Miss billy

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Title:MissBilly
Author:EleanorH.Porter
ReleaseDate:June3,2006[EBook#3266]
LastUpdated:March9,2018
Language:English

***STARTOFTHISPROJECTGUTENBERGEBOOKMISSBILLY***

ProducedbyDonaldLainson;DavidWidger


MISSBILLY


byEleanorH.Porter

CONTENTS
MISSBILLY

CHAPTERI
CHAPTERII
CHAPTERIII
CHAPTERIV
CHAPTERV

CHAPTERVI
CHAPTERVII
CHAPTERVIII
CHAPTERIX
CHAPTERX
CHAPTERXI


CHAPTERXII
CHAPTERXIII
CHAPTERXIV
CHAPTERXV
CHAPTERXVI
CHAPTERXVII
CHAPTERXVIII
CHAPTERXIX
CHAPTERXX
CHAPTERXXI
CHAPTERXXII
CHAPTERXXIII
CHAPTERXXIV
CHAPTERXXV
CHAPTERXXVI
CHAPTERXXVII
CHAPTERXXVIII
CHAPTERXXIX
CHAPTERXXX
CHAPTERXXXI

CHAPTERXXXII
CHAPTERXXXIII
CHAPTERXXXIV
CHAPTERXXXV
CHAPTERXXXVI
CHAPTERXXXVII
CHAPTERXXXVIII
CHAPTERXXXIX
CHAPTERXL
CHAPTERXLI
CHAPTERXLII


MISSBILLY


CHAPTERI
BILLYWRITESALETTER
BillyNeilsonwaseighteenyearsoldwhentheaunt,whohadbroughtherup
frombabyhood,died.MissBenton'sdeathleftBillyquitealoneintheworld—
alone,andpeculiarlyforlorn.ToMr.JamesHarding,ofHarding&Harding,who
hadchargeofBilly'snotinconsiderableproperty,thegirlpouredoutherheartin
allitslonelinesstwodaysafterthefuneral.
“You see, Mr. Harding, there isn't any one—not any one who—cares,” she
choked.
“Tut,tut,mychild,it'snotsobadasthat,surely,”remonstratedtheoldman,
gently.“Why,I—Icare.”
Billysmiledthroughtear-weteyes.
“ButIcan'tLIVEwithyou,”shesaid.
“I'mnotsosureofthat,either,”retortedtheman.“I'mthinkingthatLettyand

AnnwouldLIKEtohaveyouwithus.”
The girl laughed now outright. She was thinking of Miss Letty, who had
“nerves,”andofMissAnn,whohada“heart”;andshepicturedherownyoung,
breezy, healthyself attemptingtoconformtothehushedandshadedthingthat
lifewas,withinLawyerHarding'shome.
“Thankyou,butI'msuretheywouldn't,”sheobjected.“Youdon'tknowhow
noisyIam.”
Thelawyerstirredrestlesslyandpondered.
“But, surely, my dear, isn't there some relative, somewhere?” he demanded.
“Howaboutyourmother'speople?”
Billyshookherhead.Hereyesfilledagainwithtears.
“TherewasonlyAuntElla,ever,thatIknewanythingabout.Sheandmother
weretheonlychildrentherewere,andmotherdiedwhenIwasayearold,you
know.”
“Butyourfather'speople?”
“It's even worse there. He was an only child and an orphan when mother
marriedhim.HediedwhenIwasbutsixmonthsold.Afterthattherewasonly


motherandAuntElla,thenAuntEllaalone;andnow—noone.”
“Andyouknownothingofyourfather'speople?”
“Nothing;thatis—almostnothing.”
“Thenthereissomeone?”
Billysmiled.Adeeperpinkshowedinhercheeks.
“Why,there'sone—amanbutheisn'treallyfather'speople,anyway.ButI—I
havebeentemptedtowritetohim.”
“Whoishe?”
“TheoneI'mnamedfor.Hewasfather'sboyhoodchum.Youseethat'swhy
I'm'Billy'insteadofbeingaproper'Susie,'or'Bessie,'or'SallyJane.'Fatherhad
madeuphismindtonamehisbaby'William'afterhischum,andwhenIcame,

AuntEllasaid,hewasquitebroken-hearteduntilsomebodyhitupontheideaof
naming me Billy.' Then he was content, for it seems that he always called his
chum'Billy'anyhow.Andso—'Billy'Iamto-day.”
“Doyouknowthisman?”
“No. You see father died, and mother and Aunt Ella knew him only very
slightly.Motherknewhiswife,though,AuntEllasaid,andSHEwaslovely.”
“Hm—;well,wemightlookthemup,perhaps.Youknowhisaddress?”
“Oh, yes unless he's moved. We've always kept that. Aunt Ella used to say
sometimesthatshewasgoingtowritetohimsomedayaboutme,youknow.”
“What'shisname?”
“WilliamHenshaw.HelivesinBoston.”
LawyerHardingsnatchedoffhisglasses,andleanedforwardinhischair.
“WilliamHenshaw!NottheBeaconStreetHenshaws!”hecried.
ItwasBilly'sturntobeexcited.She,too,leanedforwardeagerly.
“Oh, do you know him? That's lovely! And his address IS Beacon Street! I
knowbecauseIsawitonlyto-day.Yousee,IHAVEbeentemptedtowritehim.”
“Writehim?Ofcourseyou'llwritehim,”criedthelawyer.“Andwedon'tneed
to do much 'looking up' there, child. I've known the family for years, and this
Williamwasacollegemateofmyboy's.Nicefellow,too.I'veheardNedspeak
ofhim.Therewerethreesons,William,andtwoothersmuchyoungerthanhe.
I'veforgottentheirnames.”
“Then you do know him! I'm so glad,” exclaimed Billy. “You see, he never
seemedtomequitereal.”


