and Mrs. Bertram Henshaw were not expected to return until the first
of October; but with Eliza to look after the comfort of William, the
mistress of the house did no worrying. Ever since Pete's going, Eliza
had said that she preferred to be the only maid, with a charwoman to
come in for the heavier work; and to this arrangement her mistress had
willingly consented, for the present.

Marie and the babies were doing finely, and Aunt Hannah's health, and
affairs at the Annex, were all that could be desired. As Billy, indeed,
saw it, there was only one flaw to mar her perfect content on this
holiday trip with Bertram, and that was her disappointment over the very
evident disaster that had come to her cherished matrimonial plans for
Arkwright and Alice Greggory. She could not forget Arkwright's face
that day at the Annex, when she had so foolishly called his attention
to Calderwell's devotion; and she could not forget, either, Alice
Greggory's very obvious perturbation a little later, and her
suspiciously emphatic assertion that she had no intention of marrying
any one, certainly not Arkwright. As Billy thought of all this now, she
could not but admit that it did look dark for Arkwright--poor Arkwright,
whom she, more than any one else in the world, perhaps, had a special
reason for wishing to see happily married.

There was, then, this one cloud on Billy's horizon as the big boat that
was to bear her across the water steamed down the harbor that beautiful
July day.

As it chanced, naturally, perhaps, not only was Billy thinking of
Arkwright that morning, but Arkwright was thinking of Billy.

Arkwright had thought frequently of Billy during the last few days,
particularly since that afternoon meeting at the Annex when the four had
renewed their old good times together. Up to that day Arkwright had been
trying not to think of Billy. He had been "fighting his tiger skin."
Sternly he had been forcing himself to meet her, to see her, to talk
with her, to sing with her, or to pass her by--all with the indifference
properly expected to be shown in association with Mrs. Bertram Henshaw,
another man's wife. He had known, of course, that deep down in his
heart he loved her, always had loved her, and always would love her.
Hopelessly and drearily he accepted this as a fact even while with all
his might fighting that tiger skin. So sure was he, indeed, of this, so
implicitly had he accepted it as an unalterable certainty, that in t