he reached far out for the music. The next
moment he seated himself again at the piano.

Twice he played the little song through carefully, slowly.

"Now, sing it," he directed.

Falteringly, in a very faint voice, and with very many breaths taken
where they should not have been taken, Billy obeyed.

"When we want to show off your song, Billy, we won't ask you to sing
it," observed the man, dryly, when she had finished.

Billy laughed and dimpled into a blush.

"When I want to show off my song I sha'n't be singing it to you for the
first time," she pouted.

Cyril did not answer. He was playing over and over certain harmonies in
the music before him.

"Hm-m; I see you've studied your counterpoint to some purpose," he
vouchsafed, finally; then: "Where did you get the words?"

The girl hesitated. The flush had deepened on her face.

"Well, I--" she stopped and gave an embarrassed laugh. "I'm like the
small boy who made the toys. 'I got them all out of my own head, and
there's wood enough to make another.'"

"Hm-m; indeed!" grunted the man. "Well, have you made any others?"

"One--or two, maybe."

"Let me see them, please."

"I think--we've had enough--for today," she faltered.

"I haven't. Besides, if I could have a couple more to go with this, it
would make a very pretty little group of songs."

"'To go with this'! What do you mean?"

"To the publishers, of course."

"The PUBLISHERS!"

"Certainly. Did you think you were going to keep these songs to
yourself?"

"But they aren't worth it! They can't be--good enough!" Unbelieving joy
was in Billy's voice.

"No? Well, we'll let others decide that," observed Cyril, with a shrug.
"All is, if you've got any more wood--like this--I advise you to make it
up right away."

"But I have already!" cried the girl, excitedly. "There are lots of
little things that I've--that is, there are--some," she corrected
hastily, at the look that sprang into Cyril's eyes.

"Oh, there are," laughed Cyril. "Well, we'll see what--" But he did
not see. He did not even finish his sentence; for Billy's maid, Rosa,
appeared just then with a card.

"Show Mr. Calderwell in here," said Billy. Cyril said nothing--aloud;
which was well. His thoughts, just then, were better left unspoken.

CHAPTER XXVII

MARIE, WHO LONGS TO MAKE PUDDINGS

Wonderful days came then to Billy. Four songs, it seemed, had been
pronounced by competent critics decidedly "worth it"--unmistakably