



Produced by Donald Lainson





MISS BILLY


by Eleanor H. Porter




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

I.      BILLY WRITES A LETTER

II.     "THE STRATA"

III.    THE STRATA--WHEN THE LETTER COMES

IV.     BILLY SENDS A TELEGRAM

V.      GETTING READY FOR BILLY

VI.     THE COMING OF BILLY

VII.    INTRODUCING SPUNK

VIII.   THE ROOM--AND BILLY

IX.     A FAMILY CONCLAVE

X.      AUNT HANNAH

XI.     BERTRAM HAS VISITORS

XII.    CYRIL TAKES HIS TURN

XIII.   A SURPRISE ALL AROUND

XIV.    AUNT HANNAH SPEAKS HER MIND

XV.     WHAT BERTRAM CALLS "THE LIMIT"

XVI.    KATE TAKES A HAND

XVII.   A PINK-RIBBON TRAIL

XVIII.  BILLY WRITES ANOTHER LETTER

XIX.    SEEING BILLY OFF

XX.     BILLY, THE MYTH

XXI.    BILLY, THE REALITY

XXII.   HUGH CALDERWELL

XXIII.  BERTRAM DOES SOME QUESTIONING

XXIV.   CYRIL, THE ENIGMA

XXV.    THE OLD ROOM--AND BILLY

XXVI.   "MUSIC HATH CHARMS"

XXVII.  MARIE, WHO LONGS TO MAKE PUDDINGS

XXVIII. "I'M GOING TO WIN"

XXIX.   "I'M NOT GOING TO MARRY"

XXX.    MARIE FINDS A FRIEND

XXXI.   THE ENGAGEMENT OF ONE

XXXII.  CYRIL HAS SOMETHING TO SAY

XXXIII. WILLIAM IS WORRIED

XXXIV.  CLASS DAY

XXXV.   SISTER KATE AGAIN

XXXVI.  WILLIAM MEETS WITH A SURPRISE

XXXVII. "WILLIAM'S BROTHER"

XXXVIII. THE ENGAGEMENT OF TWO

XXXIX.  A LITTLE PIECE OF PAPER

XL.     WILLIAM PAYS A VISIT

XLI.    THE CROOKED MADE STRAIGHT

XLII.   THE "END OF THE STORY"




MISS BILLY



CHAPTER I

BILLY WRITES A LETTER



Billy Neilson was eighteen years old when the aunt, who had brought her
up from babyhood, died. Miss Benton's death left Billy quite alone
in the world--alone, and peculiarly forlorn. To Mr. James Harding,
of Harding & Harding, who had charge of Billy's not inconsiderable
property, the girl poured out her heart in all its loneliness two days
after the funeral.

"You see, Mr. Harding, there isn't any one--not any one who--cares," she
choked.

"Tut, tut, my child, it's not so bad as that, surely," remonstrated the
old man, gently. "Why, I--I care."

Billy smiled through tear-wet eyes.

"But I can't LIVE with you," she said.

"I'm not so sure of that, either," retorted the man. "I'm thinking that
Letty and Ann would LIKE to have you with us."

The girl laughed now outright. She was thinking of Miss Letty, who had
"nerves," and of Miss Ann, who had a "heart"; and she pictured her own
young, breezy, healthy self attempting to conform to the hushed and
shaded thing that life was, within Lawyer Harding's home.

"Thank you, but I'm sure they wouldn't," she objected. "You don't know
how noisy I am."

The lawyer stirred restlessly and pondered.

"But, surely, my dear, isn't there some relative, somewhere?" he
demanded. "How about your mother's people?"

Billy shook her head. Her eyes filled again with tears.

"There was only Aunt Ella, ever, that I knew anything about. She and
mother were the only children there were, and mother died when I was a
year old, you know."

"But your father's people?"

"It's even worse there. He was an only child and an orphan when mother
married him. He died when I was but six months old. After that there was
only mother and Aunt Ella, then Aunt Ella alone; and now--no one."

"And you know nothing of your father's people?"

"Nothing; that is--almost nothing."

"Then there is some one?"

Billy smiled. A deeper pink showed in her cheeks.

"Why, there's one--a man but he isn't really father's people, anyway.
But I--I have been tempted to write to him."

"Who is he?"

"The one I'm named for. He was father's boyhood chum. You see that's why
I'm 'Billy' instead of being a proper 'Susie,' or 'Bessie,' or 'Sally
Jane.' Father had made up his mind to name his baby 'William' after his
chum, and when I came, Aunt Ella said, he was quite broken-hearted until
somebody hit upon the idea of naming me Billy.' Then he was content, for
it seems that he always called his chum 'Billy' anyhow. And so--'Billy'
I am to-day."

