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or reserved. Never did she fail to greet him with a cheery smile.

Bertram concluded, indeed, after a time, that she was too companionable, too cheery. He wished she would hesitate, stammer, blush; be a little shy. He wished that she would display surprise, annoyance, evenā€”anything but that eternal air of comradeship. And then, one afternoon in the early twilight of a January day, he freed his mind, quite unexpectedly.

ā€œBilly, I wish you WOULDNā€™T be soā€”so friendly!ā€ he exclaimed in a voice that was almost sharp.

Billy laughed at first, but the next moment a shamed distress drove the merriment quite out of her face.

ā€œYou mean that I presume onā€”on our friendship?ā€ she stammered. ā€œThat you fear that I will againā€”shadow your footsteps?ā€ It was the first time since the memorable night itself that Billy had ever in Bertramā€™s presence referred to her young guardianship of his welfare. She realized now, suddenly, that she had just been giving the man before her some very ā€œsisterly advice,ā€ and the thought sent a confused red to her cheeks.

Bertram turned quickly.

ā€œBilly, that was the dearest and loveliest thing a girl ever didā€” only I was too great a chump to appreciate it!ā€ finished Bertram in a voice that was not quite steady.

ā€œThank you,ā€ smiled the girl, with a slow shake of her head and a relieved look in her eyes; ā€œbut Iā€™m afraid I canā€™t quite agree to that.ā€ The next moment she had demanded mischievously: ā€œWhy, then, pray, this unflattering objection to myā€”friendliness now?ā€

ā€œBecause I donā€™t want you for a friend, or a sister, or anything else thatā€™s related,ā€ stormed Bertram, with sudden vehemence. ā€œI donā€™t want you for anything butā€”a wife! Billy, WONā€™T you marry me?ā€

Again Billy laughedā€”laughed until she saw the pained anger leap to the gray eyes before her; then she became grave at once.

ā€œBertram, forgive me. I didnā€™t think you couldā€”you canā€™t beā€” serious!ā€

ā€œBut I am.ā€

Billy shook her head.

ā€œBut you donā€™t love meā€”not ME, Bertram. Itā€™s only the turn of my head orā€”or the tilt of my chin that you loveā€”to paint,ā€ she protested, unconsciously echoing the words Calderwell had said to her weeks before. ā€œIā€™m only another ā€˜Face of a Girl.ā€™ā€

ā€œYouā€™re the only ā€˜Face of a girlā€™ to me now, Billy,ā€ declared the man, with disarming tenderness.

ā€œNo, no, not that,ā€ demurred Billy, in distress. ā€œYou donā€™t mean it. You only think you do. It couldnā€™t be that. It canā€™t be!ā€

ā€œBut it is, dear. I think I have loved you ever since that night long ago when I saw your dear, startled face appealing to me from beyond Seaverā€™s hateful smile. And, Billy, I never went once with Seaver againā€”anywhere. Did you know that?ā€

ā€œNo; butā€”Iā€™m gladā€”so glad!ā€

ā€œAnd Iā€™m glad, too. So you see, I must have loved you then, though unconsciously, perhaps; and I love you now.ā€

ā€œNo, no, please donā€™t say that. It canā€™t beā€”it really canā€™t be. Iā€”I donā€™t love youā€”that way, Bertram.ā€

The man paled a little.

ā€œBillyā€”forgive me for asking, but itā€™s so much to meā€”is it that there isā€”some one else?ā€ His voice shook.

ā€œNo, no, indeed! There is no one.ā€

ā€œItā€™s notā€”Calderwell?ā€

Billyā€™s forehead grew pink. She laughed nervous1y.

ā€œNo, no, never!ā€

ā€œBut there are others, so many others!ā€

ā€œNonsense, Bertram; thereā€™s no oneā€”no one, I assure you!ā€

ā€œItā€™s not William, of course, nor Cyril. Cyril hates women.ā€

A deeper flush came to Billyā€™s face. Her chin rose a little; and an odd defiance flashed from her eyes. But almost instantly it was gone, and a slow smile had come to her lips.

