.

THE THING THAT WAS THE TRUTH.
Bertram called that evening.

Billy had no story now to tell--nothing of the interrupted romance between Alice Greggory and Arkwright.

Billy carefully, indeed, avoided mentioning Arkwright's name.
Ever since the man's departure that afternoon, Billy had been frantically trying to assure herself that she was not to blame; that she would not be supposed to know he cared for her; that it had all been as he said it was--his foolish blindness.

But even when she had partially comforted herself by these assertions, she could not by any means escape the haunting vision of the man's stern-set, suffering face as she had seen it that afternoon; nor could she keep from weeping at the memory of the words he had said, and at the thought that never again could their pleasant friendship be quite the same--if, indeed, there could be any friendship at all between them.
But if Billy expected that her red eyes, pale cheeks, and generally troubled appearance and unquiet manner were to be passed unnoticed by her lover's keen eyes that evening, she found herself much mistaken.
"Sweetheart, what _is_ the matter ?" demanded Bertram resolutely, at last, when his more indirect questions had been evasively turned aside.
"You can't make me think there isn't something the trouble, because I know there is!" "Well, then, there is, dear," smiled Billy, tearfully; "but please just don't let us talk of it.