"Miss Billy, Miss Billy, what is one to do with you? Surely you know--you must know that I can't do what you ask!""I'm sure I don't see why not," argued Billy. "I'm merely giving you an invitation and all you have to do is to accept it.""But the invitation is only the kind way your heart has of covering another of your many charities," objected Marie; "besides, I have to teach. I have my living to earn.""But you can't," demurred the other. "That's just the trouble.
Don't you see? The doctor said last night that you must not teach again this winter.""Not teach--again--this winter! No, no, he could not be so cruel as that!""It wasn't cruel, dear; it was kind. You would be ill if you attempted it. Now you'll get better. He says all you need is rest and care--and that's exactly what I mean my guest shall have."Quick tears came to the sick girl's eyes.
"There couldn't be a kinder heart than yours, Miss Billy," she murmured, "but I couldn't--I really couldn't be a burden to you like this. I shall go to some hospital.""But you aren't going to be a burden. You are going to be my friend and companion.""A companion--and in bed like this?"
"Well, THAT wouldn't be impossible," smiled Billy; "but, as it happens you won't have to put that to the test, for you'll soon be up and dressed. The doctor says so. Now surely you will stay."There was a long pause. The little music teacher's eyes had left Billy's face and were circling the room, wistfully lingering on the hangings of filmy lace, the dainty wall covering, and the exquisite water colors in their white-and-gold frames. At last she drew a deep sigh.
"Yes, I'll stay," she breathed rapturously; "but--you must let me help.""Help? Help what?"
"Help you; your letters, your music-copying, your accounts--anything, everything. And if you don't let me help,"--the music teacher's voice was very stern now--"if you don't let me help, Ishall go home just--as--soon--as--I--can--walk!""Dear me!" dimpled Billy. "And is that all? Well, you shall help, and to your heart's content, too. In fact, I'm not at all sure that I sha'n't keep you darning stockings and making puddings all the time," she added mischievously, as she left the room.
Miss Hawthorn sat up the next day. The day following, in one of Billy's "fluttery wrappers," as she called them, she walked all about the room. Very soon she was able to go down-stairs, and in an astonishingly short time she fitted into the daily life as if she had always been there. She was, moreover, of such assistance to Billy that even she herself could see the value of her work; and so she stayed, content.
The little music teacher saw a good deal of Billy's friends then, particularly of the Henshaw brothers; and very glad was Billy to see the comradeship growing between them. She had known that William would be kind to the orphan girl, but she had feared that Marie would not understand Bertram's nonsense or Cyril's reserve.
But very soon Bertram had begged, and obtained, permission to try to reproduce on canvas the sheen of the fine, fair hair, and the veiled bloom of the rose-leaf skin that were Marie's greatest charms; and already Cyril had unbent from his usual stiffness enough to play to her twice. So Billy's fears on that score were at an end.
