ought would break her heart.

"As for the 'Mary Jane'--that was another foolishness, of course. My
small brothers and sisters originated it; others followed, on occasion,
even Calderwell. Perhaps you did not know, but he was the friend who, by
his laughing question, 'Why don't you, Mary Jane?' put into my head the
crazy scheme of writing to Aunt Hannah and letting her think I was a
real Mary Jane. You see what I stooped to do, Miss Neilson, for the
chance of meeting and knowing you."

Billy gave a low cry. She had suddenly remembered the beginning of
Arkwright's story. For the first time she realized that he had been
talking then about herself, not Alice Greggory.

"But you don't mean that you--cared--that I was the--" She could not
finish.

Arkwright turned from the mantel with a gesture of utter despair.

"Yes, I cared then. I had heard of you. I had sung your songs. I was
determined to meet you. So I came--and met you. After that I was more
determined than ever to win you. Perhaps you see, now, why I was so
blind to--to any other possibility. But it doesn't do any good--to talk
like this. I understand now. Only, please, don't blame yourself," he
begged as he saw her eyes fill with tears. The next moment he was gone.

Billy had turned away and was crying softly, so she did not see him go.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH

Bertram called that evening. Billy had no story now to tell--nothing
of the interrupted romance between Alice Greggory and Arkwright. Billy
carefully, indeed, avoided mentioning Arkwright's name.

Ever since the man's departure that afternoon, Billy had been
frantically trying to assure herself that she was not to blame; that she
would not be supposed to know he cared for her; that it had all been as
he said it was--his foolish blindness. But even when she had partially
comforted herself by these assertions, she could not by any means escape
the haunting vision of the man's stern-set, suffering face as she had
seen it that afternoon; nor could she keep from weeping at the memory of
the words he had said, and at the thought that never again could their
pleasant friendship be quite the same--if, indeed, there could be any
friendship at all between them.

But if Billy expected that her red eyes, pale cheeks, and generally
troubled appearance and unquiet manner were to be passed unnoticed by
her lover's keen eyes that evening, she found herself much mistaken.

"Sweetheart,