“Iknowabouthim,”correctedthelawyer,smilingly,“thoughI'llconfessI've
rather lost track of him lately. Ned will know. I'll ask Ned. Now go home, my
dear,anddrythoseprettyeyesofyours.Or,betterstill,comehomewithmeto
tea.I—I'lltelephoneuptothehouse.”Andherosestifflyandwentintotheinner
office.

Someminutespassedbeforehecameback,redofface,andplainlydistressed.
“Mydearchild,I—I'msorry,but—butI'llhavetotakebackthatinvitation,”
heblurtedoutmiserably.“Mysistersare—arenotwellthisafternoon.Annhas
beenhavingaturnwithherheart—youknowAnn'sheartis—isbad;andLetty
—Letty is always nervous at such times—very nervous. Er—I'm so sorry! But
you'll—excuseit?”
“IndeedIwill,”smiledBilly,“andthankyoujustthesame;only”—hereyes
twinkled mischievously—“you don't mind if I do say that it IS lucky that we
hadn'tgoneonplanningtohavemelivewiththem,Mr.Harding!”
“Eh? Well—er, I think your plan about the Henshaws is very good,” he
interposed hurriedly. “I'll speak to Ned—I'll speak to Ned,” he finished, as he
ceremoniouslybowedthegirlfromtheoffice.
JamesHardingkepthisword,andspoketohissonthatnight;buttherewas
little,afterall,thatNedcouldtellhim.Yes,herememberedBillyHenshawwell,
but he had not heard of him for years, since Henshaw's marriage, in fact. He
mustbefortyyearsold,Nedsaid;buthewasafinefellow,anexceptionallyfine
fellow, and would be sure to deal kindly and wisely by his little orphan
namesake;ofthatNedwasverysure.
“That's good. I'll write him,” declared Mr. James Harding. “I'll write him
tomorrow.”
Hedidwrite—butnotsosoonasBillywrote;forevenashespoke,Billy,in
her lonely little room at the other end of the town, was laying bare all her
homesicknessinfourlongpagesto“DearUncleWilliam.”


CHAPTERII
“THESTRATA”
BertramHenshawcalledtheBeaconStreethome“TheStrata.”Thisannoyed
Cyril,andevenWilliam,notalittle;thoughtheyreflectedthat,afterall,itwas
“onlyBertram.”ForthewholeofBertram'stwenty-fouryearsoflifeithadbeen

likethis—“It'sonlyBertram,”hadbeenatoncethecurseandthesalvationofhis
existence.
Inthisparticularcase,however,Bertram'svagaryoffancyhadsomeexcuse.
TheBeaconStreethouse,thehomeofthethreebrothers,wasa“Strata.”
“You see, it's like this,” Bertram would explain airily to some new
acquaintancewhoexpressedsurpriseatthename;“ifIcouldsliceoffthefront
ofthehouselikealoafofcake,you'dunderstanditbetter.Butjustsupposethat
oldBunkerHillshouldsuddenlyspoutfireandbrimstoneandburyusundertons
ofashes—onlyfancytheconditionofmindofthosefuturearchaeologistswhen
theystruckourhouseaftertheirmonthsofdigging!
“Whatwouldtheyfind?Listen.First:stratumnumberone,thetopfloor;that's
Cyril's,youknow.They'dnotethebarefloors,thesparsebutheavyfurniture,the
piano,theviolin,theflute,thebook-linedwalls,andtheabsenceofeverysortof
curtain,cushion,orknickknack.'Herelivedaplainman,'they'dsay;'ascholar,a
musician,stern,unlovedandunloving;amonk.'
“Andwhatnext?They'dstrikeWilliam'sstratumnext,thethirdfloor.Imagine
it!YouknowWilliamasaStateStreetbroker,well-off,awidower,tall,angular,
slowofspeech,alittlebald,verymuchnearsighted,andtheownerofthekindest
heart in the world. But really to know William, you must know his rooms.
William collects things. He has always collected things—and he's saved every
oneofthem.There'satraditionthatattheageofoneyearhecreptintothehouse
withfoursmallroundwhitestones.Anyhow,ifhedid,he'sgotthemnow.Rest
assuredofthat—andhe'sfortythisyear.Miniatures,carvedivories,bugs,moths,
porcelains, jades, stamps, postcards, spoons, baggage tags, theatre programs,
playing-cards—thereisn'tanythingthathedoesn'tcollect.He'sonteapots,now.
Imagine it—William and teapots! And they're all there in his rooms—one
gloriousmassofconfusion.Justfancythosearchaeologiststryingtomaketheir
'monk'livethere!

