knew it, dear. Don't you fret! Run along and make
him his favorite pudding, and by night both of you will have forgotten
there ever were such things in the world as tins and shoes and carpet
sweepers that clatter."

Marie shook her head. Her dismal face did not relax.

"You don't understand," she moaned. "It's myself. I've _hindered_ him!"
She brought out the word with an agony of slow horror. "And only to-day
I read-here, look!" she faltered, going to the table and picking up with
shaking hands a magazine.

Billy recognized it by the cover at once--another like it had been flung
not so long ago by her own hand into the corner. She was not surprised,
therefore, to see very soon at the end of Marie's trembling finger:

"Marriage and the Artistic Temperament."

Billy did not give a ringing laugh this time. She gave an involuntary
little shudder, though she tried valiantly to turn it all off with a
light word of scorn, and a cheery pat on Marie's heaving shoulders. But
she went home very soon; and it was plain to be seen that her visit to
Marie had not brought her peace.

Billy knew Kate's letter, by heart, now, both in the original, and in
its different versions, and she knew that, despite her struggles, she
was being forced straight toward Kate's own verdict: that she, Billy,
_was_ the cause, in some way, of the deplorable change in Bertram's
appearance, manner, and work. Before she would quite surrender to this
heart-sickening belief, however, she determined to ask Bertram himself.
Falteringly, but resolutely, therefore, one day, she questioned him.

"Bertram, once you hinted that the picture did not go right because you
were troubled over something; and I've been wondering--was it about--me,
in any way, that you were troubled?"

Billy had her answer before the man spoke. She had it in the quick
terror that sprang to his eyes, and the dull red that swept from his
neck to his forehead. His reply, so far as words went did not count, for
it evaded everything and told nothing. But Billy knew without words.
She knew, too, what she must do. For the time being she took Bertram's
evasive answer as he so evidently wished it to be taken; but that
evening, after he had gone, she wrote him a little note and broke the
engagement. So heartbroken was she--and so fearful was she that he
should suspect this--that her note, when completed, was a cold little
thing of few words, which carried no hint that its very coldness was but