Billie Bradley and Her Inheritance | Page 5

But Billie could not get the hundred-dollar statue which she had broken out of her mind.
"I feel," said Laura, as they were turning the corner into her own street, "as if I ought to pay for that horrid old statue, Billie."
"What do you mean?" queried Billie, while Violet regarded her with wide open eyes.
"Well, if it hadn't been for me and my old book," she explained, "we wouldn't have gone back to school, and then you wouldn't have gotten yourself into all that trouble. I really do feel guilty," she added earnestly. "I wish you would at least let me help you pay for it, Billie."
Billie put an arm about the girl and squeezed her lovingly.
"And I suppose you're to blame for my climbing the bookcase, too," she chided her fondly. "No, Laura dear, it's all my fault and you can't make me put the blame on any one else. But, oh!" she wailed, "how in the world am I ever going to raise that hundred dollars?"
CHAPTER III
CHET HELPS
The sun was flooding Billie Bradley's room when she awoke the next morning, and she sat up in bed with the feeling that it must be very late. She glanced at the little clock on the dresser and saw that its hands pointed to half past eight.
"Oh, I'll be late to school," was her first thought. Then she checked herself and laughed.
"School!" she said, stretching her arms above her head with a delicious sense of freedom. "As the old man said: 'They ain't no sech animile.' I guess I might just as well get up, though, for I feel as if I were starving to death."
She was just putting her feet into very pretty bedroom slippers when she remembered the tragedy--or so it seemed to her--of the day before.
The long night's rest had driven from her mind all thoughts of the statue. Was it really only yesterday that she had broken it? The thing seemed to have been on her conscience forever!
"'Girl Reading a Book,'" she said disdainfully, as she began to brush her hair vigorously. "Horrid old thing! I suppose she was a grind anyway, like Amanda Peabody."
The thought of Amanda did not serve to lift her spirits any, and it was in a rather gloomy mood that she finally descended to the breakfast table.
To make things worse, she found that all the rest of her family, including Chet, had breakfasted bright and early, which meant that she would have to eat her breakfast in lonely state.
The room was cheerful with sunlight, for Mrs. Bradley had often said that a bright dining-room had more to do with making a happy home than any other one thing. But this morning Billie did not even notice it.
She opened the swinging door to the kitchen and peeped in cautiously to see whether Debbie, their black and much pampered cook, was in a good enough mood to cook her some breakfast.
A cheerful aroma greeted her, and she sniffed at it longingly. Bacon and eggs and--was it corn bread that Debbie was just taking out of the oven?
"Oh, Debbie, give me something to eat, quick," she cried. "I'm starving."
Debbie turned and favored her with a large black stare.
"Dem dat gets up at nine o'clock in de mo'nin'," she declared, "done deserves to go hungry, Miss Billie, beggin' your pardon." Her tone matched the severity of her gaze.
"Oh, but, Debbie," said Billie, using the coaxing tone that even black Deborah, tyrant of the household, could never quite resist, "remember how many mornings I have had to get up at seven and go out in the drizzling rain and--"
"All right, honey, all right," said Deborah, her heart touched by this reference to the hardships her young mistress had suffered. "You go in 'tother room an' don't bother Debbie an' she'll bring you in the prettiest breakfast you ever did see."
Somewhat cheered by this promise, Billie retreated into the sun-flooded dining-room, and, going over to a window under which flowers bloomed gayly in boxes, looked out at the pretty view.
From where she stood she commanded a full view of the tennis court, on which she could see that a warm set of singles was in progress. One of the players was Chet, and as she watched she saw him fling his racket high in the air.
"My set, Tom!" he cried. "That puts us even. Play you the rubber this afternoon. So long!" and with his tennis balls in his hand and his racket under his arm he sauntered over toward home.
"Dear old Chet!" murmured Billie fondly.
Then came the thought of that hundred dollars she must get some way or other, and suddenly there flashed into her mind a little ray of hope.
"Maybe Chet could help," she thought, and then laughed at herself for thinking it. Chet had just about