And when William ate no breakfast one morning, and Bertram aggrievedly refused dessert that night at dinner, Billy--learning through an apologetic Pete that Master William always had to have eggs for breakfast no matter what else there was, and that Master Bertram never ate boiled rice--gave up planning the meals.

True, for three more mornings she summoned Pete for "orders," but the orders were nothing more nor less than a blithe "Well, Pete, what are we going to have for dinner to-day ?" By the end of a week even this ceremony was given up, and before a month had passed, Billy was little more than a guest in her own home, so far as responsibility was concerned.
Billy was not idle, however; far from it.

First, there were the delightful hours with Bertram.

Then there was her music: Billy was writing a new song--the best she had ever written, Billy declared.
"Why, Bertram, it can't help being that," she said to her husband, one day.

"The words just sang themselves to me right out of my heart; and the melody just dropped down from the sky.