se of
his being troubled. There came, too, the memory of Kate's scathing
"Do you want to ruin his career?" Even the hated magazine article and
Marie's tragic "I've _hindered_ him!" added their mite; and Billy knew
that she should not go to the telephone, nor summon Bertram.

The one fatal mistake now would be to let Bertram see her own distress.
If once he should suspect how she suffered in doing this thing, there
would be a scene that Billy felt she had not the courage to face. She
must, therefore, manage in some way not to see Bertram--not to let him
see her until she felt more sure of her self-control no matter what he
said. The easiest way to do this was, of course, to go away. But where?
How? She must think. Meanwhile, for these first few hours, she would not
tell any one, even Aunt Hannah, what had happened. There must _no one_
speak to her of it, yet. That she could not endure. Aunt Hannah would,
of course, shiver, groan "Oh, my grief and conscience!" and call for
another shawl; and Billy just now felt as if she should scream if she
heard Aunt Hannah say "Oh, my grief and conscience!"--over that. Billy
went down to breakfast, therefore, with a determination to act exactly
as usual, so that Aunt Hannah should not know--yet.

When people try to "act exactly as usual," they generally end in acting
quite the opposite; and Billy was no exception to the rule. Hence her
attempted cheerfulness became flippantness, and her laughter giggles
that rang too frequently to be quite sincere--though from Aunt Hannah
it all elicited only an affectionate smile at "the dear child's high
spirits."

A little later, when Aunt Hannah was glancing over the morning
paper--now no longer barred from the door--she gave a sudden cry.

"Billy, just listen to this!" she exclaimed, reading from the paper in
her hand. "'A new tenor in "The Girl of the Golden West." Appearance
of Mr. M. J. Arkwright at the Boston Opera House to-night. Owing to the
sudden illness of Dubassi, who was to have taken the part of Johnson
tonight, an exceptional opportunity has come to a young tenor singer,
one of the most promising pupils at the Conservatory school. Arkwright
is said to have a fine voice, a particularly good stage presence, and
a purity of tone and smoothness of execution that few of his age and
experience can show. Only a short time ago he appeared as the duke at
one of the popular-priced Saturday night performances of "Rigoletto";
and his extraord