If she did--Billy knew now how pitifully little it would take to make her actually _willing_ to slay Bertram's Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally--if only she could have Bertram while she was doing it all.

Sternly then she asked herself if she had no pride; if she had forgotten that it was because of her that the Winthrop portrait had not been a success--because of her, either for the reason that he loved now Miss Winthrop, or else that he loved no girl--except to paint.
Very early in the morning a white-faced, red-eyed Billy appeared at Aunt Hannah's bedside.
"Billy!" exclaimed Aunt Hannah, plainly appalled.
Billy sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Aunt Hannah," she began in a monotonous voice as if she were reciting a lesson she had learned by heart, "please listen, and please try not to be too surprised.

You were saying the other day that you would like to visit your old home town.

Well, I think that's a very nice idea.

If you don't mind we'll go to-day." Aunt Hannah pulled herself half erect in bed.
"_To-day_--child ?" "Yes," nodded Billy, unsmilingly.