she went on, her bright face
sobering a little. "There are such a lot of people in the world who
aren't really poor. That is, they have bread, and probably meat, to eat,
and enough clothes to keep them warm. But when you've said that, you've
said it all. Books, music, fun, and frosting on their cake they know
nothing about--except to long for them."

"But there are the churches and the charities, and all those long-named
Societies--I thought that was what they were for," declared Bertram,
still a little aggrievedly, his worried eyes on Billy's tired face.

"Oh, but the churches and charities don't frost cakes nor give
sugarplums," smiled Billy. "And it's right that they shouldn't, too,"
she added quickly. "They have more than they can do now with the roast
beef and coal and flannel petticoats that are really necessary."

"And so it's just frosting and sugarplums, is it--these books and
magazines and concert tickets and lace collars for the crippled boy, the
spinster lady, the little widow, and all the rest of those people who
were here last summer?"

Billy turned in confused surprise.

"Why, Bertram, however in the world did you find out about all--that?"

"I didn't. I just guessed it--and it seems 'the boy guessed right the
very first time,'" laughed Bertram, teasingly, but with a tender light
in his eyes. "Oh, and I suppose you'll be sending a frosted cake to the
Lowestoft lady, too, eh?"

Billy's chin rose to a defiant stubbornness.

"I'm going to try to--if I can find out what kind of frosting she
likes."

"How about the Alice lady--or perhaps I should say, the Lady Alice?"
smiled the man.

Billy relaxed visibly.

"Yes, I know," she sighed. "There is--the Lady Alice. But, anyhow, she
can't call a Christmas present 'charity'--not if it's only a little bit
of frosting!" Billy's chin came up again.

"And you're going to, really, dare to send her something?"

"Yes," avowed Billy. "I'm going down there one of these days, in the
morning--"

"You're going down there! Billy--not alone?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"But, dearie, you mustn't. It was a horrid place, Will says."

"So it was horrid--to live in. It was everything that was cheap and mean
and forlorn. But it was quiet and respectable. 'Tisn't as if I didn't
know the way, Bertram; and I'm sure that where that poor crippled woman
and daughter are safe, I shall be. Mrs. Greggory is a lady, Bertram,
well-born and well-bred, I'm sure--and that's the pity of