"Do you know this man?"

"No. You see father died, and mother and Aunt Ella knew him only very
slightly. Mother knew his wife, though, Aunt Ella said, and SHE was
lovely."

"Hm--; well, we might look them up, perhaps. You know his address?"

"Oh, yes unless he's moved. We've always kept that. Aunt Ella used to
say sometimes that she was going to write to him some day about me, you
know."

"What's his name?"

"William Henshaw. He lives in Boston."

Lawyer Harding snatched off his glasses, and leaned forward in his
chair.

"William Henshaw! Not the Beacon Street Henshaws!" he cried.

It was Billy's turn to be excited. She, too, leaned forward eagerly.

"Oh, do you know him? That's lovely! And his address IS Beacon Street! I
know because I saw it only to-day. You see, I HAVE been tempted to write
him."

"Write him? Of course you'll write him," cried the lawyer. "And we don't
need to do much 'looking up' there, child. I've known the family for
years, and this William was a college mate of my boy's. Nice fellow,
too. I've heard Ned speak of him. There were three sons, William, and
two others much younger than he. I've forgotten their names."

"Then you do know him! I'm so glad," exclaimed Billy. "You see, he never
seemed to me quite real."

"I know about him," corrected the lawyer, smilingly, "though I'll
confess I've rather lost track of him lately. Ned will know. I'll ask
Ned. Now go home, my dear, and dry those pretty eyes of yours. Or,
better still, come home with me to tea. I--I'll telephone up to the
house." And he rose stiffly and went into the inner office.

Some minutes passed before he came back, red of face, and plainly
distressed.

"My dear child, I--I'm sorry, but--but I'll have to take back that
invitation," he blurted out miserably. "My sisters are--are not well
this afternoon. Ann has been having a turn with her heart--you know
Ann's heart is--is bad; and Letty--Letty is always nervous at such
times--very nervous. Er--I'm so sorry! But you'll--excuse it?"

"Indeed I will," smiled Billy, "and thank you just the same; only"--her
eyes twinkled mischievously--"you don't mind if I do say that it IS
lucky that we hadn't gone on planning to have me live with them, 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 ceremoniously bowed the girl from the office.

James Harding kept his word, and spoke to his son that night; but there
was little, after all, that Ned could tell him. Yes, he remembered Billy
Henshaw well, but he had not heard of him for years, since Henshaw's
marriage, in fact. He must be forty years old, Ned said; but he was a
fine fellow, an exceptionally fine fellow, and would be sure to deal
kindly and wisely by his little orphan namesake; of that Ned was very
sure.

"That's good. I'll write him," declared Mr. James Harding. "I'll write
him tomorrow."

He did write--but not so soon as Billy wrote; for even as he spoke,
Billy, in her lonely little room at the other end of the town, was
laying bare all her homesickness in four long pages to "Dear Uncle
William."



CHAPTER II

"THE STRATA"


Bertram Henshaw called the Beacon Street home "The Strata." This annoyed
Cyril, and even William, not a little; though they reflected that, after
all, it was "only Bertram." For the whole of Bertram's twenty-four years
of life it had been like this--"It's only Bertram," had been at once the
curse and the salvation of his existence.

In this particular case, however, Bertram's vagary of fancy had some
excuse. The Beacon Street house, the home of the three brothers, was a
"Strata."

"You see, it's like this," Bertram would explain airily to some new
acquaintance who expressed surprise at the name; "if I could slice off
the front of the house like a loaf of cake, you'd understand it better.
But just suppose that old Bunker Hill should suddenly spout fire and
brimstone and bury us under tons of ashes--only fancy the condition of
mind of those future archaeologists when they struck our house after
their months of digging!

"What would they find? Listen. First: stratum number one, the top floor;
that's Cyril's, you know. They'd note the bare floors, the sparse but
heavy furniture, the piano, the violin, the flute, the book-lined walls,
and the absence of every sort of curtain, cushion, or knickknack. 'Here
lived a plain man,' they'd say; 'a scholar, a musician, stern, unloved
and unloving; a monk.'

"And what next? They'd strike William's stratum next, the third floor.
Imagine it! You know William as a State Street broker, well-off,
a widower, tall, angular, slow of speech, a little bald, very much
nearsighted, and the owner of the kindest 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 one of them. There's a
tradition that at the age of one year he crept into the house with four
small round white stones. Anyhow, if he did, he's got them now. Rest
assured of that--and he's forty this year. Miniatures, carved ivories,
bugs, moths, porcelains, jades, stamps, postcards, spoons, baggage tags,
theatre programs, playing-cards--there isn't anything that he doesn't
collect. He's on teapots, now. Imagine it--William and teapots! And
they're all there in his rooms--one glorious mass of confusion. Just
fancy those archaeologists trying to make their'monk' live there!