“Butwhentheyreachme,mystratum,they'llhaveaworsetimeyet.Yousee,
I like cushions and comfort, and I have them everywhere. And I like—well, I
likelotsofthings.Myroomsdon'tbelongtothatmonk,notalittlebit.Andso
yousee,”Bertramwouldfinishmerrily,“that'swhyIcallitall'TheStrata.'”
And“TheStrata”itwastoalltheHenshaws'friends,andeventoWilliamand
Cyrilthemselves,inspiteoftheirobjectiontotheterm.
FrombabyhoodtheHenshawboyshadlivedinthehandsome,roomyhouse,
facingthePublicGarden.Ithadbeentheirfather'sboyhoodhome,aswell,and
heandhiswifehaddiedthere,soonafterKate,theonlydaughter,hadmarried.
At the age of twenty-two, William Henshaw, the eldest son, had brought his
bride to the house, and together they had striven to make a home for the two
youngerorphanboys,Cyril,twelve,andBertram,six.ButMrs.William,aftera
shortfiveyearsofmarriedlife,haddied;andsincethen,thehousehadknown
almostnothingofawoman'stouchorcare.
Little by little as the years passed, the house and its inmates had fallen into
what had given Bertram his excuse for the name. Cyril, thirty years old now,
dignified,reserved,aversetocats,dogs,women,andconfusion,hadearlytaken
himselfandhismusictothepeaceandexclusivenessofthefourthfloor.Below
him, William had long discouraged any meddling with his precious chaos of
possessions,andhadfinallycometospendnearlyallhissparetimeamongthem.
ThisleftBertramtoundisputedownershipofthesecondfloor,andrightroyally
didheholdswaytherewithhispaintsandbrushesandeasels,hisoldarmor,rich
hangings, rugs, and cushions, and everywhere his specialty—his “Face of a
Girl.” From canvas, plaque, and panel they looked out—those girlish faces:
winsome, wilful, pert, demure, merry, sad, beautiful, even almost ugly—they
were all there; and they were growing famous, too. The world of art was
beginningtotakenotice,andtoadjustitsspectaclesforamorecriticalglance.
This“FaceofaGirl”byHenshawbadefairtobeworthwhile.
Below Bertram's cheery second floor were the dim old library and drawingrooms,silent,stately,andalmostneverused;andbelowthemwerethediningroomandthekitchen.HereruledDongLing,theChinesecook,andPete.
Petewas—indeed,itishardtellingwhatPetewas.Hesaidhewasthebutler;

andhelookedthepartwhenheansweredthebellatthegreatfrontdoor.Butat
othertimes,whenhesweptaroom,ordustedMasterWilliam'scurios,helooked
—likenothingsomuchaswhathewas:afussy,faithfuloldman,whoexpected
todieintheservicehehadenteredfiftyyearsbeforeasalad.
ThusinalltheBeaconStreethouse,therehadnotforyearsbeenthetouchof


awoman'shand.EvenKate,themarriedsister,hadlongsincegivenuptryingto
instructDongLingortochidePete,thoughshestillwalkedacrosstheGarden
fromherCommonwealthAvenuehomeandtrippedupthestairstocallinturn
uponherbrothers,Bertram,William,andCyril.


CHAPTERIII
THESTRATA—WHENTHELETTERCOMES
It was on the six o'clock delivery that William Henshaw received the letter
fromhisnamesake,Billy.Tosaytheleast,theletterwasagreatshocktohim.
HehadnotquiteforgottenBilly'sfather,whohaddiedsolongago,itistrue,but
he had forgotten Billy, entirely. Even as he looked at the disconcerting epistle
withitsround,neatlyformedletters,hehadgreatdifficultyinferretingoutthe
particularnicheinhismemorywhichcontainedthefactthatWalterNeilsonhad
hadachild,andhadnameditforhim.
And this child, this “Billy,” this unknown progeny of an all but forgotten
boyhood friend, was asking a home, and with him! Impossible! And William
Henshawpeeredattheletterasif,atthissecondreading,itsmessagecouldnot
besomonstrous.
“Well, old man, what's up?” It was Bertram's amazed voice from the hall
doorway;andindeed,WilliamHenshaw,red-facedandplainlytrembling,seated
on the lowest step of the stairway, and gazing, wild-eyed, at the letter in his
hand,wassomewhatofanamazingsight.“WhatISup?”