ā€œYes, I know. Every oneā€”says that Cyril hates women,ā€ she observed demurely.

ā€œThen, Billy, I shaā€™nā€™t give up!ā€ vowed Bertram, softly. ā€œSometime you WILL love me!ā€

ā€œNo, no, I couldnā€™t. That is, Iā€™m not going toā€”to marry,ā€ stammered Billy.

ā€œNot going to marry!ā€

ā€œNo. Thereā€™s my musicā€”you know how I love that, and how much it is to me. I donā€™t think thereā€™ll ever be a manā€”that Iā€™ll love better.ā€

Bertram lifted his head. Very slowly he rose till his splendid six feet of clean-limbed strength and manly beauty towered away above the low chair in which Billy sat. His mouth showed new lines about the corners, and his eyes looked down very tenderly at the girl beside him; but his voice, when he spoke, had a light whimsicality that deceived even Billyā€™s ears.

ā€œAnd so itā€™s musicā€”a cold, senseless thing of spidery marks on clean white paperā€”that is my only rival,ā€ he cried. ā€œThen Iā€™ll warn you, Billy, Iā€™ll warn you. Iā€™m going to win!ā€ And with that he was gone.

CHAPTER XXIX ā€œIā€™M NOT GOING TO MARRYā€

Billy did not know whether to be more amazed or amused at Bertramā€™s proposal of marriage. She was vexed; she was very sure of that. To marry Bertram? Absurd! ā€¦ Then she reflected that, after all, it was only Bertram, so she calmed herself.

Still, it was annoying. She liked Bertram, she had always liked him. He was a nice boy, and a most congenial companion. He never bored her, as did some others; and he was always thoughtful of cushions and footstools and cups of tea when one was tired. He was, in fact, an ideal friend, just the sort she wanted; and it was such a pity that he must spoil it all now with this silly sentimentality! And of course he had spoiled it all. There was no going back now to their old friendliness. He would be morose or silly by turns, according to whether she frowned or smiled; or else he would take himself off in a tragic sort of way that was very disturbing. He had said, to be sure, that he would ā€œwin.ā€ Win, indeed! As if she could marry Bertram! When she married, her choice would fall upon a man, not a boy; a big, grave, earnest man to whom the world meant something; a man who loved music, of course; a man who would single her out from all the world, and show to her, and to her only, the depth and tenderness of his love; a man whoā€”but she was not going to marry, anyway, remembered Billy, suddenly. And with that she began to cry. The whole thing was so ā€œtiresome,ā€ she declared, and so ā€œabsurd.ā€

Billy rather dreaded her next meeting with Bertram. She fearedā€” she knew not what. But, as it turned out, she need not have feared anything, for he met her tranquilly, cheerfully, as usual; and he did nothing and said nothing that he might not have done and said before that twilight chat took place.

Billy was relieved. She concluded that, after all, Bertram was going to be sensible. She decided that she, too, would be sensible. She would accept him on this, his chosen plane, and she would think no more of his ā€œnonsense.ā€

Billy threw herself then even more enthusiastically into her beloved work. She told Marie that after all was said and done, there could not be any man that would tip the scales one inch with music on the other side. She was a little hurt, it is true, when Marie only laughed and answered:

ā€œBut what if the man and the music both happen to be on the same side, my dear; what then?ā€

Marieā€™s voice was wistful, in spite of the laughā€”so wistful that it reminded Billy of their conversation a few weeks before.

ā€œBut it is you, Marie, who want the stockings to darn and the puddings to make,ā€ she retorted playfully. ā€œNot I! And, do you know? I believe I shall turn matchmaker yet, and find you a man; and the chiefest of his qualifications shall be that heā€™s wretchedly hard on his hose, and that he adores puddings.ā€

ā€œNo, no, Miss Billy, donā€™t, please!ā€ begged the other, in quick terror. ā€œForget all I said the other day; please do! Donā€™t tellā€” anybody!ā€

She was so obviously distressed and frightened that Billy was puzzled.

