"They are lovely, perfectly lovely!" breathed Billy, when the last chain
had slipped through her fingers into William's hand. "I think they are
the very nicest things you ever collected."
"So do I," agreed the man, emphatically. "And they are--different, too."
"They are," said Billy, "very--different." But she was not looking at
the jewelry: her eyes were on a small shell hairpin and a brown silk
button half hidden behind a Lowestoft teapot.
On the way down-stairs William stopped a moment at Billy's old rooms.
"I wish you were here now," he said wistfully. "They're all ready for
you--these rooms."
"Oh, but why don't you use them?--such pretty rooms!" cried Billy,
quickly.
William gave a gesture of dissent.
"We have no use for them; besides, they belong to you and Aunt Hannah.
You left your imprint long ago, my dear--we should not feel at home in
them."
"Oh, but you should! You mustn't feel like that!" objected Billy,
hurriedly crossing the room to the window to hide a sudden nervousness
that had assailed her. "And here's my piano, too, and open!" she
finished gaily, dropping herself upon the piano stool and dashing into a
brilliant mazourka.
Billy, like Cyril, had a way of working off her moods at her finger
tips; and to-day the tripping notes and crashing chords told of a
nervous excitement that was not all joy.
Pages:
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146