Billy would not need it any longer. It would be
sold, of course; and she, Aunt Hannah, would go
back to a ``second-story front'' and loneliness in
some Back Bay boarding-house; and a second
story front and loneliness would not be easy now,
after these years of home--and Billy.

No wonder, indeed, that Aunt Hannah sat
crying and patting the little white glove in her
hand. No wonder, too, that--being Aunt Hannah--
she reached for the shawl near by and
put it on, shiveringly. Even July, to-night, was
cold--to Aunt Hannah.

In yet another home that evening was the
wedding of Billy Neilson and Bertram Henshaw
uppermost in thought and speech. In a certain
little South-End flat where, in two rented rooms,
lived Alice Greggory and her crippled mother,
Alice was talking to Mr. M. J. Arkwright,
commonly known to his friends as ``Mary Jane,''
owing to the mystery in which he had for so long
shrouded his name.

Arkwright to-night was plainly moody and ill
at ease.

``You're not listening. You're not listening at
all,'' complained Alice Greggory at last, reproachfully.