“What's up!” groaned William, starting to his feet, and waving the letter
franticallyintheair.“What'sup!Youngman,doyouwantustotakeinachildto
board?—aCHILD?”herepeatedinslowhorror.
“Well, hardly,” laughed the other. “Er, perhaps Cyril might like it, though;
eh?”
“Come,come,Bertram,besensibleforonce,”pleadedhisbrother,nervously.
“Thisisserious,reallyserious,Itellyou!”
“Whatisserious?”demandedCyril,comingdownthestairway.“Can'titwait?
Petehasalreadysoundedthegongtwicefordinner.”
Williammadeadespairinggesture.
“Well, come,” he groaned. “I'll tell you at the table.... It seems I've got a
namesake,” he resumed in a shaking voice, a few moments later; “Walter
Neilson'schild.”
“Andwho'sWalterNeilson?”askedBertram.
“Aboyhoodfriend.Youwouldn'trememberhim.Thisletterisfromhischild.”


“Well,let'shearit.Goahead.Ifancywecanstandthe—LETTER;eh,Cyril?”
Cyrilfrowned.Cyrildidnotknow,perhaps,howoftenhefrownedatBertram.
Theeldestbrotherwethislips.Hishandshookashepickeduptheletter.
“It—it'ssoabsurd,”hemuttered.Thenheclearedhisthroatandreadtheletter
aloud.
“DEAR UNCLE WILLIAM: Do you mind my calling you that? You see I
want SOME one, and there isn't any one now. You are the nearest I've got.
Maybeyou'veforgotten,butI'mnamedforyou.WalterNeilsonwasmyfather,
youknow.MyAuntEllahasjustdied.
“Would you mind very much if I came to live with you? That is, between
times—I'm going to college, of course, and after that I'm going to be—well, I
haven't decided that part yet. I think I'll consult you. You may have some
preference,youknow.YoucanbethinkingitupuntilIcome.

“There!MaybeIoughtnottohavesaidthat,forperhapsyouwon'twantmeto
come.IAMnoisy,I'llown,butnotsoIthinkyou'llminditmuchunlesssomeof
you have 'nerves' or a 'heart.' You see, Miss Letty and Miss Ann—they're Mr.
Harding'ssisters,andMr.Hardingisourlawyer,andhewillwritetoyou.Well,
wherewasI?Oh,Iknow—onMissLetty'snerves.And,say,doyouknow,that
iswhereIdoget—onMissLetty'snerves.Ido,truly.Yousee,Mr.Hardingvery
kindlysuggestedthatIlivewiththem,but,mercy!MissLetty'snerveswon'tlet
youwalkexcepton tiptoe, andMiss Ann'sheartwon'tletyouspeakexceptin
whispers.Allthechairsandtableshavewornlittlesocketsinthecarpets,andit's
acrimetomovethem.Thereisn'tawindow-shadeinthehousethatisn'tpulled
downEXACTLYtothemiddlesash,exceptwherethesunshines,andthoseare
pulledwaydown.ImaginemeandSpunklivingthere!Oh,bytheway,youdon't
mindmybringingSpunk,doyou?Ihopeyoudon't,forIcouldn'tlivewithout
Spunk,andhecouldn'tlivewithoutme.
“Pleaseletmehearfromyouverysoon.Idon'tmindifyoutelegraph;andjust
'come'wouldbeallyou'dhavetosay.ThenI'dgetreadyrightawayandletyou
know what train to meet me on. And, oh, say—if you'll wear a pink in your
buttonholeIwill,too.Thenwe'llknoweachother.Myaddressisjust'Hampden
Falls.'
“Yourawfullyhomesicknamesake,
“BILLYHENSHAWNEILSON”
For one long minute there was a blank silence about the Henshaw dinnertable; then the eldest brother, looking anxiously from one man to the other,


stammered:
“W-well?”
“GreatScott!”breathedBertram.
Cyril said nothing, but his lips were white with their tense pressure against
eachother.
Therewasanotherpause,andagainWilliambrokeitanxiously.

“Boys,thisisn'thelpingmeoutany!What'stobedone?”
“'Done'!” flamed Cyril. “Surely, you aren't thinking for a moment of
LETTINGthatchildcomehere,William!”
Bertramchuckled.
“He WOULD liven things up, Cyril; wouldn't he? Such nice smooth floors
you'vegotup-stairstotrundlelittletincartsacross!”
“Tin nonsense!” retorted Cyril. “Don't be silly, Bertram. That letter wasn't
writtenbyababy.He'dbemuchmorelikelytomakehimselfathomewithyour
paintbox,orwithsomeofWilliam'sjunk.”
“Oh, I say,” expostulated William, “we'll HAVE to keep him out of those
things,youknow.”
Cyrilpushedbackhischairfromthetable.
“'We'll have to keep him out'! William, you can't be in earnest! You aren't
goingtoletthatboycomehere,”hecried.
“ButwhatcanIdo?”falteredtheman.
“Do?Say'no,'ofcourse.Asifwewantedaboytobringup!”
“ButImustdosomething.I—I'mallhe'sgot.Hesaysso.”
“Good heavens! Well, send him to boarding-school, then, or to the
penitentiary;anywherebuthere!”
“Shucks! Let the kid come,” laughed Bertram. “Poor little homesick devil!
What'stheuse?I'lltakehimin.Howoldishe,anyhow?”
Williamfrowned,andmusedaloudslowly.
“Why,Idon'tknow.Hemustbe—er—why,boys,he'snochild,”brokeoffthe
mansuddenly. “Walterhimselfdiedseventeenor eighteenyearsago,notmore
thanayearortwoafterhewasmarried.Thatchildmustbesomewherearound
eighteenyearsold!”
“And only think how Cyril WAS worrying about those tin carts,” laughed
Bertram. “Never mind—eight or eighteen—let him come. If he's that age, he