ā€œThere, there, ā€˜twas only a jest, of course,ā€ she soothed her. ā€œBut, really Marie, it is the dear, domestic little mouse like yourself that ought to be somebodyā€™s wifeā€”and thatā€™s the kind men are looking for, too.ā€

Marie gave a slow shake of her head.

ā€œNot the kind of man that is somebody, that does something,ā€ she objected; ā€œand thatā€™s the only kind I couldā€”love. HE wants a wife that is beautiful and clever, that can do things like himselfā€”LIKE HIMSELF!ā€ she iterated feverishly.

Billy opened wide her eyes.

ā€œWhy, Marie, one would thinkā€”you already knewā€”such a man,ā€ she cried.

The little music teacher changed her position, and turned her eyes away.

ā€œI do, of course,ā€ she retorted in a merry voice, ā€œlots of them. Donā€™t you? Come, weā€™ve discussed my matrimonial prospects quite long enough,ā€ she went on lightly. ā€œYou know we started with yours. Suppose we go back to those.ā€

ā€œBut I havenā€™t any,ā€ demurred Billy, as she turned with a smile to greet Aunt Hannah, who had just entered the room. ā€œIā€™m not going to marry; am I, Aunt Hannah?ā€

ā€œErā€”what? Marry? My grief and conscience, what a question, Billy! Of course youā€™re going to marryā€”when the time comes!ā€ exclaimed Aunt Hannah.

Billy laughed and shook her head vigorously. But even as she opened her lips to reply, Rosa appeared and announced that Mr. Calderwell was waiting downstairs. Billy was angry then, for after the maid was gone, the merriment in Aunt Hannahā€™s laugh only matched that in Marieā€™sā€”and the intonation was unmistakable.

ā€œWell, Iā€™m not!ā€ declared Billy with pink cheeks and much indignation, as she left the room. And as if to convince herself, Marie, Aunt Hannah, and all the world that such was the case, she refused Calderwell so decidedly that night when he, for the half-dozenth time, laid his hand and heart at her feet, that even Calderwell himself was convincedā€”so far as his own case was concernedā€”and left town the next day.

Bertram told Aunt Hannah afterward that he understood Mr. Calderwell had gone to parts unknown. To himself Bertram shamelessly owned that the more ā€œunknownā€ they were, the better he himself would be pleased.

CHAPTER XXX MARIE FINDS A FRIEND

It was on a very cold January afternoon, and Cyril was hurrying up the hill toward Billyā€™s house, when he was startled to see a slender young woman sitting on a curbstone with her head against an electric-light post. He stopped abruptly.

ā€œI beg your pardon, butā€”why, Miss Hawthorn! It is Miss Hawthorn; isnā€™t it?ā€

Under his questioning eyes the girlā€™s pale face became so painfully scarlet that in sheer pity the man turned his eyes away. He thought he had seen women blush before, but he decided now that he had not.

ā€œIā€™m sureā€”havenā€™t I met you at Miss Neilsonā€™s? Are you ill? Canā€™t I do something for you?ā€ he begged.

ā€œYesā€”noā€”that is, I AM Miss Hawthorn, and Iā€™ve met you at Miss Neilsonā€™s,ā€ stammered the girl, faintly. ā€œBut there isnā€™t anything, thank you, that you can doā€”Mr. Henshaw. I stopped toā€” rest.ā€

The man frowned.

ā€œBut, surelyā€”pardon me, Miss Hawthorn, but I canā€™t think it your usual custom to choose an icy curbstone for a resting place, with the thermometer down to zero. You must be ill. Let me take you to Miss Neilsonā€™s.ā€

ā€œNo, no, thank you,ā€ cried the girl, struggling to her feet, the vivid red again flooding her face. ā€œI have a lessonā€”to give.ā€

ā€œNonsense! Youā€™re not fit to give a lesson. Besides, they are all folderol, anyway, half of them. A dozen lessons, more or less, wonā€™t make any difference; theyā€™ll play just as wellā€”and just as atrociously. Come, I insist upon taking you to Miss Neilsonā€™s.ā€

ā€œNo, no, thank you! I really mustnā€™t. Iā€”ā€ She could say no more. A strong, yet very gentle hand had taken firm hold of her arm in such a way

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