Billy clapped her hands together suddenly.

``There, that makes me think. He told Aunt
Hannah and me to guess what his name was, and
we never hit it once. What do you think it is?
The initials are M. J.''

``I couldn't say, I'm sure. What is it?''

``Oh, he didn't tell us. You see he left us to
guess it.''

``Did he?''

``Yes,'' mused Billy, abstractedly, her eyes on
the dancing fire. The next minute she stirred and
settled herself more comfortably in the curve
of her lover's arm. ``But there! who cares
what his name is? I'm sure I don't.''

``Nor I,'' echoed Bertram in a voice that he
tried to make not too fervent. He had not
forgotten Billy's surprised: ``Why, Bertram, don't
you like Mary Jane?'' and he did not like to call
forth a repetition of it. Abruptly, therefore, he
changed the subject. ``By the way, what did
you do to Pete to-day?'' he asked laughingly.
``He came home in a seventh heaven of happiness
babbling of what an angel straight from the sky