won'tbothermuch.”
“And this—er—'Spunk'; do you take him, too? But probably he doesn't
bother,either,”murmuredCyril,withsmoothsarcasm.
“Gorry!IforgotSpunk,”acknowledgedBertram.“Say,whatintimeisSpunk,
doyousuppose?”
“Dog,maybe,”suggestedWilliam.
“Well, whatever he is, you will kindly keep Spunk down-stairs,” said Cyril
withdecision.“Theboy,IsupposeIshallhavetoendure;butthedog—!”
“Hm-m; well, judging by his name,” murmured Bertram, apologetically, “it
maybejustpossiblethatSpunkwon'tbeeasilycontrolled.Butmaybeheisn'ta
dog,anyhow.He—er—soundssomethinglikeaparrottome.”
Cyrilrosetohisfeetabruptly.Hehadeatenalmostnodinner.
“Verywell,”hesaidcoldly.“ButpleaserememberthatIholdyouresponsible,
Bertram.Whetherit'sadog,oraparrot,or—oramonkey,Ishallexpectyouto
keepSpunkdown-stairs.Thisadoptingintothefamilyanunknownboyseemsto
meveryabsurdfrombeginningtoend.ButifyouandWilliamwillhaveitso,of
courseI'venothingtosay.FortunatelymyroomsareattheTOPofthehouse,”
hefinished,asheturnedandleftthedining-room.
Foramomenttherewassilence.Thebrowsoftheyoungermanwereuplifted
quizzically.
“I'mafraidCyrilisbothered,”murmuredWilliamthen,inatroubledvoice.
Bertram'sfacechanged.Sternlinescametohisboyishmouth.
“Heisalwaysbothered—withanything,lately.”
Theeldermansighed.
“Iknow,butwithhistalent—”
“'Talent'!GreatScott!”cutinBertram.“Halftheworldhastalentofonesort
or another; but that doesn't necessarily make them unable to live with any one
else!Really,Will,it'sbecomingserious—aboutCyril.He'sgettingtobe,forall
theworld,likethosefinickyoldmaidsthatthatyoungnamesakeofyourswrote
about.He'llmakeuswhisperandwalkontiptoeyet!”

Theothersmiled.
“Don't you worry. You aren't in any danger of being kept too quiet, young
man.”
“NothankstoCyril,then,”retortedBertram.“Anyhow,that'sonereasonwhy
Iwasfortakingthekid—tomellowupCyril.Heneedsitallright.”


“But I had to take him, Bert,” argued the elder brother, his face growing
anxiousagain.“ButHeavenonlyknowswhatI'mgoingtodowithhimwhenI
gethim.WhatshallIsaytohim,anyway?HowshallIwrite?Idon'tknowhow
togetupaletterofthatsort!”
“Whynottakehimathiswordandtelegraph?Ifancyyouwon'thavetosay
'come'butoncebeforeyouseehim.Hedoesn'tseemtobeabashfulyouth.”
“Hm-m; I might do that,” acquiesced William, slowly. “But wasn't there
somebody—alawyer—goingtowritetome?”hefinished,consultingtheletter
by his plate. “Yes,” he added, after a moment, “a Mr. Harding. Wonder if he's
anyrelationtoNedHarding.IusedtoknowNedatHarvard,andseemsasifhe
came from Hampden Falls. We'll soon see, at all events. Maybe I'll hear tomorrow.”
“Ishouldn'twonder,”noddedBertram,asherosefromthetable.“Anyhow,I
wouldn'tdoanythingtillIdidhear.”


CHAPTERIV
BILLYSENDSATELEGRAM
JamesHarding'sletterverypromptlyfollowedBilly's,thoughitwasnotlike
Billy'satall.IttoldsomethingofBilly'sproperty,andmentionedthat,according
toMrs.Neilson'swill,Billywouldnotcomeintocontrolofherfortuneuntilthe
age of twenty-one years was reached. It dwelt at some length upon the fact of
Billy's loneliness in the world, and expressed the hope that her father's friend
couldfinditinhishearttowelcometheorphanintohishome.ItmentionedNed,

