Miss Billy | Page 6

a home for the two younger orphan
boys, Cyril, twelve, and Bertram, six. But Mrs. William, after a short
five years of married life, had died; and since then, the house had
known almost nothing of a woman's touch or care.
Little by little as the years passed, the house and its inmates had fallen
into what had given Bertram his excuse for the name. Cyril, thirty years
old now, dignified, reserved, averse to cats, dogs, women, and
confusion, had early taken himself and his music to the peace and
exclusiveness of the fourth floor. Below him, William had long
discouraged any meddling with his precious chaos of possessions, and
had finally come to spend nearly all his spare time among them. This
left Bertram to undisputed ownership of the second floor, and right
royally did he hold sway there with his paints and brushes and easels,

his old armor, rich hangings, rugs, and cushions, and everywhere his
specialty--his "Face of a Girl." From canvas, plaque, and panel they
looked out--those girlish faces: winsome, wilful, pert, demure, merry,
sad, beautiful, even almost ugly--they were all there; and they were
growing famous, too. The world of art was beginning to take notice,
and to adjust its spectacles for a more critical glance. This "Face of a
Girl" by Henshaw bade fair to be worth while.
Below Bertram's cheery second floor were the dim old library and
drawing-rooms, silent, stately, and almost never used; and below them
were the dining-room and the kitchen. Here ruled Dong Ling, the
Chinese cook, and Pete.
Pete was--indeed, it is hard telling what Pete was. He said he was the
butler; and he looked the part when he answered the bell at the great
front door. But at other times, when he swept a room, or dusted Master
William's curios, he looked--like nothing so much as what he was: a
fussy, faithful old man, who expected to die in the service he had
entered fifty years before as a lad.
Thus in all the Beacon Street house, there had not for years been the
touch of a woman's hand. Even Kate, the married sister, had long since
given up trying to instruct Dong Ling or to chide Pete, though she still
walked across the Garden from her Commonwealth Avenue home and
tripped up the stairs to call in turn upon her brothers, Bertram, William,
and Cyril.

CHAPTER III
THE STRATA--WHEN THE LETTER COMES
It was on the six o'clock delivery that William Henshaw received the
letter from his namesake, Billy. To say the least, the letter was a great
shock to him. He had not quite forgotten Billy's father, who had died so
long ago, it is true, but he had forgotten Billy, entirely. Even as he
looked at the disconcerting epistle with its round, neatly formed letters,

he had great difficulty in ferreting out the particular niche in his
memory which contained the fact that Walter Neilson had had a child,
and had named it for him.
And this child, this "Billy," this unknown progeny of an all but
forgotten boyhood friend, was asking a home, and with him!
Impossible! And William Henshaw peered at the letter as if, at this
second reading, its message could not be so monstrous.
"Well, old man, what's up?" It was Bertram's amazed voice from the
hall doorway; and indeed, William Henshaw, red-faced and plainly
trembling, seated on the lowest step of the stairway, and gazing,
wild-eyed, at the letter in his hand, was somewhat of an amazing sight.
"What IS up?"
"What's up!" groaned William, starting to his feet, and waving the letter
frantically in the air. "What's up! Young man, do you want us to take in
a child to board?--a CHILD?" he repeated in slow horror.
"Well, hardly," laughed the other. "Er, perhaps Cyril might like it,
though; eh?"
"Come, come, Bertram, be sensible for once," pleaded his brother,
nervously. "This is serious, really serious, I tell you!"
"What is serious?" demanded Cyril, coming down the stairway. "Can't
it wait? Pete has already sounded the gong twice for dinner."
William made a despairing gesture.
"Well, come," he groaned. "I'll tell you at the table. . . . It seems I've got
a namesake," he resumed in a shaking voice, a few moments later;
"Walter Neilson's child."
"And who's Walter Neilson?" asked Bertram.
"A boyhood friend. You wouldn't remember him. This letter is from his
child."

"Well, let's hear it. Go ahead. I fancy we can stand the--LETTER; eh,
Cyril?"
Cyril frowned. Cyril did not know, perhaps, how often he frowned at
Bertram.
The eldest brother wet his lips. His hand shook as he picked up the
letter.
"It--it's so absurd," he muttered. Then he cleared his throat and read the
letter aloud.
"DEAR UNCLE WILLIAM: Do you mind