Home looked wonderfully good to Billy, in spite of the fact that she had so dreaded¹ to see it. Billy had made up her mind, however, that, come sometime she must. She could not, of course, stay always away. Perhaps, too, it would be just as easy at home as it was away. Certainly it could not be any harder. She was convinced of that. Besides, she did not want Bertram to think—

 

Billy had received only meagre news from Boston since she went away. Bertram had not written at all. William had written twice—hurt, grieved, puzzled, questioning letters that were very hard to answer. From Marie, too, had come letters of much the same sort. By far the cheeriest epistles had come from Alice Greggory. They contained, indeed, about the only comfort Billy had known for weeks, for they showed very plainly to Billy that Arkwright's heart had been caught on the rebound²; and that in Alice Greggory he was finding the sweetest sort of balm for his wounded feelings. From these letters Billy learned, too, that Judge Greggory's honor had been wholly vindicated³; and, as Billy told Aunt Hannah, “anybody could put two and two together and make four, now.”

 

It was eight o'clock on a rainy July evening that Billy and Aunt Hannah arrived at Hillside; and it was only a little past eight that Aunt Hannah was summoned to the telephone. When she came back to Billy she was crying and wringing⁵ her hands.

 

Billy sprang to her feet.

 

“Why, Aunt Hannah, what is it? What's the matter?” she demanded.

 

Aunt Hannah sank into a chair, still wringing her hands.

 

“Oh, Billy, Billy, how can I tell you, how can I tell you?” she moaned.

 

“You must tell me! Aunt Hannah, what is it?”

 

“Oh—oh—oh! Billy, I can't—I can't!”

 

“But you'll have to! What is it, Aunt Hannah?”

 

“It's—B-Bertram!”

 

“Bertram!” Billy's face grew

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