and the old college friendship, and it closed by saying that the writer, James
Harding,wasgladtorenewhisacquaintancewiththegoodoldHenshawfamily
thathehadknownlongyearsago;andthathehopedsoontohearfromWilliam
Henshawhimself.
Itwasagoodletter—butitwasnotwellwritten.JamesHarding'shandwriting
wasnotdistinguishedforitslegibility,andhiscorrespondentsrejoicedthatthe
most of his letters were dictated to his stenographer. In this case, however, he
hadelectedtousethemorepersonalpen;anditwasbecauseofthisthatWilliam
Henshaw, even after reading the letter, was still unaware of his mistake in
supposinghisnamesake,Billy,tobeaboy.
InthemainthelawyerhadreferredtoBillybyname,oras“theorphan,”oras
that“poor,lonelychild.”Andwheneverthemoredistinctivefeminine“her”or
“herself” had occurred, the carelessly formed letters had made them so much
like“his”and“himself”thattheycarriednohintofthetruthtoamanwhohad
nottheslightestreasonforthinkinghimselfinthewrong.Itwasthereforestill
forthe“boy,”Billy,thatWilliamHenshawatoncesetaboutmakingaplacein
thehome.
Firsthetelegraphedthesingleword“Come”toBilly.
“I'll set the poor lad's heart at rest,” he said to Bertram. “I shall answer
Harding'slettermoreatlength,ofcourse.Naturallyhewantstoknowsomething
about menow beforehesendsBillyalong;butthereisnoneedfortheboy to
waitbeforeheknowsthatI'lltakehim.Ofcoursehewon'tcomeyet,tillHarding
hearsfromme.”
It was just here, however, that William Henshaw met with a surprise, for
withintwenty-fourhourscameBilly'sanswer,andbytelegraph.


“I'mcomingto-morrow.TraindueatfiveP.M.
“BILLY.”
WilliamHenshawdidnotknowthatinHampdenFallsBilly'strunkhadbeen

packedfordays.Billywasdesperate.Thehouse,evenwiththemaid,andwith
theobligingneighborandhiswifewhostayedtherenights,wastoBillynothing
butadismaltomb.LawyerHardinghadfallensuddenlyill;shecouldnoteven
tell him that the blessed telegram “Come” had arrived. Hence Billy, lonely,
impulsive,andalwaysusedtopleasingherself,hadtakenmattersinhandwitha
confidentgrasp,andhaddeterminedtowaitnolonger.
That it was a fearsomely unknown future to which she was so jauntily
pledgingherselfdidnottroublethegirlintheleast.Billywasromantic.Tosally
gaily forth with a pink in the buttonhole of her coat to find her father's friend
who was a “Billy” too, seemed to Billy Neilson not only delightful, but
eminentlysensible,andanexcellentwayoutofherpresenthomesickloneliness.
Sosheboughtthepinkandherticket,andimpatientlyawaitedthetimetostart.
To the Beacon Street house, Billy's cheerful telegram brought the direst
consternation. Even Kate was hastily summoned to the family conclave that
immediatelyresulted.
“There'snothing—simplynothingthatIcando,”shedeclaredirritably,when
shehadheardthestory.“Surely,youdon'texpectMEtotaketheboy!”
“No, no, of course not,” sighed William. “But you see, I supposed I'd have
time to—to get used to things, and to make arrangements; and this is so—so
sudden! I hadn't even answered Harding's letter until to-day; and he hasn't got
that—muchlessrepliedtoit.”
“But what could you expect after sending that idiotic telegram?” demanded
thelady.“'Come,'indeed!”
“Butthat'swhatBillytoldmetodo.”
“Whatifitwas?Justbecauseafoolisheighteen-year-oldboytellsyoutodo
something,mustyou,asupposedlysensibleforty-year-oldmanobey?”
“IthinkittickledWill'sromanticstreak,”laughedBertram.“Itseemedsosort
of alluring to send that one word 'Come' out into space, and watch what
happened.”
“Well,he'sfoundout,certainly,”observedCyril,withgrimsatisfaction.

“Oh,no;ithasn'thappenedyet,”correctedBertram,cheerfully.“It'sjustgoing
tohappen.William'sgottoputonthepinkfirst,youknow.That'sthetalisman.”
Williamreddened.


“Bertram,don'tbefoolish.Isha'n'twearanypink.Youmustknowthat.”
“How'llyoufindhim,then?”
“Why,he'llhaveoneon;that'senough,”settledWilliam.
“Hm-m; maybe. Then he'll have Spunk, too,” murmured Bertram,
mischievously.
“Spunk!”criedKate.
“Yes. He wrote that he hoped we wouldn't mind his bringing Spunk with
him.”
“Who'sSpunk?
“Wedon'tknow.”Bertram'slipstwitched.
“Youdon'tknow!Whatdoyoumean?”
“Well, Will thinks it's a dog, and I believe Cyril is anticipating a monkey. I
myselfambackingitforaparrot.”
“Boys,whathaveyoudone!”groanedKate,fallingbackinherchair.“What
haveyoudone!”
ToWilliamherwordswerelikeanelectricshockstirringhimtoinstantaction.
Hesprangabruptlytohisfeet.
“Well,whateverwe'vedone,we'vedoneit,”hedeclaredsternly;“andnowwe
must do the rest—and do it well, too. He's the son of my boyhood's dearest
friend,andheshallbemadewelcome.Nowtobusiness!Bertram,yousaidyou'd
takehimin.Didyoumeanit?”
Bertramsoberedinstantly,andcameerectinhischair.Williamdidnotoften
speaklikethis;butwhenhedid—
“Yes,Will.Heshallhavethelittlebedroomattheendofthehall.Ineverused
theroommuch,anyhow,andwhatfewdudsIhavethereshallbeclearedouttomorrow.”

