Mrs. Hartwell had returned to her Western home before William found just
the opportunity for his talk with Billy. True to his belief that only
hushed voices and twilight were fitting for such a subject, he waited
until he found the girl early one evening alone on her vine-shaded
veranda. He noticed that as he seated himself at her side she flushed a
little and half started to rise, with a nervous fluttering of her hands,
and a murmured "I'll call Aunt Hannah." It was then that with sudden
courage, he resolved to speak.
"Billy, don't go," he said gently, with a touch of his hand on her arm.
"There is something I want to say to you. I--I have wanted to say it for
some time."
"Why, of--of course," stammered the girl, falling back in her seat. And
again William noticed that odd fluttering of the slim little hands.
For a time no one spoke, then William began softly, his eyes on the
distant sky-line still faintly aglow with the sunset's reflection.
"Billy, I want to tell you a story. Long years ago there was a man who
had a happy home with a young wife and a tiny baby boy in it. I could
not begin to tell you all the plans that man made for that baby boy.
Such a great and good and wonderful being that tiny baby was one day to
become. But the baby--went away, after a time, and carried with him all
the plans--and he never came back.
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