MRS. HARTWELL!"

"Billy, is it possible that you did not know this?"

"Indeed I don't know it, and--excuse me, but I don't think you do,
either."

"But I do. I've talked with him, and he's very much in earnest," urged
Mrs. Hartwell, speaking very rapidly. "He says there's nothing in all
the world that he so desires. And, Billy, you do care for him--I know
you do!"

"Why, of course I care for him--but not--that way."

"But, Billy, think!" Mrs. Hartwell was very earnest now, and a little
frightened. She felt that she must bring Billy to terms in some way
now that William had been encouraged to put his fate to the test. "Just
remember how good William has always been to you, and think what you
have been, and may BE--if you only will--in his lonely life. Think of
his great sorrow years ago. Think of this dreary waste of years between.
Think how now his heart has turned to you for love and comfort and rest.
Billy, you can't turn away!--you can't find it in your heart to turn
away from that dear, good man who loves you so!" Mrs. Hartwell's voice
shook effectively, and even her eyes looked through tears. Mentally
she was congratulating herself: she had not supposed she could make so
touching an appeal.

In the chair opposite the girl sat very still. She was pale, and her
eyes showed a frightened questioning in their depths. For a long minute
she said nothing, then she rose dazedly to her feet.

"Mrs. Hartwell, please do not speak of this to any one," she begged in
a low voice. "I--I am taken quite by surprise. I shall have to think it
out--alone."

Billy did not sleep well that night. Always before her eyes was the
vision of William's face; and always in her ears was the echo of Mrs.
Hartwell's words: "Remember how good William has always been to you.
Think of his great sorrow years ago. Think of this dreary waste of years
between. Think how now his heart has turned to you for love and comfort
and rest."

For a time Billy tossed about on her bed trying to close her eyes to
the vision and her ears to the echo. Then, finding that neither was
possible, she set herself earnestly to thinking the matter out.

William loved her. Extraordinary as it seemed, such was the fact; Mrs.
Hartwell said so. And now--what must she do; what could she do? She
loved no one--of that she was very sure. She was even beginning to
think that she would never love any one. There were Calderwell, Cyril,
Bertram, to say nothing of sundry other