“Good!Nowtherearesomeotherlittledetailstoarrange,thenI'llgodownstairs and tell Pete and Dong Ling. And, please to understand, we're going to
makethisladwelcome—welcome,Isay!”
“Yes,sir,”saidBertram.NeitherKatenorCyrilspoke.


CHAPTERV
GETTINGREADYFORBILLY
TheHenshawhouseholdwasearlyastironthedayofBilly'sexpectedarrival,
andpreparationsfortheguest'scomfortwerewellunderwaybeforebreakfast.
Thecenterofactivitywasinthelittleroomattheendofthehallonthesecond
floor;though,asBertramsaid,thewholeStratafeltthe“upheaval.”
BybreakfasttimeBertramwiththeavowedintentionofgiving“thelittlechap
halfashow,”hadtheroomclearedforaction;andafterthatthewholehousewas
called upon for contributions toward the room's adornment. And most
generouslydidmostofthehouserespond.EvenDongLingslipperedup-stairs
andpresentedaweirdChinesebannerwhichhesaidhewas“vellymuchglad”
togive.AstoPete—Petewasinhiselement.Petelovedboys.Hadhenotserved
themnearlyallhislife?Incidentallyitmaybementionedthathedidnotcarefor
girls.
Only Cyril held himself aloof. But that he was not oblivious of the
proceedings below him was evidenced by the somber bass that floated down
fromhispianostrings.Cyrilalwaysplayedaccordingtothemoodthatwason
him;andwhenBertramheardthismorningtherhythmicbeatsofmournfulness,
hechuckledandsaidtoWilliam:
“That'sChopin'sFuneralMarch.EvidentlyCythinksthisisthedeathknellto
allhishopesoffuturepeaceandhappiness.”
“Dearme!IwishCyrilwouldtakesomeinterest,”grievedWilliam.
“Oh, he takes interest all right,” laughed Bertram, meaningly. “He takes
INTEREST!”
“Iknow,but—Bertram,”brokeofftheelderman,anxiously,fromhisperchon

thestepladder,“wouldyouputtherifleoverthiswindow,orthefishing-rod?”
“Why,Idon'tthinkitmakesmuchdifference,solongasthey'resomewhere,”
answered Bertram. “And there are these Indian clubs and the swords to be
disposedof,youknow.”
“Yes;andit'sgoingtolookfine;don'tyouthink?”exultedWilliam.“Andyou
knowforthewall-spacebetweenthewindowsI'mgoingtobringdownthatcase
ofmine,ofspiders.”


Bertramraisedhishandsinmocksurprise.
“Here—down here! You're going to trust any of those precious treasures of
yoursdownhere!”
Williamfrowned.
“Nonsense, Bertram, don't be silly! They'll be safe enough. Besides, they're
old, anyhow. I was on spiders years ago—when I was Billy's age, in fact. I
thoughthe'dlikethemhere.Youknowboysalwayslikesuchthings.”
“Oh,'twasn'tBillyIwasworryingabout,”retortedBertram.“Itwasyou—and
thespiders.”
“Not much you worry about me—or anything else,” replied William, goodhumoredly.“There!howdoesthatlook?”hefinished,ashecarefullypickedhis
waydownthestepladder.
“Fine!—er—only rather warlike, maybe, with the guns and that riotous
confusion of knives and scimitars over the chiffonier. But then, maybe you're
intendingBillyforasoldier;eh?”
“Do you know? I AM getting interested in that boy,” beamed William, with
someexcitement.“Whatkindofthingsdoyousupposehedoeslike?”
“There'snotelling.Maybehe'sasissychap,andwillhowlatyourgunsand
spiders.Perhapshe'llpreferautumnleavesandworstedmottoesfordecoration.”
“Notmuchhewill,”contestedtheother.“NosonofWalterNeilson'scouldbe
a sissy. Neilson was the best half-back in ten years at Harvard, and he was
always in for everything going that was worth while. 'Autumn leaves and

worstedmottoes'indeed!Bah!”
“All right; but there's still a dark horse in the case, you know. We mustn't
forget—Spunk.”
Theeldermanstirreduneasily.
“Bert, what do you suppose that creature is? You don't think Cyril can be
right,andthatit'sa—monkey?”
“'You never can tell,'” quoted Bertram, merrily. “Of course there ARE other
things. If it were you, now, we'd only have to hunt up the special thing you
happenedtobecollectingatthetime,andthatwouldbeit:asnake,alizard,a
toad, or maybe a butterfly. You know you were always lugging those things
homewhenyouwerehisage.”
“Yes, I know,” sighed William. “But I can't think it's anything like that,” he
finished,asheturnedaway.


