At ten minutes before six on the afternoon of
Arkwright's arrival, Billy came into the living-
room to welcome the three Henshaw brothers,
who, as was frequently the case, were dining at
Hillside.

Bertram thought Billy had never looked prettier
than she did this afternoon with the bronze sheen
of her pretty house gown bringing out the bronze
lights in her dark eyes and in the soft waves of
her beautiful hair. Her countenance, too, carried
a peculiar something that the artist's eye was quick
to detect, and that the artist's fingers tingled to
put on canvas.

``Jove! Billy,'' he said low in her ear, as he
greeted her, ``I wish I had a brush in my hand
this minute. I'd have a `Face of a Girl' that
would be worth while!''

Billy laughed and dimpled her appreciation;
but down in her heart she was conscious of a
vague unrest. Billy wished, sometimes, that she
did not so often seem to Bertram--a picture.

She turned to Cyril with outstretched hand.

``Oh, yes, Marie's coming,'' she smiled in
answer to the quick shifting of Cyril's eyes to the
hall doorway. ``And Aunt Hannah, too. They're