minutes passed. Up one path and down another trudged the anxious-eyed Billy and her increasingly impatient husband. Then when the fifteen weary minutes had become a still more weary half-hour, the bonds Bertram had set on his temper snapped.
“Billy,” he remonstrated despairingly, “do, please, come home! Don't you see how highly improbable it is that we should happen on William if we walked like this all night? He might move—change his seat—go home, even. He probably has gone home. And surely never before did a bride insist on spending the first evening after her return tramping up and down a public park for hour after hour like this, looking for any man. Won't you come home?”
But Billy had not even heard. With a glad little cry she had darted to the side of the humped-up figure of a man alone on a park bench just ahead of them.
“Uncle William! Oh, Uncle William, how could you?” she cried, dropping herself on to one end of the seat and catching the man's arm in both her hands.
“Yes, how could you?” demanded Bertram, with just a touch of irritation, dropping himself on to the other end of the seat, and catching the man's other arm in his one usable hand.
The bent shoulders and bowed head straightened up with a jerk.
“Well, well, bless my soul! If it isn't our little bride,” cried Uncle William, fondly. “And the happy bridegroom, too. When did you get home?”
“We haven't got home,” retorted Bertram, promptly, before his wife could speak. “Oh, we looked in at the door an hour or so back; but we didn't stay. We've been hunting for you ever since.”
“Nonsense, children!” Uncle William spoke with gay cheeriness; but he refused to meet either Billy's or Bertram's eyes.
“Uncle William, how could you do it?” reproached Billy, again.
“Do what?” Uncle William was plainly fencing for time.
“Leave the house like that?”
“Ho! I wanted a change.”
“As if we'd believe that!” scoffed Billy.
“All right; let's call it you've had the change, then,” laughed Bertram, “and we'll send over for your things to-morrow. Come—now let's go home to dinner.”
William shook his head. He essayed a gay smile.
“Why, I've only just begun. I'm going to stay—oh, I don't know how long I'm going to stay,” he finished blithely.
Billy lifted her chin a little.
“Uncle William, you aren't playing square. Pete told us what you said when you left.”
“Eh? What?” William looked up with startled eyes.
“About—about our not needing you. So we know, now, why you left; and we sha'n't stand it.”
“Pete? That? Oh, that—that's nonsense I—I'll settle with Pete.”
Billy laughed softly.
“Poor Pete! Don't. We simply dragged it out of him. And now we're here to tell you that we do want you, and that you must come back.”
Again William shook his head. A swift shadow crossed his face.
“Thank you, no, children,” he said dully.
“You're very kind, but you don't need me. I should be just an interfering elder brother. I should spoil your young married life.” (William's voice now sounded as if he were reciting a well-learned lesson.) “If I went away and stayed two months, you'd never forget the utter freedom and joy of those two whole months with the house all to yourselves.”
“Uncle William,” gasped Billy, “what are you talking about?”
“About—about my not going back, of course.”
“But you are coming back,” cut in Bertram, almost angrily. “Oh, come, Will, this is utter nonsense, and you know it! Come, let's go home to dinner.”
A stern look came to the corners of William's mouth—a look that Bertram understood well.
“All right, I'll go to dinner, of course; but I sha'n't stay,” said William, firmly. “I've thought it all out. I know I'm right. Come, we'll go to dinner now, and say no more about it,” he finished with a cheery smile, as he rose to his feet. Then, to the bride, he added: “Did you have a nice trip, little girl?”
Billy, too, had risen, now, but she did not seem to have heard his question. In the fast falling twilight her face looked a little white.
“Uncle William,” she began very quietly, “do you think for a minute that just because I married your brother I am going to live in that house and turn you out of the home you've lived in all your life?”
“Nonsense, dear! I'm not turned out. I just go,” corrected Uncle William, gayly.
With superb disdain Billy brushed this aside.
“Oh, no, you won't,” she declared; “but—I shall.”
“Billy!” gasped Bertram.
“My—my dear!” expostulated William, faintly.
“Uncle William! Bertram! Listen,” panted Billy. “I never told you much before, but I'm going to, now. Long ago, when I went away with Aunt Hannah, your sister Kate showed me how dear the old home was to you—how much you thought of it. And she said—she said that I had upset everything.” (Bertram interjected a sharp word, but Billy paid no attention.) “That's why I went; and I shall go again—if you don't come home to-morrow to stay, Uncle William. Come, now let's go to dinner, please. Bertram's hungry,” she finished, with a bright smile.
There was a tense moment of silence. William glanced at Bertram; Bertram returned the glance—with interest.
“Er—ah—yes; well, we might go to dinner,” stammered William, after a minute.
“Er—yes,” agreed Bertram. And the three fell into step together.
CHAPTER IV. “JUST LIKE BILLY”
Billy did not leave the Strata this time. Before twenty-four hours had passed, the last cherished fragment of Mr. William Henshaw's possessions had been carefully carried down the imposing steps of the Beacon Hill boarding-house under the disapproving eyes of its bugle-adorned mistress, who found herself now with a month's advance rent and two vacant “parlors” on her hands. Before another twenty-four hours had passed her quondam boarder, with a tired sigh, sank into his favorite morris chair in his old familiar rooms, and looked about him with contented eyes. Every treasure was in place, from the traditional four small stones of his babyhood days to the Batterseas Billy had just brought him. Pete, as of yore, was hovering near with a dust-cloth.