"But when they reach me, my stratum, they'll have a worse time yet. You
see, _I_ like cushions and comfort, and I have them everywhere. And I
like--well, I like lots of things. My rooms don't belong to that monk,
not a little bit. And so you see," Bertram would finish merrily, "that's
why I call it all 'The Strata.'"

And "The Strata" it was to all the Henshaws' friends, and even to
William and Cyril themselves, in spite of their objection to the term.

From babyhood the Henshaw boys had lived in the handsome, roomy house,
facing the Public Garden. It had been their father's boyhood home, as
well, and he and his wife had died there, soon after Kate, the only
daughter, had married. 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 younger orphan boys, Cyril, twelve,
and Bertram, six. But Mrs. William, after a short five years of married
life, had died; and since then, the house had known almost nothing of a
woman's touch or care.

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, averse to cats, dogs, women,
and confusion, had early taken himself and his music to the peace
and exclusiveness of the fourth floor. Below him, William had long
discouraged any meddling with his precious chaos of possessions, and had
finally come to spend nearly all his spare time among them. This left
Bertram to undisputed ownership of the second floor, and right royally
did he hold sway there with his paints and brushes and easels, his
old armor, 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 beginning to take notice, and
to adjust its spectacles for a more critical glance. This "Face of a
Girl" by Henshaw bade fair to be worth while.

Below Bertram's cheery second floor were the dim old library and
drawing-rooms, silent, stately, and almost never used; and below them
were the dining-room and the kitchen. Here ruled Dong Ling, the Chinese
cook, and Pete.

Pete was--indeed, it is hard telling what Pete was. He said he was the
butler; and he looked the part when he answered the bell at the great
front door. But at other times, when he swept a room, or dusted Master
William's curios, he looked--like nothing so much as what he was: a
fussy, faithful old man, who expected to die in the service he had
entered fifty years before as a lad.

Thus in all the Beacon Street house, there had not for years been the
touch of a woman's hand. Even Kate, the married sister, had long since
given up trying to instruct Dong Ling or to chide Pete, though she still
walked across the Garden from her Commonwealth Avenue home and tripped
up the stairs to call in turn upon her brothers, Bertram, William, and
Cyril.



CHAPTER III

THE STRATA--WHEN THE LETTER COMES


It was on the six o'clock delivery that William Henshaw received the
letter from his namesake, Billy. To say the least, the letter was a
great shock to him. He had not quite forgotten Billy's father, who had
died so long ago, it is true, but he had forgotten Billy, entirely. Even
as he looked at the disconcerting epistle with its round, neatly formed
letters, he had great difficulty in ferreting out the particular niche
in his memory which contained the fact that Walter Neilson had had a
child, and had named it for him.

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 Henshaw peered at the letter as if, at this second reading,
its message could not be so monstrous.

"Well, old man, what's up?" It was Bertram's amazed voice from the hall
doorway; and indeed, William Henshaw, red-faced and plainly trembling,
seated on the lowest step of the stairway, and gazing, wild-eyed, at the
letter in his hand, was somewhat of an amazing sight. "What IS up?"

"What's up!" groaned William, starting to his feet, and waving the
letter frantically in the air. "What's up! Young man, do you want us to
take in a child to board?--a CHILD?" he repeated in slow horror.

"Well, hardly," laughed the other. "Er, perhaps Cyril might like it,
though; eh?"

"Come, come, Bertram, be sensible for once," pleaded his brother,
nervously. "This is serious, really serious, I tell you!"

"What is serious?" demanded Cyril, coming down the stairway. "Can't it
wait? Pete has already sounded the gong twice for dinner."

William made a despairing gesture.

"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's child."

"And who's Walter Neilson?" asked Bertram.

"A boyhood friend. You wouldn't remember him. This letter is from his
child."

"Well, let's hear it. Go ahead. I fancy we can stand the--LETTER; eh,
Cyril?"

Cyril frowned. Cyril did not know, perhaps, how often he frowned at
Bertram.

The eldest brother wet his lips. His hand shook as he picked up the
letter.

"It--it's so absurd," he muttered. Then he cleared his throat and read
the letter 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.
Maybe you've forgotten, but I'm named for you. Walter Neilson was my
father, you know. My Aunt Ella has just died.

"Would you mind very much if I came to live with you? That is, between
times--I'm going