Even her music was little comfort to her these days. She was not writing anything. There was no song in her heart to tempt² her to write. Arkwright's new words that he had brought her were out of the question, of course. They had been put away with the manuscript of the completed song, which had not, fortunately, gone to the publishers. Billy had waited, intending to send them together. She was so glad, now, that she had waited. Just once, since Arkwright's last call, she had tried to sing that song. But she had stopped at the end of the first two lines. The full meaning of those words, as coming from Arkwright, had swept over her then, and she had snatched up the manuscript and hidden it under the bottom pile of music in her cabinet ... And she had presumed to sing that love song to Bertram!

 

Arkwright had written Billy once—a kind, courteous³, manly⁴ note that had made her cry. He had begged her again not to blame herself, and he had said that he hoped he should be strong enough sometime to wish to call occasionally—if she were willing—and renew their pleasant hours with their music; but, for the present, he knew there was nothing for him to do but to stay away. He had signed himself “Michael Jeremiah Arkwright”; and to Billy that was the most pathetic thing in the letter—it sounded so hopeless and dreary⁵ to one who knew the jaunty⁶ “M. J.”

 

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