Mary Jane wrote the words.

They're beautiful." Bertram stiffened.
"Indeed! And is--Mary Jane a poet, with all the rest ?" he asked, with affected lightness.
"Oh, no, of course not," smiled Billy; "but these words _are_ pretty.
And they just sang themselves into the dearest little melody right away.
So I'm writing the music for them." "Lucky Mary Jane!" murmured Bertram, still with a lightness that he hoped would pass for indifference.

(Bertram was ashamed of himself, but deep within him was a growing consciousness that he knew the meaning of the vague irritation that he always felt at the mere mention of Arkwright's name.) "And will the title-page say, 'Words by Mary Jane Arkwright' ?" he finished.
"That's what I asked him," laughed Billy.
"I even suggested 'Methuselah John' for a change.

Oh, but, dearie," she broke off with shy eagerness, "I just want you to hear a little of what I've done with it.

You see, really, all the time, I suspect, I've been singing it--to you," she confessed with an endearing blush, as she sprang lightly to her feet and hurried to the piano.
It was a bad ten minutes that Bertram Henshaw spent then.