up in time. As if she could tell this man, this
stranger, what she had told Bertram that night
by the fire--that she knew that now, _now_ she
would write beautiful songs, with his love, and
his pride in her, as incentives. ``Oh, yes, I think
I shall write more one of these days,'' she finished
lightly. ``But come, this isn't singing duets! I
want to see the music you brought.''

They sang then, one after another of the duets.
To Billy, the music was new and interesting.
To Billy, too, it was new (and interesting) to hear
her own voice blending with another's so perfectly
--to feel herself a part of such exquisite harmony.

``Oh, oh!'' she breathed ecstatically, after the
last note of a particularly beautiful phrase. ``I
never knew before how lovely it was to sing
duets.''

``Nor I,'' replied Arkwright in a voice that was
not quite steady.

Arkwright's eyes were on the enraptured face
of the girl so near him. It was well, perhaps,
that Billy did not happen to turn and catch their
expression. Still, it might have been better if
she had turned, after all. But Billy's eyes were
on the music before her. Her fingers were busy
with the fluttering pages, searching for another