There was very little done in the Beacon Street house that day but to “get
ready forBilly.”Inthe kitchenDongLingcooked.Everywhereelse, except in
Cyril's domain, Pete dusted and swept and “puttered” to his heart's content.
William did not go to the office at all that day, and Bertram did not touch his
brushes.OnlyCyrilattendedtohisusualwork:practisingforacomingconcert,
andcorrectingtheproofsofhisnewbook,“MusicinRussia.”
AttenminutesbeforefiveWilliam,anxious-eyedandnervous,foundhimself
attheNorthStation.Then,andnottillthen,didhedrawalongbreathofrelief.
“There!Ithinkeverything'sready,”hesighedtohimself.“Atlast!”
Heworenopinkinhisbuttonhole.Therewasnoneedthatheshouldaccede
tothatsillyrequest,hetoldhimself.Hehadonlytolookforayouthofperhaps
eighteenyears,whowouldbealone,alittlefrightened,possibly,andwhowould
haveapinkinhisbuttonhole,andprobablyadogonaleash.
Ashewaited,themanwasconsciousofacuriouswarmthathisheart.Itwas
his namesake, Walter Neilson's boy, that he had come to meet; a homesick,

lonely orphan who had appealed to him—to him, out of all the world. Long
yearsagoinhisownarmstherehadbeenlaidatinybundleofflannelholdinga
preciouslittlered,puckeredface.Butinamonth'stimethelittlefacehadturned
coldandwaxen,andthehopesthatthewhiteflannelbundlehadcarriedhaddied
withthebabyboy;—andthatbabywouldhavebeenaladgrownbythistime,if
hehadlived—aladnotfarfromtheageofthisBillywhowascomingto-day,
reflectedtheman.Andthewarmthinhisheartdeepenedandglowedthemoreas
hestoodwaitingatthegateforBillytoarrive.
The train from Hampden Falls was late. Not until quite fifteen minutes past
fivediditrollintothetrain-shed.Thenatonceitslonglineofpassengersbegan
tosweeptowardtheirongate.
Williamwasjustinsidethegatenow,anxiouslyscanningeveryfaceandform
thatpassed.Thereweremanyhalf-grownlads,buttherewasnotonewithapink
in his buttonhole until very near the end. Then William saw him—a pleasantfaced,blue-eyedboyinaneatgraysuit.WithalowcryWilliamstartedforward;
but he saw at once that the gray-clad youth was unmistakably one of a merry
familyparty.Helookedtobeanythingbutaladthatwaslonelyandforlorn.
Williamhesitatedandfellback.Thisdebonair,self-reliantfellowcouldnotbe
Billy!Butasahastyglancedownthelinerevealedonlyhalfadozenstraggling
women, and beyond them, no one, William decided that it must be Billy; and
takingbraveholdofhiscourage,hehurriedaftertheblue-eyedyouthandtapped
himontheshoulder.


“Er—aren'tyouBilly?”hestammered.
Theladstoppedandstared.Heshookhisheadslowly.
“No,sir,”hesaid.
“Butyoumustbe!Areyousure?”
Theboylaughedthistime.
“Sorry,sir,butmynameis'Frank';isn'tit,mother?”headdedmerrily,turning
totheladyathisside,whowasregardingWilliamveryunfavorablythrougha

pairofgold-bowedspectacles.
William did not wait for more. With a stammered apology and a flustered
liftingofhishathebackedaway.
ButwherewasBilly?
Williamlookedabouthiminhelplessdismay.Allaroundwasawide,empty
space. The long aisle to the Hampden Falls train was deserted save for the
baggage-menloadingthetrunksandbagsontotheirtrucks.Nowherewasthere
anyonewhoseemed forlornorillat ease exceptaprettygirlwithasuit-case,
andwithacoveredbasketonherarm,whostoodjustoutsidethegate,gazinga
littlenervouslyabouther.
Williamlookedtwiceatthisgirl.First,becausethesplashofcoloragainsther
browncoathadcalledhisattentiontothefactthatshewaswearingapink;and
secondly because she was very pretty, and her dark eyes carried a peculiarly
wistfulappeal.
“ToobadBertramisn'there,”thoughtWilliam.“He'dbesketchingthatfacein
notimeonhiscuff.”
ThepinkhadgivenWilliamalmostapang.Hehadbeensolongingtoseea
pink—thoughinadifferentplace.Hewonderedsympatheticallyifshe,too,had
cometomeetsomeonewhohadnotappeared.Henoticedthatshewalkedaway
from the gate once or twice, toward the waiting-room, and peered anxiously
throughtheglassdoors;butalwaysshecamebacktothegateasiffearfultobe
longawayfromthatplace.Heforgotallaboutherverysoon,forhermovements
hadgivenhimasuddenidea:perhapsBillywasinthewaiting-room.Howstupid
of him not to think of it before! Doubtless they had missed each other in the
crowd, and Billy had gone straight to the waiting-room to look for him. And
withthisthoughtWilliamhurriedawayatonce,leavingthegirlstillstandingby
thegatealone.
He looked everywhere. Systematically he paced up and down between the
long rows of seats, looking for a boy with a pink. He even went out upon the