nd the little money we have for something
other than imitation comfort--lessons, for instance, and an occasional
concert. My daughter is studying even while she is teaching. She hopes
to train herself for an accompanist, and for a teacher. She does not
aspire to concert solo work. She understands her limitations."

"But she is probably--very good--at teaching." Billy hesitated a little.

"She is; very good. She has the best of recommendations." A little
proudly Mrs. Greggory gave the names of two Boston pianists--names that
would carry weight anywhere.

Unconsciously Billy relaxed. She did not know until that moment how
she had worried for fear she could not, conscientiously, recommend this
Alice Greggory.

"Of course," resumed the mother, "Alice's pupils are few, and they pay
low prices; but she is gaining. She goes to the houses, of course. She
herself practises two hours a day at a house up on Pinckney Street. She
gives lessons to a little girl in return."

"I see," nodded Billy, brightly; "and I've been thinking, Mrs.
Greggory--maybe I know of some pupils she could get. I have a friend who
has just given hers up, owing to her marriage. Sometime, soon, I'm going
to talk to your daughter, if I may, and--"

"And here she is right now," interposed Mrs. Greggory, as the door
opened under a hurried hand.

Billy flushed and bit her lip. She was disturbed and disappointed. She
did not particularly wish to see Alice Greggory just then. She wished
even less to see her when she noted the swift change that came to the
girl's face at sight of herself.

"Oh! Why-good morning, Miss Neilson," murmured Miss Greggory with a
smile so forced that her mother hurriedly looked to the azalea in search
of a possible peacemaker.

"My dear, see," she stammered, "what Miss Neilson has brought me. And
it's so full of blossoms, too! And she says it'll remain so for a long,
long time--if we'll only keep it wet."

Alice Greggory murmured a low something--a something that she tried,
evidently, very hard to make politely appropriate and appreciative. Yet
her manner, as she took off her hat and coat and sat down, so plainly
said: "You are very kind, of course, but I wish you would keep yourself
and your plants at home!" that Mrs. Greggory began a hurried apology,
much as if the words had indeed been spoken.

"My daughter is really ill this morning. You mustn't mind--that is, I'm
afraid you'll think--you see, she took cold last week; a ba