"And it hasn't changed a mite, except to grow better. You'll see
to-morrow."
"As if I hadn't been counting the days!" she exulted. "And now what have
you been doing--all of you?"
"Just wait till you see," laughed Bertram. "They're all spread out for
your inspection."
"A new 'Face of a Girl'?"
"Of course--yards of them!"
"And heaps of 'Old Blues' and 'black basalts'?" she questioned, turning
to William.
"Well, a--few," hesitated William, modestly.
"And--the music; what of that?" Billy looked now at Cyril.
"You'll see," he shrugged. "There's very little, after all--of
anything."
Billy gave a wise shake of her head.
"I know better; and I want to see it all so much. We've talked and
talked of it; haven't we, Aunt Hannah?--of what we would do when we got
to Boston?"
"Yes, my dear; YOU have."
The girl laughed.
"I accept the amendment," she retorted with mock submission. "I suppose
it is always I who talk."
"It was--when I painted you," teased Bertram. "By the way, I'll LET you
talk if you'll pose again for me," he finished eagerly.
Billy uptilted her nose.
"Do you think, sir, you deserve it, after that speech?" she demanded.
"But how about YOUR art--your music?" entreated William. "You have said
so little of that in your letters."
Billy hesitated. For a brief moment she glanced at Cyril.
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