eccentric way."

"It was strange," remarked Billie slowly, "that I should have been
speaking of Aunt Beatrice only the other day. Violet wanted to know if
she was wealthy."

"Was she, Dad?" asked Chet, with interest.

"I imagine nobody knew," his father answered. "As you know, she was
queer, and as tight as a clam when it came to talking about her personal
affairs. The only thing we're sure of is that she had plenty of money to
travel anywhere she wanted to, and that's saying something these days."

"I say, Billie," cried Chet, his eyes shining with the thought--dear,
unselfish Chet, his first hope even then was more for Billie than
himself, "you are Aunt Beatrice's namesake, you know. Maybe she left you
something in her will."

"Chet," his mother chided gently, "don't you think it is rather heartless
to be counting on what Aunt Beatrice has left when we have just heard of
her death?"

"I suppose so," said Chet, rather abashed. "But then you know we only saw
her about once in every three years, and then she wasn't very friendly."

"Are you really going, Mother, you and Dad?" asked Billie, for it seemed
impossible to her that her father and mother should go off on such a long
journey and leave her and Chet behind. "Are you?" she asked again
anxiously.