide for themselves.
 
Mrs. Greggory was found to be alone at home as before, and Billy was glad. She would rather begin with one than two, she thought. The little woman greeted her cordially, gave misty-eyed thanks for the beautiful plant, and also for Billy's kind thoughtfulness Friday afternoon. From that she was very led to talk more of the daughter; and soon Billy was getting just the information she wanted—information concerning the character, aims, and daily life of Alice Greggory.
 
“You see, we have some money—a very little,” explained Mrs. Greggory, after a time; “though to get it we have had to sell all our treasures—but the Lowestoft,” with a quick glance into Billy's eyes. “We need not, perhaps, live in quite so poor a place; but we prefer—just now—to spend the little money we have for something other than imitation comfort—lessons, for instance, and an occasional concert. My daughter is studying even while she is teaching. She hopes to train herself for an accompanist, and for a teacher. She does not to concert solo work. She understands her limitations.”
 
“But she is probably—very good—at teaching.” Billy hesitated a little.
 
“She is; very good. She has the best of recommendations.” A little proudly Mrs. Greggory gave the names of two Boston pianists—names that would carry weight anywhere.
 
Unconsciously Billy relaxed. She did not know until that moment how she had worried for fear she could not, , recommend this Alice Greggory.
 
“Of course,” resumed the mother, “Alice's pupils are few, and they pay low prices; but she is gaining. She goes to the houses, of course. She herself practises two hours a day at a house up on Pinckney Street. She gives lessons to a little girl in return.”
 
“I see,” nodded Billy, brightly; “and I've been thinking, Mrs. Greggory—maybe I know of some pupils she could get. I have a friend who has just given hers up, owing to her marriage. Sometime, soon, I'm going to talk to your daughter, if I may, and—”
 
“And here she is right now,” interposed Mrs. Greggory, as the door opened under a hurried hand.
 
Billy flushed and bit her lip. She was disturbed and disappointed. She did not particularly wish to see Alice Greggory just then. She wished even less to see her when she the swift change that came to the girl's face at sight of herself.
 
“Oh! Why-good morning, Miss Neilson,” murmured Miss Greggory with a smile so forced that her mother hurriedly looked to the azalea in search of a possible peacemaker.
 
“My dear, see,” she , “what Miss Neilson has brought me. And it's so full of blossoms, too! And she says it'll remain so for a long, long time—if we'll only keep it wet.”
 
Alice Greggory murmured a low something—a something that she tried, evidently, very hard to make politely appropriate and . Yet her manner, as she took off her hat and coat and sat down, so plainly said: “You are very kind, of course, but I wish you would keep yourself and your plants at home!” that Mrs. Greggory began a hurried apology, much as if the words had indeed been spoken.
 
“My daughter is really ill this morning. You mustn't mind—that is, I'm afraid you'll think—you see, she took cold last week; a bad cold—and she isn't over it, yet,” finished the little woman in painful .
 
“Of course she took cold—standing all those hours in that wind, Friday!” cried Billy, indignantly.
 
A quick red flew to Alice Greggory's face. Billy saw it at once and wished she had spoken of anything but that Friday afternoon. It looked almost as if she were reminding them of what she had done that day. In her confusion, and in her anxiet............